“E-mail?”
“No reply.” She shifted in her seat. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“If there’d been a reasonable explanation, he wouldn’t have bolted.” And if she’d truly believed in it, there would have been no distress call. “Even if he’s innocent, running makes him look guilty.”
“I just can’t believe that Bradley would do a thing like this on his own. It had to be that girl pushing him into it.”
That girl. A wealth of disparagement in the words. “His fiancée? I thought you liked her. I thought she fit right in with this scene.” Which made her about as far from anyone he’d want anything to do with as possible, but, hey, it wasn’t his life.
Except for the fact that he was now thrown into the middle of it.
“I don’t think she was good for Bradley.”
He heard the obstinate denial in her words, knew that she wanted above all to avoid believing the worst of her son. “Mom,” he began, “I don’t think—”
She waved her hand, dismissing it. “There’s no point in speculation. Let’s wait for the details. They’ll find him and we’ll know everything soon enough.”
Or not. Lex, of all people, knew how easy it was to go underground when you wanted to.
Olivia stood. Conversation over. “Why don’t I show you to your room?”
They climbed the staircase, walked down the familiar hallways. And stopped at the door of his old room. “I hope it’s all right. It’s the only one that’s made up, except for Bradley’s. We turned yours into a guest suite after you left.” She gestured at the pale green walls, the color of spring.
New beginnings.
Old memories.
Lex walked slowly inside, ignoring the new furnishings, heading toward the window. It had been the view he’d liked best, even when he’d been shut in for punishment. He could look across the grounds and off in the distance see a slice of blue where the sea glittered under the sun.
And dream about escape.
He heard Olivia walk up next to him.
“I missed you when you were gone,” she said quietly, staring out at the sea on the horizon. “It’s a terrible thing on a parent when their child disappears.”
Guilt knifed through him. “Mom,” he began helplessly, not knowing at all what to say. Knowing only that leaving had been his sole choice.
“I used to wonder every night where you were. If you were alive, if you were safe…whether you were somewhere wanting to come home. I always hoped that if you needed help, you’d tell me.” Silence fell. And suddenly she was leaning her head against the cool window glass. “Why did he do it, Trey, why? Did we do something to him—to both of you?”
Oh, hell, he thought, and reached out a hand awkwardly to lay it on her back. “You didn’t do anything to either of us.”
“I let your father run roughshod over you.”
“That’s like saying you let the nor’easter hit. He did what he did. I did what I had to. Bradley made his decisions, too. None of it was anything you could have changed or stopped.”
She straightened and turned to him with eyes that were dry, he saw in relief. “I don’t know if that’s true. I think you’re being kind but I’m glad you’re here.”
“Not a problem.” And suddenly he found himself reaching out to give her a hug that felt right.
“I just… I didn’t know what to do,” she said against his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find Bradley, we’ll figure it out. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He hoped like hell he was telling the truth.
“I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of that Bradley Alexander,” Jeannie Stafford said to her daughter as she slipped a stem of baby’s breath into an arrangement of gerbera daisies.
“I could have done with a different exit.” With absent efficiency, Keely twisted ribbon together into a bow, added on an “Jeannie’s Floral Creations” tag and handed it to her mother to tie onto the vase.
“I never liked him.”
“He’s not good enough for you, girlfriend. None of those Alexanders are, for that matter,” said Lydia Montgomery, Jeannie’s longtime clerk—and Keely’s good friend since they’d begun working together in the shop’s first days.
“He was always a little too pleased with himself. And now, look at what he’s done to you,” Jeannie fumed. “Look at the trouble he’s gotten you into.”
“And Olivia Alexander spreading rumors it was all your fault,” Lydia added. She set aside the arrangement and began another.
“You don’t know that she said that,” Keely countered. She hoped not, she really hoped not. Olivia Alexander had seemed like one of the few genuine people in the social whirl. Keely had always thought Olivia liked her, that she’d approved of the match.
Lydia put her hands on her ample hips. “Well, Sandra Maxwell told me she overheard Little Missy Olivia talking when she was waiting on their table at Petrino’s, and she usually tells me straight.”
“I’m sure Olivia doesn’t want to think that her son could do anything like that,” Jeannie said. “What mother would? You’d hope that you’d raised them better.”
“Well, she should wake up and smell the coffee.” Lydia shook her head so hard that her red plait of hair swung back and forth. “She’s been fooled. Everybody’s been fooled.”
Including yours truly, Keely thought. “Look, how about if I go get us some coffee and donuts?” she interrupted. If she didn’t get out, she was going to go nuts.
Lydia and Jeannie gave each other a rueful look. “We’re ranting, aren’t we?” Jeannie asked.
“Well…”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She gave Keely a hug. “He just makes me so mad, that’s all.”
“You deserve better,” Lydia said.
“Why don’t you take a break and go get us some coffee,” Jeannie suggested. “We’ve got half an hour to finish the rest of these centerpieces for Lillian Hamilton’s tea and you’ll just distract us.”
“I’ll help when I get back.”
“You’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I relax better when I’m busy.” Keely winked and walked out onto the street she could have navigated with her eyes closed.
Christmas garland festooned the trees, every shop was decorated, emphasis on quaint. Growing up, she’d always vainly hoped that her parents would move to the city, any city, just somewhere more exciting than Chilton. After all, they’d had the money to do whatever they wanted.
At least back then.
But Staffords had lived in Connecticut for decades, centuries, all the way back to the days of British rule. They weren’t budging now.
Of course, things had changed in that time. Maybe they still lived in the big fieldstone house her great-great grandfather Clement Stafford had built in 1891, but the family money was gone, eaten away by the crash of 1987 and the subsequent bursting of the Internet bubble. Her father had many fine qualities, but stock-market savvy was not one of them. He’d ridden some big losers right down into the ground.
Oddly, he seemed happier now that the bulk of their holdings had been lost. Instead of facing a self-imposed pressure to increase the family