by Jean Oram
He clicked off the phone and turned to see Dot standing in the doorway.
“So I’m gay, huh?”
“That’s what the papers say.”
She shrugged and opened the fridge, pulling out a wedge of brie. Stress eating, or had his chats about not worrying about every single calorie finally taken hold?
“Are you okay?”
“I guess.” She spun his tablet to face her. He watched as she read, her expression changing from interest to anger. “What a load of bull. I hope Melanie slams them back.”
“The best thing to do is not retaliate.”
“She won’t take this lying down. Not Melanie. She’s tough.”
But was she tough enough? That was the question.
And what kind of man was Tristen for sitting back, waiting to see if she was?
Dot’s expression grew darker. She looked at the tablet again. “Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Rubicore is owned by Aaron Bloomwood, Jim Hanna, and Mistral Johnson?”
“Apparently.”
She gave him a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks for backing out of the fight, Dad. Thank you.”
“What are you talking about?” She was upset with him earlier for telling Melanie he could no longer help. And now she was thanking him? He really didn’t have the energy for her mood swings right now.
“Ohmigod.” Her face paled. “We have to stop Melanie.”
“I already tried, she won’t budge.” He glanced at the tablet for answers on why his daughter was suddenly so upset. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was pitched so high he was sure dogs would come running. “If Melanie ruins Rubicore it’ll destroy my girlfriend’s family! The Hannas will be put in the poorhouse and then Samantha will break up with me!”
“Back up a step.” His heart clenched. His daughter had been sleeping with the enemy? Well, hopefully not sleeping. But still. All those rules and promises he’d made to watch over her, and he didn’t even know Dot’s girlfriend’s last name? He was a crappy dad.
“Jim Hanna is her father and you’ve told Melanie how to annihilate the company. You always screw everything up.” Tristen braced himself as Dot’s unbridled anger came rolling in. “That’s why Mom’s business is failing. Because she’s too nice, not like you.”
“TriBell is failing?” Tristen’s world tilted. His family was in trouble? “How bad is it?”
Dot crossed her arms, shutting him out. “It doesn’t matter. Mom will solve it, like always. Not you.”
“I can’t stop Melanie, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you and your mom.”
There was no way he could help Melanie now—even from afar—but maybe there was a way he could show her he still cared and that it wasn’t personal.
CHAPTER 11
Tristen wandered through the indoor antiques show, lightly touching tables, his mind elsewhere, his mood edgy. He needed to find a way to show Melanie that him backing out of the Rubicore fight wasn’t about her. After the way the papers had slammed her, he figured she had to be hurting something fierce. And while he’d warned her that this was going to happen, he still felt as though it was partly his fault for not protecting her somehow. Fights like this forged strength in some, while breaking others, and he wasn’t sure which way Melanie would go.
Scanning displays bearing antique place settings, tablecloths, and trinkets, he kept an eye out for something unique. Something that obviously had a story. An underdog antique that nobody except Melanie could love. The right gift would tell her that she wasn’t alone, that he saw her and believed in her even if he couldn’t be at her side slinging arrows into any foe that dared come near.
He stopped in front of a table, doubting himself. He was falling into old habits. Gifts when the woman needed his time and presence. Wanted the impossible.
“See anything you like?” asked the lady watching the table’s shellacked items. Nothing had the right energy. They were glossy, done up, their history hidden under fresh varnish.
“Not yet. I think I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it.”
“Just like with love,” she said, shooting him a wink.
The next table had toys and teacups.
“Over a hundred years old,” the man said, passing him an old jack-in-the-box. The vendor looked familiar. Christophe. The museum curator. “And these teacups were found in an old ice shed here in Muskoka. Perfectly preserved.” He lifted a cup and held it out for inspection.
Tristen turned it over, then set it down again. Too flowery. He had a feeling Melanie didn’t like antiques that were too pretty.
“I can make a deal on anything from this half of the table. However, this side I’m selling for a friend, so unfortunately no deals.” Christophe waved his hand toward an odd assortment of china that had seen better days, but had a certain something that caught Tristen’s eye.
“You hear about the museum’s island?” Tristen asked, bending down to study the strange collection of teacups that were lined up along the edge of the table.
“The bastards. Think they can just move that old log cabin as many times as they want, and it will still be okay.”
“Sorry?”
“The log cabin? The part of the museum that was moved in from Glen Orchard in the eighties? This was supposed to be its final home because of its age.”
“You aren’t going to fight it?”
The man looked dejected. “What can I do? Nobody cares about that stuff.”
“You should talk to Melanie Summer. She cares.”
Christophe gave a rueful smile. “She’s a good kid, but I’m not sure she can pull this one off.”
Tristen ignored the remark, trying to keep it from getting under his skin, where he knew it would fester. The monster wanted out, wanted to roar at everyone in her way. It wanted to clear the path and present Melanie with a nice little castle, every problem swept away. Solved. By him. Using force, if necessary.
