Page 4 of You'll Find Out
“The accountant?” Dena was incredulous, but Mara firmly stood her ground.
“That’s right.”
Dena’s eyes flashed emerald fire, but she let the words that were forming in the back of her throat die. She could see that it was of no use to try and talk to Mara now. Dena knew her sister-in-law well enough to realize that the determined line of Mara’s jaw meant business, and she had to content herself with the fact that her barb concerning Angie’s questionable paternity had wounded Mara. Dena smiled slightly at the thought. “All right, Mara, I’ll wait until you get back. But if you step on my toes, you had better believe that I’ll call my lawyer in an instant and contest Pete’s will!” She snapped her long fingers to add emphasis to her warning.
“Oh, Dena,” Mara sighed, suddenly weary. “Does it always have to be this way between us? Are you really threatening me?” Mara’s large blue eyes looked beseechingly up at Dena’s triumphant smile.
“Don’t think of it as a threat,dear,”Dena suggested with a voice that dripped venom and a self-satisfied smile lighting the green depths of her eyes. “Consider it a promise!” With her final words, Dena didn’t wait for Mara’s response. The redhead whirled on her high leather heels and clicked out of the room, following the path whereby the grandmother had escaped earlier with her grandchild.
As the porch doors banged shut, rattling the glass panes, Mara felt herself slump into the nearest chair. How was she going to cope with the Wilcox family? What could she possibly do about June’s failing health and Dena’s imperious demands? It was difficult enough making the adjustment into widowhood and single parenting, but to make matters worse, she had to fight Dena tooth and nail on every topic concerning the toy company. It crossed her mind that perhaps Mara should give in to Peter’s older sister’s demands. Then if Imagination continued to lose money, Dena would have no one to blame but herself. Maybe the best thing for all concerned would be for Mara to pack up Angie and leave her in-laws to squabble among themselves. But she wouldn’t do it—couldn’t. Too many other people depended upon her strength for her to just give up. Peter’s mother, June, had been especially kind to her. And Mara was a fighter. It went against everything she believed in to give up without exhausting all possible alternatives. There had to be a reasonable solution to the problem with Dena.
The fatigue that had begun to creep up her spine finally overcame her and she shuddered. The last six months of watching Peter slowly wither away had been excruciating, and for the first time since his death Mara gave in to the bitter tears of exhaustion that burned at the back of her eyes.
* * *
The drive back to Atlanta was a blur in Shane’s memory. So lost in thought was he that he didn’t even notice when the sharp mountains melted into the plains and low hills of western Georgia. He was angry with himself for trying to see Mara and even angrier at the sophisticated gray-haired woman who had refused his admittance. It had crossed his mind to ignore the protests of the older woman and push past her to find Mara, but his common sense and decency had changed his mind. His timing was all wrong, along with everything else he had done since he had read Peter Wilcox’s obituary two days earlier.
He would bide his time, at least for the present. He knew that he had to see Mara again, and soon, and he damned himself for his weakness. But certainly with a little imagination he would be able to find a way to get close to her . . . for just a little while.
Chapter 2
Aweek in the Florida sun had brightened Mara’s disposition and outlook on life. She and Angie had spent the time playing on the beach, making sand castles, and hunting for treasures cast upon the white sand by the relentless tide. They played keep-away from the waves and watched as tourists, dressed in gaudy colors, lapped up the sun’s warm golden rays. It was a wonderful time for mother and daughter to become reacquainted, without the shroud of Peter’s illness cloaking them in its black folds.
The sun had tanned their skins, and Mara looked robust and healthy once again. A sparkle had returned to her cornflower-blue eyes, and two rosy points of color enhanced the natural arch of her cheekbones. Angie’s hair had bleached to a lighter hue, which seemed to imitate the long, golden tendrils of her mother, the brighter shade deepening the color of her near-black eyes. The little girl seemed healthy and happy, and it was with more than a trace of hesitation and dread that Mara returned home, back to the ancient clapboard-and-brick house that she and Peter had shared, and back to the offices over the manufacturing plant of Imagination Toys, located in the heart of the industrial section of Asheville.
Months had passed since the funeral, and the mountains surrounding Asheville had warmed with the summer sun. The white oak trees lining the drive displayed their lush, green leaves, and the air was laden with the scent of pine. Already the large dogwood tree in the backyard had lost its petals, and only a few remaining flaming azaleas and purple rhododendron blossoms lingered on the branches.
Summer had come, and for the first time in several years Mara felt free. Free from the disease that had ravaged Peter but had bound her to him, and free from the hypocrisy of a loveless marriage. The days were long and warm. Although Mara spent many hours working at the office, she always managed to put aside a special time of the day to spend alone with Angie. During the day, while Mara was working, Peter’s mother, June, watched carefully over her three-year-old granddaughter, but in the late afternoon and evenings, when the soft breeze of twilight whispered through the pine boughs, Mara and Angie were inseparable. It was this time of day that Mara found the most precious. She loved being with her curly-haired, slightly precocious daughter and found Angie’s bright smile and eager young mind a continued source of contentment. And Angie, for her part, seemed to thrive on the love she received from her mother and grandmother.
