gestures. She’d begun flipping birds at her teachers in junior high school...a piece of information she’d prefer her daughter didn’t find out. Karin may have heard stories about her mother over the years, but since she hadn’t asked any questions, she probably wasn’t taking them seriously.
“When did this new interest in science fiction begin?” said Grace.
“That weekend she was sick and we couldn’t come for dinner. One of her friends loaned her a set of the Trek movies. Two days and half a bottle of cough syrup later, she was a fan.”
Grace chuckled again. “That’s our Karin. When she embraces something, it’s with all her heart.”
They chatted another few minutes before saying goodbye.
Skylar put the clean linens away and went to check on Karin in the family room. Things had been awfully quiet—no yelling at the pitcher, no declarations that the umpire needed glasses, and no shouts of triumph or despair.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s the score?”
“Five–zip, Dodgers.”
Skylar might not be a baseball fan, but she knew Karin’s three-word report meant the Los Angeles Dodgers were ahead. “Isn’t that the team you’re rooting for?”
Karin shrugged. She wasn’t crying, but she wasn’t happy, either. “It’s only the bottom of the fourth inning. They’ll probably blow it.”
Skylar let out a discouraged breath. Karin was a bright, enthusiastic kid...except when she was thinking about her dad being gone. “And they might win,” she reminded gently. “I’m sure Grandpa Joe would love to get on the phone with you.”
Karin didn’t respond, but she inched farther toward the end of the sectional couch. Right. She didn’t want the phone; she wanted someone sitting next to her...she just didn’t want to ask someone to sit next to her. Skylar thought of the dozen different tasks she should get done. It was a busy week, and she had a meeting on Thursday at City Hall that would take all evening.
She sat down. “Okay,” she said. “It’s time I learned more about baseball. Tell me what’s going on. The ones in white are the good guys, right?”
A small giggle escaped from Karin. “You’re really silly, Mom.”
* * *
AARON DROVE PAST the Nibble Nook the following morning and scowled. He had a huge job in front of him getting Cooper Industries back in shape, and Skylar wasn’t making it easier by befriending his sister. Well...her daughter had befriended Melanie, but it was essentially the same thing.
There were numerous cars at the hamburger stand, along with motorcycles and a couple of big rigs parked at the side of the road. They obviously served breakfast, and he had to admit, the scents wafting into his car were tempting. On the other hand, the presence of motorcycles and 18-wheelers was disturbing—the drivers of those vehicles weren’t necessarily a bad element, but there were no guarantees.
Almost as if taunting him, a tattooed cyclist got up from a table and strolled to his Harley. He spat on the ground and adjusted himself in his grubby-looking jeans before roaring away.
Wonderful.
Exactly the element an impressionable teenage girl needed.
Peggy was at her desk when he walked in, and he gave her a brief nod. He wasn’t thrilled with having Peggy as an assistant; she was efficient and responsible, but she was zealously loyal to his grandfather and likely calling him daily with reports on the company. Someone was informing George Cooper of the changes and new policies being made by his grandson, though he wasn’t showing a great deal of interest other than to say, “What’s good for Cooperton is good for Cooper Industries.”
Any warmth George possessed had mostly been shown to his employees and the town. He could be a genial man-of-the-people in the flash of an eye, but inside his own home he was cold and uptight. No wonder Aaron’s mother had rebelled—she’d fled Cooperton and done nothing but play ever since.
The phone rang before he reached his desk. It was Peggy, saying his father was on line one.
“Yes?” he said, punching the button.
“That’s a fine way to greet your old dad.” Spence Hollister was only “your old dad” when he wanted something.
“I don’t have time for games, Dad.” Aaron tucked the receiver under his chin and sorted through a stack of phone messages Peggy had left on his desk. A new phone system with voice mail had been installed months before, but he hadn’t decided whether his calls should continue to be screened by Peggy in a traditional executive style, or to take them himself.
“That’s always been your problem—you don’t enjoy life.”
“Some of us have a job. Why didn’t you call my cell phone?”
“I assumed you’d changed the number after moving to that Hicksville. You didn’t have to take over the Cooper company, son. For God’s sake, give it a decent burial and get out. Your mother never wanted to go back there—it’s the only thing we ever agreed on the entire time we were married.”
A headache stabbed Aaron’s temples. Much as he regretted giving up his lucrative position as CEO of a computer company, he couldn’t abandon Cooper Industries. He might have to give it a decent burial, but not until he’d done his best to keep it alive.
“What do you want, Dad?”
“I... Hang on. We’re having a spot of trouble with a champagne cork.”
A feminine laugh sounded in the background, and Aaron shook his head. His father was between wives, so his companion could be anyone from a London society deb to a belly dancer. Spence liked his ladies young, beautiful and endowed—and since he had an abundance of charm and wealth, they liked him, too.
“Sorry, son. I wanted to know if you’ll join my crew in next year’s America’s Cup race.”
“I haven’t been on your yacht since I was nineteen and foolishly took a semester off from college to train and compete.”
“Foolish? Nonsense. That was a damn good race—we won two of the heats, so I know you’re the key to the Sea Haven finally getting the trophy. Will you do it?”
Aaron practically snorted. Spence wasn’t into effort; he ran a yacht in the America’s Cup because he loved the publicity and being seen as a sportsman. He’d particularly reveled in the media coverage the year his eldest son was a crew member. On the other hand, Aaron was still fighting the dilettante image he’d earned.
“Not a chance, Dad.”
“But you can’t save that place. What’s the point of trying?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. By the way, Melanie is fine. I’m sure she’ll appreciate you asking,” Aaron said, his voice laced with irony.
None of S. S. Hollister’s kids had any illusions that he was especially concerned about them. You could be sure he didn’t even remember your name, and five minutes later he could make you feel as if you were the most important person in the world. As a kid, Aaron
