by Casey Dawes
The knife thwacked the cutting board as the squash cleaved in two.
“But they were exciting times. The three of us, working together to refine the process. Lots of mistakes, costs, fighting. Took a lot of patience.” She waved the point of the knife at him. “Something your lot doesn’t seem to have anymore. You always want things right now.”
Grabbing a spoon, she gutted the squash, carving the pulp and seeds into the garbage compactor.
“When did you hire a bookkeeper?”
“Sometime during the second year. Sam started obsessing about his investment, insisted we be more professional.” She shook her head. “He was always the numbers guy, detail oriented. He and Frank could talk, but your dad had no patience for it. He’d throw up his hands and walk away. He didn’t have patience for finances, but boy, could that man sell. He got all of the first contracts.”
A dreamy smile crossed her face.
Good God, his parents had once actually been in love.
Then she thudded back to reality. “Why this interest in the past?” Her gaze was sharp.
All liquid left his mouth.
“I don’t know. Just curious.” He shrugged. “Must have been going through the stuff in the garage.”
“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.” She was back to staring at the contents of the fridge. “Salmon and rice okay?”
“Fine by me.”
“Good.” She moved efficiently in the silent kitchen, buttering the squash, covering it and sliding it in the oven.
He grabbed another glass of water.
“So, what’s for dinner?” His father strolled into the kitchen, a scotch in his hand. His face was a deep red, a stark contrast to the pastiness of the rest of his skin. The extra weight he’d gained over the last bunch of years hung heavy on him.
If they’d met now, there was no way she would have given up Frank.
“Salmon, rice, squash,” his mother replied.
“Fish again? What happened to good old Montana beef?” His father’s eyes seemed to bulge in annoyance. He glanced at Reese. “I’m sure the boy would appreciate something more substantial. Unless he’s totally ruined by that fancy French stuff.”
Something must have happened. His father was definitely on the attack. Maybe it was because there were only two months left until the deadline he’d given Reese, and the problem still wasn’t solved. It just morphed into different aspects.
How could he fire Findlay at Christmas?
His mother didn’t say anything.
His father took another slug of scotch.
Reese watched him closely. Would his anger spill over into something worse, like another heart attack or stroke?
“Damn doctors. If they only knew . . . ” His dad turned and walked back toward the living room.
His mother grabbed a bowl and threw in some taco chips. Salsa went into another, smaller bowl. She shoved them both at Reese.
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Take them to him. He’s just hungry, that’s all. Bother him with your damn questions. I don’t want to talk anymore. It’s all in the past. Leave it there. People will only get hurt if you don’t leave it alone.”
He wished he could. And what did she mean that people would get hurt? Did she know something she wasn’t revealing?
“Okay.” He took the bowls and went to the living room, where his father had the television at impossible levels. Setting down the bowls, he grabbed the remote, turned down the volume, and tossed it back on the couch.
“I was listening to that,” his father protested.
“I thought you might want to chat since I haven’t seen you in a while.” Reese picked up the remote again.
“Nah . . . it’s okay. Grab a drink if you want.”
“I think I’ll pass.” One of them needed to stay levelheaded.
“Suit yourself.” His father grabbed a handful of chips and ate them rapidly, not even bothering with the salsa.
How to work his way back to the origin of the company?
“Looks like profits will be up this quarter,” Reese said.
“’Bout time. That damn recession went on and on. The government can’t get their collective heads out of their asses.”
“Could be.” He’d learned long ago not to discuss politics with his father. At least he was a non-partisan complainer. No matter which party was in Washington, it was bad.
He wasn’t sure he didn’t agree at times. For once in his life, he was happy for the news. No matter how bad it was, it was distracting his father from the programming problems at work.
“We have to keep an eye on China, though,” he added. “They’ve grabbed all the big manufacturing jobs.”
“That’s why Frank and I chose this particular niche.” His father’s fist unclenched from the glass, and he set it down. When he chose a chip this time, he loaded it with salsa. “People who make planes can’t afford incorrect dimensions or weak metal. Their thickness specifications go down to .0001 to .0005 of an inch. China can’t replicate that. No one can.”
Another chip.
“And the way we make it is more cost effective than most of the big companies out there.” A rare smile. “I’m glad you’ve come back to help run it.”
“Well, I’m not really running the metal company—you’ve put me in charge of Gravitz Technologies, the company you bought, remember.” The trick would be staying in charge once his father returned to work.
“Damn foolish mistake. I let Sam talk me into that one. But, eventually, you’ll get the whole thing, son. Be smart and you’ll be set for life.”
Exactly what he was working for . . . except part of it should have belonged to Frank and his family.
“That’s a long time off.”
“I wish. Things haven’t been right for quite a while.”
“When was your first problem?” he asked.
“The heart attack in my late forties. Too early. Especially since I was a hundred pounds lighter. Made no sense.”
Doing some rapid calculations, Reese realized it was right after his senior year in high school. He’d been working as in intern in D.C. He’d wanted to come home, but his mother had told him there was no need—it was a minor thing.