Tristen turned over an ugly cup that had faint cracks in its finish, and read the markings on the bottom. They weren’t familiar, but he certainly recognized the tremble that had crept into his hand. He carefully set the cup down, knowing how rare it must be with its simple black drawings of nymphs. The price for this one cup could be well over a hundred bucks. He glanced down the row. Over a thousand dollars perched along the edge of the table. He gently nudged the cups back, hoping to keep the collection safe from children roaming the indoor market.
“How much is this cup with the nymphs? I know someone who might like it.”
“That one’s quite rare and unusual. We think it was commissioned, and have been trying to trace its origins for some time.” Christophe studied the bottom of the cup, after shoving his glasses farther up his nose. He checked the price list beside him. “Two hundred and fifty. This one’s price is nonnegotiable.”
“Two-fifty? For one cup?” Tristen stared at him. The man had to be kidding, right? The thing was hideous. Christophe set it down again, and Tristen reached for it. “I’ll take it.”
Melanie would probably smash it at his feet. One cup. Two hundred and fifty dollars. He’d lost his mind.
A young child skipped up to the table and reached out to snag a cup. Tristen batted her hand away, causing one to teeter. He righted it, then quickly piled the teacups up in front of Christophe. “I’ll take them all.”
They needed someone who would keep them safe.
“That is…” Christophe paused to calculate the purchase price, eyebrows raised. Catching himself, he added quickly, “I’ll wrap those right up. Cash, check, debit, or credit card, sir?”
Tristen handed over his credit card, keeping an eye on the crowds milling about. One jostle and this history would be gone. Destroyed. He felt like a new dad trying to protect his offspring from a herd of stampeding gazelles.
He rubbed his brow. They were only cups. He didn’t even like frail and delicate things. He smashed rocks, for crying out loud. He probably couldn
’t even drink out of these dainty little teacups without crushing them in with his big hands.
And yet he was willingly going to dip into his untouched Toronto account to cover this ridiculous expense.
At home, he unloaded a ton of granite he’d picked up before hitting the show. He heaved the heavy stones as far as he could into the bush, struggling to exhaust the energy fuelling the emotions roaring through him. He wanted to protect Melanie, though he barely knew her. He wanted to put on his old suit and kill Rubicore. Not just give them a limp or send them away. Kill them.
Panting, with sweat soaking his T-shirt, he stared into the underbrush. The rocks were unloaded, but had been tossed so far and wide it would take hours to ferret them out from under the fresh mulch of crushed ferns and saplings.
His arms ached from the effort, but he felt good. He’d make it through another day. And right now, that was all that mattered.
After a shower, he unpacked the teacups on the granite kitchen island, doubting himself and his intentions.
Dot, milking lake water out of her shaggy bangs and onto the floor, laughed at the cups. “This could be the definition of hideous. Wow.” She carelessly held one up to the light.
“Didn’t I tell you not to go swimming without me?” He snatched the cup and carefully set it down beside the box.
“It’s fine. I was in the shallow area.”
“There is no shallow area. The bottom drops off right away.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know you liked antiques.”
“Quit changing the subject. No more swimming without me. And I’m more into boats. And rocks. Not china.”
“Rocks aren’t antiques.”
“Prove it.”
She rolled her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. “Fine.”
“Good.” He stared at the cups, unsure what to do. Was it too much to give them all at once to someone you hardly knew? Should he wrap them individually? Chuck them back in the box and then shove it at her as though it was old junk he couldn’t be bothered with?
Dot fingered the receipt. “Three thousand dollars?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “You know I’d like a car, right?”
“You can earn one.”
“Right. So you can buy ugly cups.” She gazed around the simple home. “Mom said you have billions. Why…” She curled her upper lip, eyeing the hole in his old sock where his big toe peeked out.
“Why don’t I spend it?”
“Yeah.”
“So I can buy ugly cups.” He grinned and shoved the box of cups into the middle of the island where they’d be safe.
Silence stretched between them and he could feel that Dot wanted to talk.
“Why are you bailing on us?” she asked.
“I’m not bailing on you. I’m just… It’s complicated.”
“You know I don’t care what the press says.”
“Your mom does.”
“And since when do you listen to Mom?”
“I’m trying to do better. I don’t want you getting hurt, Dot.”
“Kind of too late for that.” Her eyes darkened and the way she turned her shoulders, he knew she was about to flee. He pulled her into his arms, hugging her, unable to speak. Unable to explain.
“I’m sorry, Dot.”
“For what?”
He held her by her shoulders, watching her expressions change like the seasons.
He was sorry for a lot of things. For not being around more. Not understanding that Dot’s mother didn’t need gifts and gestures to know that he’d loved her. For having to bail on Dot and Melanie in order to try and keep them safe. For not being man enough to deal with everything. For having a monster in the attic that he couldn’t seem to control unless he hid out and smashed rocks all day, cementing them together as if it was his life he was piecing back together.
“I guess we can do it without you. I mean, that whole island parking lot thing is going to get everyone riled up, right?” She appeared so young, lost and in need of reassurance.
