Not the Chandler grandchildren, that was for certain.
“Not far enough?” Maddy repeated, frowning. “All right. I guess we’ll just have to do it, then. The South Pole it is!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Almira said, glaring at the two of them, happy children that they were, friends as well as lovers, and all because she, Almira Chandler, had poked her finger square in the center of their prideful lives and given it a less-than-gentle shake. “Well, isn’t it wonderful, then,” she said in satisfaction, “that I don’t ever plan on growing old.”
“Or doddering?” Joe asked, grinning. “You’re really going to have to take back that doddering bit, Allie. Especially when you can still beat Maddy at tennis.”
“Mrs. Ballantine could beat Maddy at tennis, darling. Blindfolded. But all right. Especially not doddering,” Almira said, finishing off her butter-brickle and letting the spoon drop into the bone-china dish with a sharp clink. “Now, if we’re all done sparring, maybe you’ll tell me how the honeymoon really was—and not just a recap of those totally uninformative postcards you sent us for the seven weeks. Let’s see, which was my favorite? Oh, yes. ‘Having a wonderful time. So glad you’re not here.’ Hardly inventive, but I suppose you were otherwise involved and couldn’t strain yourselves enough to be original. Let’s adjourn to the morning room, and you can tell me everything.”
“We’re not going to the morning room, Allie. We’re not taking so much as a single step until you tell us why Jessica is at the New Jersey house,” Maddy said stubbornly. “You’re much too happy she’s there and not here, and I want to know why.”
Almira smiled secretly. “You don’t have to know, darling. And the one who does have to know anything at all already knows, and the information is probably burning a hole in his brain, straight through his forehead, so that he’ll have to tell the other single person who has to know. You two are neither of those two people, but I assume you’ve guessed that by now. There, now that I have you both thoroughly confused, my work here is done. If you don’t want to talk about your honeymoon, I do think Julie could fit me in for a manicure. Toodle-oo, children.”
“But—”
“Give it up, Maddy,” Joe said, taking all three bowls to the sink and running water in them. “She’s obviously up to her old tricks again. Aren’t you, Allie?”
“Me?” Almira exclaimed, pausing on her way out of the kitchen and looking about as honest as a card player with the ace of spades hanging out of her sleeve. “Of course I am, darlings. I’m only surprised you had to ask.”
Matthew Garvey laid the last signed paper down on the conference table, leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Congratulations, Ryan, old friend. By paying off this loan two years early and floating that new floor plan account, you’ve just made the bank’s shareholders very happy. Not to mention making yours truly look pretty damn smart in the bargain.”
Ryan grinned at his friend, although he couldn’t bring himself to quite meet Matt’s eyes. Doing that gave him the damnedest, most unexplainable headache. “So, then, I guess you wouldn’t want me to diversify. You know, not keep all my eggs in your bank’s basket? Divvy up a few of the accounts among the other banks that keep wining and dining me, trying to steal me away from you?”
“Give me their names,” Matt growled halfheartedly. “I’ll call them myself with your regrets.”
Ryan got up from his chair, put his hands flat against either side of his spine, stretched. “Man, one more all-nighter and I’ll feel like I’m back in grad school. Jessie sure did pick a rotten time to go find herself.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Ryan winced, and not because his back muscles put up a stink at being cramped in a chair for the past few hours. He counted to three, feeling that flash of headache again, hoping to be able to get to at least five before Matt picked up on his stupid, revealing statement. What were such things called? Something close to Freudian slips, he was sure.
And it was all Allie’s fault, taking him aside, telling him things he wished he didn’t know and then leaving him to do battle with his conscience, wondering if it would be wrong to tell or the greater wrong to keep silent.
The slip of his tongue sort of settled that for him, he decided, still counting silently.
He only got to four before Matt said, “Find herself? That doesn’t sound like Jessica, Ryan. She’s just about the most complete, controlled person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed quickly. “Yeah, she sure is. Competent…a workaholic here at the plant. She’s smarter than I am, in case you haven’t noticed. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”
“But she’s gone off to find herself,” Matt said, knowing Ryan wanted to change the subject, but holding on to this one small bone of information with all the tenacity of a bulldog.
Jessica had been avoiding him ever since Maddy’s wedding—ever since Maddy and he had called off their own wedding, that is, and eloped with J. P. O’Malley, newest king of the computer software world.
He’d called. He’d e-mailed—the communication of choice in his set these days, it seemed. He’d stopped over at the house without notice, on the pretext of seeing Ryan, hoping to find her at home.
Nearly two months now, and she had never once let him close to her. If he came to the Chandler offices, she was in conference; if he arrived at the Chandler home, she was on her way out. She wouldn’t acknowledge him; she wouldn’t talk to him.
He hadn’t even seen her since the morning after they’d— Wincing, he tried to rethink the words morning after, but they wouldn’t go away, couldn’t be denied. Just as he couldn’t deny that Jessica was avoiding him.
Hell, as far as he was concerned, Jessica Chandler had walked out of his arms and straight into oblivion.
He stood up, walked around the wide conference table. Both he and his friend were a few inches over six feet. Ryan’s hair was as black as Maddy’s, his eyes the same bright green. And looking as evasive as hers had looked for too many weeks before the now-canceled wedding.
Something was up. Matt knew it. And if the prickle at the back of his neck meant anything, he was smack in the middle of the “why” of the reason behind Jessica’s flight from Allentown. “Where is she, Ryan? Where did she go?”
Ryan turned away, peered out the window overlooking the parking lot of the clothing manufacturing plant that had borne the Chandler name for three generations. Almira had been right. Ryan didn’t know how she’d known, he didn’t know all that she knew—and didn’t want to!—but the woman had been right-on in saying that sooner or later Matt was going to come to him, demand to see Jessica.
And now, on orders from his grandmother, Ryan was supposed to tell him. He was supposed to break his solemn promise to his sister and tell Matthew Garvey that Jessica was hiding out—was there another way to say that?—at the house in Ocean City. He had been further ordered to make her disappearance sound as mysterious as possible, then stand back and watch Matt’s reaction; tell him more if the guy seemed upset.
Okay. Matt had reacted. And upset was probably too mild a word. So how had his grandmother known all this? He hadn’t even asked Allie why he had to make the revelation of his burning secret so dramatic. It was one of those
