Chances Are (5 page)

She placed her hands on her hips. "Yes."

"Okay." He would see just what Veronique Delacroix was made of. "I want a full proposal, complete with department-by-department recommendations and cost breakdowns. Any questions?"

"When do you want it?" she asked, already crossing to the door.

"Next week. And, Veronique..."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Yes?"

"The employee handbook has some pretty strict rules concerning tossing nudie magazines from platforms."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh." He sat on the edge of his desk. "Don't get caught."

Her lips curved. Brandon Rhodes could prove to be an interesting opponent. "Got it."

* * *

The walk from the streetcar on St. Charles Avenue to her mother's Garden District home on Annunciation took only minutes. Veronique smiled as she walked. Brandon had given her a chance. She didn't think she would be able to convince him to execute
all
her ideas, but maybe, just maybe she could convince him of a few. It wasn't a great shot, but it was better than anything she'd gotten so far.

She jogged up the steps of her mother's raised cottage. The house was modest by Garden District standards, but charming. It had been in the Delacroix family for a hundred and fifty years and had passed on to Marie when one of the aunts—Veronique never could keep all the aunts straight—died. She rang the bell.

The door was opened by her mother's housekeeper, a woman with standards that reflected her Southern Baptist upbringing. "Hello, Miss Veronique."

"Hello, Winnie." Veronique smiled. "Mother home?"

"She's on the patio. Iced tea?"

"Please." Veronique deposited her knapsack on one of the two Queen Anne chairs that graced the foyer, then headed to the back of the house. She stepped through the French doors and onto the shady patio. As promised, her mother was there, sipping iced tea and leafing through a magazine.

Veronique didn't call out or cross the patio, but instead gazed at her. Soft-spoken and well-mannered, Marie Delacroix was the epitome of Southern womanhood. She rarely raised her voice. Veronique knew for a fact that Marie had never worn slacks to church.

Veronique shook her head. It was hard to believe they were mother and daughter. They didn't even look alike. Veronique pictured herself, tall and thin, standing next to the tiny, curvaceous Marie Delacroix. It was almost comical.

And there was a calmness about her mother, as if she'd accepted her fate without a fight. In that way mother and daughter were most unalike—Veronique accepted nothing as fate, finding the fight one of life's most exhilarating gifts.

Veronique's smile faded. Had her father been like herself, a daredevil and a gambler, unconcerned with appearances or conventions? She'd probably never know.

"Maman," Veronique called softly, stepping forward.

Marie glanced up in surprise, her eyes warmed when she saw her daughter. "Veronique. How nice."

Veronique bent and brushed her lips against her mother's cheek; she smelled of Shalimar, and a wave of tenderness washed over Veronique. Her mother had used that scent for as long as she could remember. "You're looking well."

"Thank you. Is Winnie bringing you a tea?"

"Yes." Veronique sank onto the wrought-iron chair across from her mother.

Marie's gaze swept over her daughter. "Really, Veronique, the way you're dressed." Her tone gently reproached.

Veronique took a deep breath and counted to ten. When she trusted her voice, she said, "I came right from work. You know my job requires clothes like these."

"But still... ah, here's Winnie with your tea."

They were silent as the woman deposited the glass and a plate of sugar cookies. Veronique smiled a thank you; Winnie's sugar cookies were one of her favorite treats. When they were once again alone, Veronique attempted a change of topic. "How's your work for the symphony going?" She eyed the plate, then reached for a cookie.

"You've been doing that since you were a child," Marie said, her tone stern but her expression amused. "And it's quite rude."

"What?" Veronique asked, nibbling on the brown edge of the cookie. "Changing the subject?"

"Taking the biggest cookie before anyone else has a chance."

Veronique laughed. "Someone has to. Besides, it may be rude, but it's honest."

Marie hid a smile by taking a sip of tea, then dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "Now, as I was saying, about those clothes..."

Veronique silently groaned. Her mother, that slip of Southern gentility, could be a tenacious as a bulldog with a rib bone when she wanted something. And this was a familiar theme. "Maman, these clothes are comfortable to work in. Besides, I like them."

Marie brushed some sugar from the edge of the table, searching for just the right words. "But they're so—"

"Ugly?" Veronique inserted dryly.

Her mother's sigh was heartfelt. "You're really quite lovely, Veronique. In fact, there are times I look at you and..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.

See your father.
The unspoken words hovered in the air between them. Veronique's chest tightened. She'd often wondered if her father had had the same chiseled features as herself, the same high cheekbones and arching eyebrows, the same small straight nose and widely spaced almond-shaped eyes. As she didn't resemble any of the Delacroixs, she must look like his family. But guessing and being certain were two very different things, and Veronique pushed away the hollowness that never completely left her.

After a moment she touched her mother's hand. "What are you reading?"

"Changing the subject again, Veronique?" Marie asked softly, her expression grateful.

Veronique smiled. "Yes, Maman."

Marie picked up the magazine and opened it. "I was reading the wedding announcements. The Bergeron boy was just married. It was quite a lavish party." She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. "I'd always hoped you would..." She didn't finish the thought; her cheeks pinkened.

