“And yet it’s true,” Sage said smugly, just as if she had
suspected it all along. “You may as well admit it, Grandpa. You might have the
reputation as the biggest crank in Hope’s Crossing, but it’s all a big act,
isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been going around all this time doing nice things
for people. I think you’re just a big old softy.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Harry said gruffly.
Jack would have joined in Maura’s disbelief, if not for that
stray memory of the night right after Christmas when he had been walking back to
the B and B and had spied someone dropping something at a run-down house in the
neighborhood. He remembered that brief moment of suspicion when he had seen the
man rub at his chest, the reminder that just a few days earlier Harry had been
in the hospital with heart problems.
“It has to be you,” Sage said. “You sent me the flowers when
nobody else but my mom and dad knew what was going on with Sawyer.”
“Okay, this doesn’t make sense.” Maura actually looked
horrified by this prospect. He remembered the way she and Sage had talked about
the Angel of Hope, with almost a reverence. They had talked about how the Angel
had helped to lift the mood of the town after the devastating accident.
He could imagine how much of a shock she must find it to even
consider that Harry might be behind the secret acts of kindness.
“It makes
total
sense, Mom. Think
about it. Who else has the time and the money and…
cojones
to pull off some of things the Angel has done. The Angel
gave Caroline Bybee a new
car!
Who else would do
such a thing but Mr. Lange?”
“You’re all crazy. Every damn one of you,” Harry blustered, and
in that moment Jack knew that, as unbelievable as it might seem, Sage was right.
The old bastard was the Angel of Hope. And he had thought the evening was
surreal
before.
“So I hear you got the bid for the recreation center
project.”
It was an obvious ploy by Harry to change the subject, and it
worked surprisingly well. Beside him, Maura stiffened and sent him a shock
looked under her lashes, while Sage gasped, her eyes widening.
“What?” she exclaimed. “You didn’t say a word about it!”
“I received the notification Friday afternoon after you had
left for the day. Later, we all had other things on our minds and I decided to
wait for a better time.”
“What about on the drive here? You could have mentioned it
then!”
He had planned to, but he’d walked into Maura’s kitchen and
ended up kissing her until he couldn’t remember his name, forget about the
recreation center project. “Again, we had other things on our mind.”
“This is wonderful!” Sage exclaimed. “That means you’ll have to
stick around town longer, doesn’t it?”
Theoretically, he didn’t really have to, but this provided as
good an excuse as any to stay close to Sage. He figured he would try to stay at
least until she had the baby. Depending on what she decided, he had planned to
convince her to come to San Francisco for a while to make a new start. After
talking to Maura earlier, though, now he didn’t know what the hell to do. He
couldn’t do that to her right now.
“The idiot city leaders finally did something smart for a
change,” Harry said. “They picked the right man. You’ll do a great job.”
“I intend to,” he said. He hadn’t realized how curt his voice
was until he saw pain flicker in Harry’s gaze before he concealed it.
Yet another thing he didn’t know what to do about. Judging by
this dinner and a few other overtures Harry had tried since Jack’s return, his
father obviously wanted to extend an olive branch. He had no idea whether it was
genuine or another of Harry’s tricks. Either way, he wasn’t at all sure he was
ready to reach out and take it.
Why should he? Even if Harry
was
the Angel of Hope, that didn’t mean he had suddenly become some kindly,
misunderstood old man. He was ruthless and arrogant, and Jack couldn’t see any
evidence that that had changed over the years.
* * *
W
ELL
,
THIS
NIGHT
HAD
TURNED
into a total screwup.
By the time dessert was served—a fine chocolate mousse with
candied orange peels—Harry was ready to shove his guests out the door and
retreat to his library with a cigar and the bottle of Bushmills 1608 he kept
hidden from his housekeeper.
His son was one stubborn son of a bitch. He had sat in stoic
silence most of the evening, answering questions that were asked of him but
otherwise not doing one damn thing to contribute to the conversation.
As the minutes had ticked past, he could feel his temper edge
higher and higher. Would it kill Jackson to try making a little small talk, for
hell’s sake?
And then the whole Angel thing. He was a first-class idiot. How
had he let some smart-assed little girl trick him into slipping up and just
blurting out what he had fought hard to keep a secret all these months?
Despite his protests, he could tell none of them had believed
him, which meant the stupid jig was up. Next thing he knew, the whole town would
be in on it, and he wouldn’t be able to walk into a single store or restaurant
in town without everybody pointing and whispering about him.
It was his own fault. If he hadn’t started the whole Angel
thing in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. The whole thing had blown
up far beyond his intentions, until it had just about taken over his life.
After his first heart attack, he had been lying in that
hospital bed with tubes connected everywhere and had never felt so damn alone.
Jack was gone, had been for years, and the only other people in his life were
business associates who didn’t give a flying shit whether he lived or died.
He had all the money in the world, but it wasn’t going to help
him one bit if he kicked over in that minute, alone and, yes, frightened. He
remembered lying in that hospital bed with the machines whirring and buzzing,
the nurses bustling around him, and had come to what religious folks would
probably call an epiphany. If he died, he had realized, no one would care,
because somewhere along the way he had lost himself.
No. Not somewhere along the way. He knew when it was. During
those terrible last years of his Bethany’s life. To his vast shame, as the signs
of her mental illness worsened and the medications became less effective, he had
wanted nothing but to pretend none of it was happening. He had turned his focus
away from his wife and his son and poured every bit of his energy and his time
and his
life
into his development deals to make sure
he didn’t have to face his own failures at home.
He hadn’t been able to “fix” her, so he had turned to what he
did
have power over, making money, and lots of
it.