Mara’s days at the plant were more difficult than her quiet evenings at home. There was an almost unbearable undercurrent of tension between Mara and her sister-in-law. After returning from her vacation, Mara had agreed to let Dena run the advertising department. Mara had hoped that the added responsibility would satisfy the fiery Dena. She reasoned that if she gave Dena a fair chance to show her talents, perhaps Dena would work harder and pull with Mara instead of always against her. In the beginning Dena had seemed content, but as time passed she began getting bored with the job, realizing that it was little more than an empty title—a placebo to satisfy her ego. All of the major decisions concerning Imagination Toys were still handled by Mara. She had taken over the job slowly, as Peter’s illness had forced him into inactivity.
Also, despite Mara’s efforts to the contrary, the company was still losing money. Several larger corporations had expressed interest in buying out the controlling interest in Imagination, but Mara had steadfastly refused their offers. The last thing she would allow to happen was to prove Dena correct and be forced to sell the family business. The toy company had been started by Peter’s great-grandfather, and each successive generation of Wilcox family members had lived comfortably from the profits. That was, until the company had begun losing money under Peter’s mismanagement. Now the recession was complicating the problem, but no matter what, Mara wouldn’t let the company fail, or so she promised herself.
One larger corporation based in Atlanta, Delta Electronics, was persistent in offering to buy out Imagination. Mara had never spoken to the owners directly, but each week she had received several inquiries from Delta’s attorneys. Just last week Mara had spoken to Mr. Henderson, counselor for Delta, and hoped that he had understood her position about the sale—that there would be none. Henderson wasn’t easily put off—in fact, he was persistent to the point of being bothersome—but this week was the first in several that Mara hadn’t opened a formal-looking envelope from Atlanta. Mara congratulated herself; it seemed as if Mr. Henderson had finally gotten the message.
She stretched in the chair. It was late Friday afternoon and shadows had begun to lengthen across her tiny office. As she sat at her desk she cast a glance out the large window and at the sun lowering itself behind the wall of Appalachian mountains. Long, lavender shadows climbed over the colonial and modern rooftops of downtown Asheville. The familiar view of the skyline and the charcoal-blue mountains shrouded in wispy clouds was calming after what had been another hectic week at the office. Her eyes moved from the window to the interior of her office. She smiled lazily to herself and ignored the small pile of paperwork that sat unfinished on her desk. Slowly she let her hands reach behind her neck and lift the weight of her tawny hair from her shoulders. Still holding her hair away from her neck, she slowly rotated her head, hoping to relieve some of the tightness from her back and shoulders. It had been a long, tiring day, punctuated by arguments with Dena, but it would soon be over. The antique wooden clock on the wall indicated that it was nearly six o’clock, and Mara looked forward to going home and spending a long, quiet evening alone with Angie.
Mara let her eyes drop from the face of the clock to roam across the interior of the office. Although she was now legally president and general manager of Imagination Toys, the tiny room was somewhat austere. She had allowed it to be cut down in size from the immense room that it had been while Peter ran the company. The plant needed more work space and less administrative office, she had determined, and therefore allowed the room to be divided into workable office space. The same room that had housed only Peter before was now able to provide a work area for a secretary and two salespeople, and still allow Mara room to move. The only luxury that she insisted upon was that she keep the large window with the view of the mountains she loved.
Mara would have liked to have refurbished the office, but that was one extravagance that would have to wait, along with a list of more important and necessary items. As it was, the budget couldn’t be stretched to cover the new three-needled sewing machines that were needed for the dolls, nor would it allow for a new shipment of higher grade plastic for colored building blocks . . . or fabric, or an upgraded puzzle saw—the list seemed to be endless. At the very bottom was interior design for Mara’s office.
The velvety tones of her secretary’s voice on the intercom scattered her thoughts. “Mrs. Wilcox?”
“Yes?” Mara inquired automatically, not letting her eyes waver from their silent appraisal of the office.
“There’s a gentleman to see you . . . A Mr. Kennedy.”
“But I don’t have any appointments this afternoon.” Mara began, before the weight of Lynda’s surprise announcement settled upon her. In a voice that was barely audible, Mara spoke into the transmitter, her attention drawn to the little black box on the corner of her desk. “What did you say the gentleman’s name was. . . Kennedy?” Mara’s mind began to whirl backward in time. She sucked in her breath and then chided herself for her breathless anticipation. After four years of living with the truth, why did she still feel a rush of excitement run through her veins at the memory of Shane? A dryness settled in her throat.
Mara could hear a confused whisper of conversation coming from the other end of the intercom. Then Lynda’s voice once again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilcox, but Mr. Kennedy insists that he has an appointment with you. He’s with . . . just a minute . . . Delta Electronics.”
Kennedy . . . Kennedy . . . Kennedy, the name repeated itself in Mara’s mind. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to remember Shane—his dark eyes, the deep resonate timbre of his laughter, the warmth of his touch . . .
“Mrs. Wilcox?” Lynda asked uneasily through the intercom. “He says it’s urgent that he speak with you . . .” Lynda was becoming unnerved by Mara’s hesitation and Mr. Kennedy’s persistence. “Mrs. Wilcox?”
Mara tried to quiet her suddenly hammering heart and gather the air that had escaped from her lungs in a gust at the memory of Shane. “Delta Electronics?” Mara repeated. She didn’t bother to mask the interest in her voice.
“That’s correct,” Lynda agreed quickly, relieved to hear the usual ring of authority back in Mara’s voice.