“You bet, Dot, you bet.” He pulled her into one last quick hug, then released her, knowing what she didn’t—that Christophe had already given up.
Tristen opened the fridge, staring at its contents. Max came to his side and sat, looking expectantly into the fridge with his sad eyes. “So?” Tristen asked. “Eat out tonight?”
“I totally want fries and a big greasy hamburger,” his daughter exclaimed.
“You read my mind,” he said with a smile.
“Can we go to McDonald’s in Bracebridge?”
“I was thinking of a real restaurant.”
“McDonald’s is real.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Is that a yes?” She clapped her hands, eyes sparkling. Just like when she was a little girl. He’d missed so much over the years. But he wasn’t missing it now, was he?
“Get in the truck.”
“Are you sure that will get us there?” she teased, hurrying to the door before he changed his mind. “I heard about Melanie having to save you. Maybe you should only drive it if you have her or a mechanic with you.”
Tristen laughed and pushed Dot out the door. If nothing else, things were finally coming along between the two of them.
* * *
Melanie struggled to pry a reporter away from Daphne as they bullied their way into the restaurant to get Tigger a sundae. The girl had waited patiently as the two sisters had tried to talk sense into Mr. Valos, going so far as to interrupt his Sunday tee time in order to do so. Talk about wasted breath. The man had to be receiving something under the table. Either that or he really just didn’t care about doing what the taxpayers paid him to do.
And then, as the three of them had walked across the McDonald’s parking lot, a swarm of reporters had descended. Cameras were shoved in their faces along with microphones. Questions were shouted. The Summers couldn’t get back to the van and had made a break for the restaurant’s doors, but reporters had blocked them, closing in. Melanie had never been claustrophobic, but this nearly did her in.
Daphne turned to face the cameras, tucking Tigger behind her. Melanie struggled to get to her side, but the reporters, sensing her sister was about to give them a sound bite, jostled her back.
“Rubicore needs to have a public meeting outlining the results of their environmental impact study, which should include waterway traffic patterns and their impact. This is a basic right belonging to the citizens of Port Carling, and Rubicore has failed to honor that right.” A gust blew Daphne’s light cotton dress against her small frame. She seemed so vulnerable trapped against the closed door. Melanie shoved a man out of the way as a new round of questions were flung at her sister. Daphne was used to talking to the press, but Melanie could see the fear lingering in her eyes, and Tigger was trembling, clutching her mother’s skirt to her face.
Melanie stomped on reporters’ feet, dug in her elbows and used her tall build to plow her way to her sister’s side. “Please, we have no further comments.” She felt as though she was a lawyer protecting her client as she ushered Daphne through the restaurant door, backing them up slowly.
“Daphne!” shouted a reporter from the rear of the cluster. “What do you have to say about your daughter’s birth father applying for custody?”
Instantly, her sister’s small form pushed against her back. “Keep going,” Melanie warned.
“My dad?” Tigger asked, her voice small and curious.
“No. Say nothing.” Melanie shoved her sister inside the restaurant and straight into the arms of Tristen. He whisked Daphne and Tigger away, calling to the manager to take care of the reporters. Melanie let the door swing closed, then blocked the entrance, arms crossed. Her body shook as she stared down the reporter on the other side of the glass.
“Mistral Johnson has filed for full custody,” he shouted through the partition. “He wants his daughter back.”
* * *
Carefully, Melanie joined Daphne and Dot in the booth, h
er butt sliding across the hard plastic seat. Her sister was trembling, staring blankly out the window. Melanie placed a hand on hers, hoping to help settle her.
“We’ll sort this out, Daphne.”
Tristen took Tigger to the counter to order her the promised sundae. Melanie gave him a reassuring smile when he didn’t look away from them. There was something in his eyes that made it hard for her to breathe right.
“He’s going to take her? Why now?” Daphne’s eyes were full of pain, her face a mask of confusion.
“He won’t. He can’t. You’ve been a good mom. He can’t just sweep in and take a daughter he’s ignored for years.” However, Melanie also knew the man had rights that he could ask the courts to honor. And with him being well off, when Daphne was a struggling single mom, the courts would likely give him whatever he asked for.
Daphne blinked back tears and Melanie whispered, “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
Tristen had been right. But she’d had no concept of how bad it could get.
“I’ll call everything off, okay? I’ll apologize to Rubicore in the papers. Tigger is more important than a development.”
“Um, not to interrupt your guilt fest,” Dot said, speaking up, “but hasn’t Daphne been in the news a ton for environmental stuff? It might not be because of Rubicore, right?”
“Tigger’s father is part of Rubicore,” Daphne said quietly.
“What?” Melanie had to force herself to lower her voice. “When did you learn this?”
“Since forever. He inherited his share from his father when he turned twenty-one.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No wonder he’s pissed,” Dot commented with a surprised laugh.
“You can’t quit, Melanie,” Daphne said. “This would have happened between me and Mistral anyway. And Rubicore doesn’t exactly have a great environmental record. You can’t keep quiet just because of me.”