It was also right after Frank Callahan had committed suicide.
• • •
Kelly Anne’s nails dug into Findlay’s arm as the airplane roared down the tarmac, suitcases rattling in the small overhead bins of the Bombardier Q400 prop plane to Seattle. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her close.
“Look outside,” she said as soon as they were in the air. “See if you can see the highway that goes all the way to Washington.”
Once Kelly Anne was oriented, connecting earth and sky, she settled down and released her death grip. Findlay picked up her e-reader and continued reading the latest self-help book, Brené Brown’s Braving the Wilderness. Much as she tried, the words on the page rearranged themselves into an image of Reese’s face.
It was ridiculous to think they could go back to what they had a decade ago. She was no longer that naive.
Had he changed as much as she had? They’d both had a chance to grow up. Was he his own man, or was he still under the influence of his father? Kelly Anne had been charmed by his “date” at the movies, but Chris had swept Findlay off her feet before they’d been married. She couldn’t trust Reese any more than any other man. They’d all let her down, beginning with her dad.
She’d spent every evening over the last week going through boxes. A lot of it was full of diagrams and files that were incomprehensible, so she’d sorted the best she knew how. Who’d be able to figure this stuff out besides a high-level engineer at the manufacturing plant? Reese was no better at scientific know-how than she was.
More importantly, whom could she trust?
Did it even matter?
The answer was probably in the journals, not the files. She’d brought one with her to re-read in the hotel tonight after her daughter
went to sleep. Of course, if Chris riled Kelly Anne up the way he’d been doing on the phone, Findlay might be falling into bed early.
The plane bucked as coastal headwinds forced themselves around them.
“Mommy!” Kelly Anne wailed.
“Shh. It’ll be okay. Remember? When we get close to the ocean, we get a roller coaster ride. When we get to the end, we’ll be in Seattle, all safe and sound.”
“Are you sure, Mommy?” Kelly Anne’s eyes were wide and her pupils dilated.
“Yes.” As sure as she was of anything, which wasn’t much.
SeaTac was its usual mess, and it took them a few hours, including a stop for lunch at Kelly Anne’s favorite fast-food place, to get to the therapist’s office, where interactive games and toys proclaimed a kid-friendly waiting room.
When the therapist came out of the inner office, Findlay rose to her feet, her cheeks warming as she compared her Missoula-casual jeans and blouse to the woman’s sophisticated slacks, silk tee, and blazer.
The therapist’s greeting was cool and professional. No doubt whose side she was on.
When she held out her hand to Kelly Anne, her daughter snuggled more tightly by Findlay’s side.
“It’s okay, sweetie.”
Kelly Anne shook her head.
Damn Chris for making life so hard for his daughter. Fortunately, he’d bailed out from the appointment, citing some conflicting business meeting. Whatever.
“It’ll just be for a little while. Mommy will be right out here.” The therapist looked like she’d never crouched to a child’s level in her life. Why the hell had she gone into a profession that required interacting with them?
Finally, the woman unbent a tiny bit.
“Let’s go play some games,” she said.
Kelly Anne looked at Findlay.
She nodded.
Her daughter took tentative steps, but when the woman held out her hand, she shook her head. Keeping one eye on her mother, she followed the therapist into the office.
Good judge of character. Kelly Anne didn’t like the woman any more than Findlay did.
A little over half an hour later, the woman opened the door. “Can you come in here, Ms. Callahan?” she asked.
Kelly Anne crawled onto her lap as soon as she sat down.
“I have a few questions for you based on what your daughter told me,” the therapist began. “Can you tell me a little more about the school Kelly Anne attends? It sounds like they mainstream her quite a bit.”
It was clear the woman didn’t approve of that methodology.
“Kelly Anne is thriving in that environment. She’s made friends easily and adjusted well.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but is that the best way for her to advance academically?”
“She’s five years old.” Findlay leaned forward, trying to keep neutral so she didn’t scare Kelly Anne. “And it’s not that she can’t learn; she needs to feel comfortable to be able to take in the information. Socialization helps a great deal with that.”
“Mr. Guthrie isn’t sure the diagnosis is correct, as there have been no learning problems in his family prior to this time.”
“That’s why we’re here to see you.”
“I really can’t make a conclusive diagnosis unless I observe her over time.”
“Then what was the point of all of this?” She tried to keep the frustration from her voice. It would only upset her daughter.
“I can’t rule it out, either. That’s what he wanted. She might simply be shy or socially awkward.”
“Or she could have a learning disability.” Findlay leaned forward in her chair, her gaze sharp on the woman.
The therapist looked away.
“Yes, she could have a learning disability,” she said.
“So who is Mr. Reese?” the therapist asked, taking the offensive again. “Kelly Anne seemed to think he might become her new daddy.”
Damn. Would the potential relationship hurt or harm her case for Kelly Anne?