Once he had been a decent person, or at least he liked to think
so, but in that hospital bed more than a year ago, he’d realized he had killed
the last vestige of that decency when he had successfully managed to break the
trust Bethany had left for Jackson, and subsequently created the Silver Strike
Ski Resort and changed Hope’s Crossing forever.
Plenty of other people had gotten rich along the way. The
Beaumonts. A select group of investors. But something had been lost too,
irrevocably. The peace and serenity of the town. Neighbors caring about
neighbors.
He wanted to think his few paltry acts as the Angel had helped
those ugly scars to heal a little. Even if he had been the only person who
benefited, his efforts had been worth it. This past year had been the best he
could remember since Bethany’s condition had worsened.
When he came up with the idea during those days in the
hospital, he had only intended it to be a short-term project, something to take
his mind off this newfound mortality. He had more money than he could ever spend
and figured maybe if he gave a little of it back somehow, Whoever was keeping
score might see it as his small effort to atone for all the mistakes he had made
over the years.
He had enjoyed those first few visits by the Angel too much to
stop. It had become as much a game to him as making money, figuring out who
might be in need and how he could secretly help. Then he’d started hearing
rumors about other efforts by the Angel, things he knew
he
hadn’t been responsible for, and he discovered that others were
following his example and giving credit to the altruistic mythical entity he had
created out of fear and self-loathing.
Like it or not, the Angel would have to die an ugly death now.
He didn’t want everybody looking at him, assigning positive, saintlike motives
to the little good he had done, when the whole thing had been selfish from the
outset, aimed at helping to fill all the empty corners inside him.
It was a philosophical point he would have to remember to ask
Reverend Wilson next time he saw him on the golf course. Hypothetically, of
course. If people helped others because they craved that feeling of satisfaction
and delight, was it really selfless? How could an act be considered altruistic
if, in a roundabout fashion, somebody was just fulfilling a need inside
themselves by helping someone else?
He didn’t want to mull this over right now. He just wanted this
dinner to be over so he could figure out his next move.
“Thanks for dinner, Harry. That was scrumptious.” Sage smiled
at him and he felt a ridiculous pang that the little scamp hadn’t called him
Grandpa.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” her mother said, with that calm
smile that made a man wonder what was really going on inside her head.
Jack took a sip from his wineglass. “Yes, Harry. Thank
you.”
“You all made Mrs. Kingsley very happy to have someone else
here to enjoy her food.”
“Does she cook like that for you all the time? Because that was
really superb,” Sage said. “I’d love the recipe for that mousse.”
“I’ll make sure she sends it to you. And no, she doesn’t. Cook
like that all the time, I mean. This was a special occasion and her menu
reflected it. I’ve got heart problems, as you may have heard, so most of the
time I have to watch my diet.”
“Are you okay eating all that rich Italian food?” Sage
asked.
“I probably won’t have a heart attack tonight, if that’s what
you’re asking.” He didn’t like talking about his health, so he quickly changed
the subject to one he knew would divert attention from him. “So now that you
know what the little prick thinks about your pregnancy, have you figured out
what you’re going to do about the kid?”
Across the table, Maura and Jack both stiffened as if he’d
stuck a poker up their respective bums.
What? Shouldn’t he have asked that question? This was his
great-grandchild. Didn’t that give him some right to know?
To his satisfaction, Sage shot a quick look at both of them,
then met his gaze with a directness that pleased him. Impertinent she might be,
but he had meant what he’d had the Angel write her. His granddaughter had
grit.
“I’m leaning toward adoption. The child ought to have stable,
devoted parents who can offer her all the things I can’t. I think it’s the best
of all my options, don’t you?”
“My opinion on the matter doesn’t mean shit. You’re the only
one who can decide what to do.”
She gave him a grateful look. “I know. The Angel gave me some
very wise words about courage. I’ll try to keep those in mind.”
“You do that,” he murmured.
So maybe the dinner wasn’t a total loss. He might not be able
to reach his son, no matter how hard he tried, but he was establishing some sort
of relationship with his granddaughter. That had to count for something.
Sage slid back from the table. “Will you excuse me? I need to
find a powder room.”
“Of course. Go back the way we came, hang a left and it’s the
third door on the right.”
Maura pushed her chair out as well. “That sounds complicated.
It might take two of us, in the age-old tradition of females who are genetically
programmed to insist on never entering a bathroom alone.”
Only after the two of them had left did he realize this was the
first chance he’d had all evening to be alone with his son, and he had to wonder
if Maura had manipulated that particular outcome.
He faced his son directly. “Thank you for coming. I know you
didn’t want to.”
“Sage can be persuasive.”
This might be his only chance to achieve at least one of his
goals for the evening, and he seized it. “I have something for you. I’ve been
wanting to give it to you since you came back to Hope’s Crossing, but the time
has never seemed right. I invited you all to dinner because I wanted to get to
know my granddaughter, of course, but also because I was hoping for a chance to
give you this.”
He half expected Jack to say he wanted nothing from him, but to
his relief, his son only gave him a curious look. “What is it?”
“It’s on the sideboard. One moment.” He rose and had to flinch
when his knees cracked. He wasn’t quite seventy years old. Two young to be
falling apart. For the first time in too long, he finally felt as if he had
something else to live for. He had a granddaughter now, one who didn’t seem to
despise him, and he wanted to embrace every moment.
He reached the sideboard and picked up the small wooden chest
that looked incongruously shabby amid the luxury with which he liked to surround
himself.
“Here,” he said, placing it on the table in front of his
son.
Jack frowned. “What’s this?”
“Some journals of your mother’s and other keepsakes she
treasured. Trinkets, mostly.” To him, most of it looked like garbage, but he had
to assume she kept the things inside there because they had meaning to her.
Whether that was because of her mental illness, he didn’t know, but he figured
Jack could sort it all out.