Page 37 of You'll Find Out

Instantly, the child was intrigued. She lowered her small, blond head between her shoulder blades and her dark eyes danced. “What?” Angie asked, in a collusive whisper.

“Why don’t you help Mrs. Reardon clean the house?”

Angie’s face fell and she eyed her mother suspiciously. Mara ignored Angie’s restraint and continued with her idea.

“Here—” she reached into the top drawer again “—is one of Mamma’s old hankies. You can use it to wash the windows and polish the furniture, and look,” Mara retreated into the bathroom, still tugging at the new panty hose. Quickly, she fished under the bathroom sink to retrieve a blue bottle. “This is a bottle of glass spray . . . you can spray the cleaner on the windows and wipe it off with the hanky . . . like this.” Mara sprayed the cleaner onto the mirror and watched her image become distorted in a froth of bubbles. Then she folded the cloth and wiped the mirror clean.

Angie suspected that she was being conned out of her bad mood by her mother. And although she wanted to continue to whine, she was impressed with her mother’s attempts to entertain her. Never had her mother let her touch any of the cleaning supplies. Her enthusiasm was slightly subdued, but she reached a chubby hand out toward the clear glass bottle half-filled with blue liquid. “Will Mrs. Reardon really let me?” Angie asked as she dashed into the bedroom, and after a quick sneaking look at her mother, sprayed a healthy spot of foam on the expensive satin quilt. The look on the child’s face was one of expectant defiance.

“Angie Wilcox! What do you think you’re doing?” Mara sputtered as she attempted to wipe up the mess on the quilt. “You can’t play with this, unless you play with it the right way, with Mrs. Reardon’s help! And, never, never spray the furniture or the bedspread again!” Mara admonished her daughter as she furiously wiped at the stain on the quilt. Giving up, she pulled the bedspread from the bed and threw it in a crumpled heap near the laundry hamper.

“You know better!” Mara reprimanded through tight lips, as she guided Angie out of the room and toward the staircase.

Angie paused under a solemn portrait of Peter’s grandfather and looked into her room. Mara nearly ran over her. “I think I stay up here,” the child mused. “Lolly needs a bath and I give her one.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Mara retorted quickly after following the train of the little girl’s thoughts. Mara’s thin patience was fraying, and she was barely able to hold onto her anger. “If you intend to play with that glass spray, you do it with Mrs. Reardon.”

Angie puckered her lips for a moment, seeming to hesitate, but decided against arguing with her mother any further. Clutching the dear bottle of spray as if she were afraid someone might take it from her, she grabbed her tattered blanket and followed Mara down the stairs.

Mrs. Reardon had the vacuum cleaner roaring in the den. The machine went quiet when Mara popped her head into one of her favorite rooms in the house. It was large and comfortable with an informal brick fireplace and knotty pine walls. The varnish had yellowed and aged to give the room a warm, homey look, and the plaid sofa and leather recliner were a welcome relief from the other, more formal furnishings of the house. Large, leafy green plants grew well in this room with its paned windows and view of the gardens to the rear of the grounds. When Mara came home from work to relax and unwind, it was always in this room. It was always casual and warm, and some of her fondest memories included reading to Angie in the den, or sitting on the couch with her child and building with blocks.

“I’ve got to go now,” Mara called to the plump, middle-aged woman with the broad smile and crisp, floral apron. Mrs. Reardon looked up from plumping the pillows on the couch as Mara continued. “Angie’s already bathed and had breakfast. And, oh, I gave her a bottle of glass cleaner. She wanted to help you clean the house,” Mara lied a little sheepishly.

“So I see!” Mrs. Reardon laughed, exposing gold crowns over her molars. Mara spun around to see Angie studiously spraying an antique silver coffee service.

“Please, Angie, be careful,” Mara pleaded, and kissed the chubby child on the forehead. Turning to Mrs. Reardon, she hoisted the strap of her purse over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase. “I should be in the office all day, if you need me. And June will be back here by early . . . or at the very latest . . . mid-afternoon.”

“Fine . . . fine . . . I’m going to be here all day,” Mrs. Reardon agreed distractedly as she wrapped the cord from the vacuum cleaner neatly around her broad forearm. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Mara felt as tightly coiled as a spring as she opened the back door and hurried past the flowering shrubs to her car. Was it her too vivid imagination, or did she hear the shatter of broken glass just as she was stepping into the car? After waiting a couple of extra minutes, knowing that Mrs. Reardon would come out of the house if indeed a calamity had ensued, she started the car. Thankfully, Mrs. Reardon had handled whatever catastrophe had occurred. With a sigh of relief, Mara wound her way past the dozen or so oak trees that were giving merciful shade to the driveway and inched the car onto the highway. Trying to make up for lost time, she pushed the throttle to the floor and began speeding toward the city limits of Asheville. The drive was hot and dusty, and by the time Mara parked in her favorite spot under the building, she felt drained. Why did she dread this board meeting so? An uneasy feeling akin to dread had steadily knotted her stomach.

“You’re late,” Shane snapped as Mara entered her office. He was leaning against the windowsill, his hands supporting him by propping his long frame against the sill. He looked starched and fresh in his lightweight tan suit and ivory linen shirt. A navy tie, just a shade lighter than his eyes, was staunchly in place. In comparison to Shane’s crisp, unruffled look, Mara felt completely wilted.

“I know I’m late.”

“The meeting starts in less than ten minutes!”

“I know . . . I’m sorry.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Mara tossed her purse into the closet and put her briefcase down with a thud. “Don’t start with me, okay?”

He stood up and straightened his suit. His dark eyes observed her and noted that her usually impeccable appearance was more than a little disheveled. Shane preferred her this way; she seemed so much more vulnerable, so much younger, more as he remembered her, but still he was disturbed. It wasn’t like her.

“Bad morning?” he guessed, his dark brows furrowing as he walked toward her.

“It could have been better.” She straightened the neatly typed pages of the proposal and counted to make sure that there were enough copies. She avoided his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, echoing the question she had asked of Angie only a half hour before.

“Nothing . . . everything . . . I’m not sure.”

“It’s Angie, isn’t it? I think you should tell me about it.”

“Let’s just forget it until the meeting is over, okay?” He pulled the reports out of her hands and forced her head upward in order that she meet his gaze squarely. “What’s bothering you?” he asked crisply, and his fingers strayed across her arms and throat.

“Shane, don’t.”

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