“He’s my boss . . . and a friend. That’s all. Nothing more,” she decided to say.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then it might be in the child’s best interest to keep her out of the relationship. It confuses children when their estranged parents see other people. Especially if they do not plan on taking the relationship any further than mere friendship.”
“I understood Chris was seeing a new woman.”
“Yes, but that is a more serious relationship. As I’m sure you are well aware, they are planning a wedding for December. A different situation entirely.”
More manipulative and less honest.
“I see. Are we done here then?” Findlay asked.
“Yes. I’ll have my report to the courts by the end of the week.”
“I’ll see my way out.”
‘Thank you’ seemed inappropriate.
Kelly Anne fell asleep on the way to the hotel, a Marriott by Lake Union that promised a relaxing visit. After a delivered pizza and less than half of a beloved Disney movie, Kelly Anne was fast asleep on the bed.
Findlay stroked her daughter’s hair. “It’ll be all right, baby. Somehow, I’ll make sure it will be all right. I will not let your father hurt you. Not anymore.”
Pouring a glass of wine from the minibar, she settled herself in the armchair and leafed through the journal she’d brought. Her father wrote that the company was gaining traction, primarily due to Brian’s ability as a salesman. He was on the road continually.
When Sam took over the financial affairs of the company, Frank found himself in charge of production.
How had they ever thought his father was embezzling? He was far away from the financial processes. Sam was a more likely culprit.
She jotted a few notes on the legal pad she’d brought with her, already filled with scribbles and diagrams that bore no connection to each other. What was the key to the puzzle?
The next sections of the journal didn’t reveal much of anything—mainly a loving father’s recitation of his daughter’s progress, the steady growth of the company he and Frank had founded. She remembered the family and company gatherings from her early years.
How hard had it been on her father, seeing Brian with the woman he’d loved? Dad had never been a bitter man—as far as she could see. Maybe he’d channeled his feelings into actions—like stealing money?
No. Never. She knew her dad. He’d let the past go once he’d met her mother, hadn’t he?
How well had her mother really known him? Would she have imagined Frank killing himself when they first got together?
What if he really was the embezzler?
Bile rose in her throat. Not possible. It had to be someone else.
And that same person had to be framing her.
But who? Much as she hated Brian for what he’d done to her father, he hadn’t been at the company in months. It had to be someone else, someone who’d been there from the beginning.
But why were they trying to get rid of her? Why did it matter to them in the long run? The reason didn’t matter. The objective was clear. They wanted Findlay to leave.
Being there for Kelly Anne was more important than this job, especially if this position led to her arrest.
Regardless of the economy, she had to look for a new company. Even if she had to leave Missoula. Give whoever it was what he wanted so she’d be safe—so her daughter could stay with her.
But changing jobs . . . and cities . . . might be seen as a sign of instability by the courts. If she left Missoula, there wouldn’t be anyone to help with childcare. Threats were stacking against her. Chris appeared to have convinced the new therapist he was right.
Damn him. He didn’t want the best for Kelly Anne. He simply wanted possession of her daughter—and to hurt her.
Was there anyone in her corner besides her mother?
Would Reese come through?
He had to. There was no one else. She had to
trust him.
Chapter 13
Findlay brushed her hair one more time, trying to get a section of it neatly behind her ear so she could clip it into submission. Maybe she should grow it out long, like she’d had it when she was in high school.
Well, in the beginning of high school. The night after her father had committed suicide, she’d chopped it all off, horrifying her mother even further.
But there’d been a satisfaction in the brutality of the cut. She’d kept it short ever since.
Why was she even going out to coffee with Reese? There was no such thing as a second chance in romance. That only happened in movies and novels.
She plucked her father’s diary, the latest one she’d been re-reading, from its hiding place in her top dresser drawer and stuffed it in her purse.
“I should be back in an hour,” she said to her mother as she walked through the living room. “I’ll pick up Kelly Anne on the way home.”
“So nice for her to have a play date.”
“Yes.” Her daughter’s new friend lived on the south side of Missoula. She was an outgoing girl—the daughter of Mexican immigrants who’d come to harvest Flathead cherries and stayed to work other small farms and ranches in the area.
Findlay checked her lipstick one more time in the driver’s side mirror before pulling out of the driveway and heading toward Orange Street, hoping to avoid whatever lingering traffic there was from the university’s football game.
Drum Coffee was typical of many Missoula coffee shops—created with a garage look that allowed fresh air and outdoor sitting with the flick of a grumbling switch.
Li had told her the coffee was like nowhere else in the city, and from the aroma that greeted her when she walked in the door, her friend was right.
Reese rose from his stool on the far side of the room where he waited.
Hearts didn’t really stop like this, did they?
Apparently hers did.
Forcing a foot forward to restart the engine, she made it to the stool next to him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, back.”
“I hope you don’t mind—I ordered for you. Lattes used to be your favorite. Still true, I hope?”
She hadn’t had one in years. Chris had labeled them girly drinks, and that had ended any desire she’d had for them.