"What?" Veronique prompted. She glanced down at the magazine, then back to her mother in surprise. "You always hoped I'd marry someone like Robert Bergeron and have a splashy society wedding? That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes." Her mother's eyes and voice were filled with longing. "Is it so wrong to wish for you what I threw away?"

Veronique was silent. She was illegitimate in a city where lineage was everything, a city unforgiving in its prejudice. The oldest New Orleans families were like royalty; here you were judged by the high school you attended and the number of Mardi Gras courts you were invited to participate in. The social structure was clearly delineated. And she was definitely
not
one of the upper echelon.

She had no regrets. She recognized the social merry-go-round for what it was—superficial and discriminatory. She'd chosen her path years ago. What hurt was that her mother couldn't, or wouldn't, see that a man of Robert Bergeron's or Brandon Rhodes's social stature would never marry her. Not in New Orleans.

Veronique sighed. It shouldn't hurt; her mother's blind spot was nothing new. When she was a child her mother had refused to see the snubs, the barely veiled barbs, the disdain. At thirteen she'd realized that she would never change the social set's opinion of her and had stopped trying. She suspected her mother would never lose her illusions.

"No, it's not wrong," Veronique murmured, covering the older woman's hand with her own. "I know I've disappointed you, Maman. But I can only be who I am."

Marie's smile was tremulous. "You haven't disappointed me, sweetie. I just want you to have it all."

Veronique lifted her mother's hand and kissed it. "I already have it all, Maman. I promise."

Chapter 3

Brandon stared at the pile of thirty-year-old letters and newspaper clippings. It couldn't be true, he thought for the hundredth time since opening the safety deposit box. He gingerly picked up one of the clippings, squinting to make out faces in the yellowed and faded photograph. The caption read
Blake Rhodes and associate David Goldstein at ground breaking of new store.

So there was some memorabilia, Brandon thought bitterly, that his father hadn't wanted framed and hanging on the wall. He set aside the photograph and picked up a letter from David Goldstein to Blake Rhodes, dated 1955. The letter proposed a partnership between Goldstein and Rhodes. A partnership in which one partner would put up the idea—a store the likes of which New Orleans had never seen—and the sweat; the other would provide the capital and the connections.

The young Blake Rhodes must have seen the potential for making a lot of money, because he answered Goldstein's letter. And the one after that. Brandon's eyes narrowed as he wondered how long, how many letters, before his father had decided to cheat Goldstein out of it all.

Brandon rubbed his temple. After going through all the papers, he'd deduced that his father had agreed to Goldstein's proposal. They set everything up using Rhodes's attorneys, and poor Goldstein hadn't been crafty enough to realize that the legal advice he was getting had been bought and paid for.

Now the only things that linked Goldstein and Rhodes were the long-forgotten newspaper article and the letters. Brandon shook his head, wondering what his father had told Goldstein when he no longer needed him. Had he been gleeful when he delivered the news that Goldstein owned none of it? Had he wielded the Rhodes name and connections, warning that the man would get nowhere in an attempt to claim what was rightfully his? There wasn't even evidence that his father had offered him money. Damn.

Dropping the letter back onto the stack of correspondence, Brandon swiveled around to face the window. Anger and betrayal welled in his chest until he thought he would burst with it. Rhodes hadn't been his father's idea at all. He'd stolen it. All the excuses he'd made to himself about his father, all the concessions he'd granted him because of his business genius had been a lie. Not only had his father not been a marketing genius, he'd been a thief.

Brandon jumped as his secretary tapped on the door then peeked in. "Yes, Maggie?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No. See you Monday."

"Good night." She paused. "Don't forget the Sovereigns' Ball tonight. Seven o'clock."

Brandon groaned. He
had
forgotten. In the light of this afternoon's discovery, a Carnival ball had been the last thing on his mind. And the last thing he wanted to do tonight. He rested his head against the high back of the chair and closed his eyes. Maybe he could make his excuses. He sighed, knowing that he would not. He was expected there; he would go.

His thoughts returned to the pile of papers in front of him. Why had his father kept all this evidence? He had to know that someday, after his death, his heir would open the box and learn the whole story. Why not destroy the lot of it and hope that Goldstein hadn't also kept the letters? Brandon thoughtfully rubbed his hand along his jaw, rough with a five o'clock shadow. When the answer came, it left a bitterness in his mouth. His father had been proud of what he'd done. His father had wanted his secret found out because he'd thought himself clever.

Brandon pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Maybe he'd even spent time predicting what his son would do. He could picture his old man, bushy eyebrows lowered to hide the light of anticipation in his eyes, urging Brandon to keep the whole thing a secret, to put the evidence back in the box and forget about it.

Brandon pushed away the image in his head and swung back toward his desk. He reached for the Rolodex. Poor Goldstein, he thought, flipping through the directory. Today, having a lawyer on retainer was a fact of life; lawsuits had become a national pastime. But thirty years ago people were more naive—and more trusting—about lawyers and the law. It would have been easy for a man of his father's family and money to cheat a Goldstein, especially in a town as insular as New Orleans. God only knew how many people he'd paid off.

But things had changed, and Brandon had to be sure that no one else had a legal claim on Rhodes. Fat chance, he thought, looking disparagingly at the stack of correspondence. He was almost certain that in a court of law the letters would be considered a contract and binding. His expression stern, he picked up the phone and dialed his attorney.