1
He should fire her.
Any woman who could waltz into his office in a plaid blouse and a pencil skirt, with heels that emphasized just how toned her legs were and chestnut hair that swayed with the lilt in her hips, shouldn’t be allowed to deliver his coffee or set his memos on the desk or peer at him with such irritation in her rich chocolate eyes.
Eyes that were rimmed with … dark circles?
“Is something wrong?” Duncan asked.
Rosabel muttered under her breath as she opened the blinds and rotated the spider plant, with its dripping green fronds, perched on the stand between his desk and the window. Sunlight created a glow around her.
“What?” Rosabel’s exasperated tone broke through with sharpness.
He shook himself. Stop staring at her, idiot. He’d only seen her every day for the last year and a half. Why should today be any different? She was still the same mind-boggling shade of beautiful she’d been the last time he’d looked at her.
“Never mind,” he said, waving her away.
Rolling her eyes, she strutted toward the printer to retrieve whatever papers she’d just sent through it.
Hmm. She seemed to be more annoyed than usual. On top of her normal responsibilities and the ones she’d taken on herself—like filing the first-quarter employee payroll after sorting and balancing the accountant sent over—Duncan had told her to help with his best friend’s wedding plans. That might have something to do with it.
Coordinating flights and hotels for someone she didn’t know—under Duncan’s request—wasn’t in her job description. Was she that bothered by it? He’d shrugged off her frustration with the request at the time. Maddox needed help, and Rosabel was always the first person Duncan turned to in a situation like that.
He had hired her to carry out his demands as his personal assistant. Rosabel had to be used to Duncan adding the occasional unconventional request, didn’t she? She knew Maddox was Duncan’s best friend.
She shifted through the papers. Duncan smirked and skimmed through email on his tablet, deleting as necessary, until a name stopped his heart.
Beverly Hawthorne.
His palms sweated. He pulled at his tie, which suddenly clenched around his throat. Mother emailed him? They hadn’t spoken in years, not since her final, harsh demand that he leave her house and never come back.
Why had she ended their unspoken pact to pretend the other didn’t exist?
Maybe the email was a fluke. Servers got hacked all the time, didn’t they? He’d be the last one to admit that suspicion, considering all the flak he’d given Rosabel about that very subject. She insisted on keeping physical copies of important paperwork in case Duncan’s system was ever infiltrated.
He both dreaded and ached to open the email, but he wasn’t about to with anyone else in the room. “Get out,” he said.
Rosabel turned, one hand on her hip. “Excuse me?”
“Out. I’ve got something to do.”
She settled into that adorable pout before stalking to his desk and slamming the papers down. A paper clip and the pen he was using skittered to the floor.
Duncan’s hands trembled. He kept them in his lap instead of letting her see.
She stared him down. “You know, ‘please’ goes a long way.”
“I’m sure it does. Get out. Close the door behind you.”
With an obvious scoff, Rosabel rolled her eyes and did as he asked.
Duncan didn’t hesitate a moment. He tapped on the email and devoured the words on the screen.
Duncan,
It seems fitting to let you know that your grandmother is turning ninety-five in a week’s time. She requests you attend her birthday party on Friday, May seventh, at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville. Please let us know if you can make it.
Mother
That was it?
Duncan’s heart sank. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. Words of apology for their harsh accusations the last time he’d been in Eureka Springs? Expressed desire to make amends?
Memories of that awful day dragged on him from the minute he woke every morning. He’d tried his best to brush them off, but how could he forget the fact that his family blamed him for his grandfather’s heart attack?
Now, Grandmother wanted him to come home. Mother hadn’t said a word about wanting to see him, but she’d always been a tough woman to read. She often concealed her feelings instead of wearing them for the world to see, like Rosabel.
He’d thought about going home so many times, but the idea always made him anxious. Going back to Arkansas now would open a whole can of worms, and those things were nasty. He didn’t want to relive the pain.
Ignoring the email was a definite option. Maybe that was why Mother had emailed instead of called. She was probably about as anxious about having him come home as he was. Maybe the email was an opening to pretend he’d never received it.
In another instance, with any other person, he might have considered ignoring it. This time, he found he couldn’t. Grandmother, the woman who’d raised him while Mother had been busy building a career as a fashion designer, was turning ninety-five. Who knew how much time there was left to make things right?
Mother hadn’t said a word about him being welcome to stay in his old room, and truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
While Eureka Springs was quaint and quirky, Duncan didn’t want to stay at any of the cutesy beds and breakfasts speckling the town—not when each location was old and filled with its own history. Rumor had it that several places were haunted by previous owners. Not only that, but dealing with noisy fellow travelers and their comings and goings didn’t hold much appeal. He’d always preferred to keep to himself.
With a sniff, Duncan pulled open his desk drawer. The pamphlet showcasing luxurious getaway homes in a mountain cove just outside of Eureka Springs sounded better and better by the minute. He’d discarded the idea when the pamphlet had arrived in the mail, but why not buy a house on Beaver Lake after all? He’d have his own place, which would be up to his standards. He could visit and fish or simply escape whenever he liked, without his family ever needing to know. Sure, there would be neighbors, but at least they’d be from his own tax bracket.
A lake house retreat, far enough from Eureka Springs that he could come and go without telling his family, and yet close enough for a visit to his hometown …
Another idea struck him. Google at hand, he searched for the Painted Lady house. It’d been the cause of all the familial mayhem in the first place, but Duncan had always been a dab hand at investments—more so than his father or grandfather. If he could manage to purchase that house and offer it as a gift to Grandmother, could the gesture serve to soften the older woman toward him?
Grandmother hadn’t contacted him since the argument, and he hadn’t tried to talk to her. He wasn’t about to go back to Arkansas without some kind of plan. Argument or no, Duncan wasn’t sure he could live with himself knowing he had the chance to make things right and didn’t take it.
That settled it. He would go back.
But he had to make a phone call first.
Duncan’s hands shook. He skimmed through his contacts, but Beverly Hawthorne wasn’t one of them. Of course not. He’d deleted his mother from his phone—and his computer too.