retail establishment in town. Only the airplane-engine factory covered more square footage.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, glad to escape into the fresh air.
Beatrice followed. “Thank you again for your help.”
“My pleasure,” he said, though an hour tending the boy had exhausted him more than a full day of work.
Ruth, still holding Beatrice’s little girl, joined them in the shade of a large maple. “We’re having a picnic this afternoon. In the park. You should join us, Beattie. The children would love it. Maybe Blake would come, too.” She glanced toward Sam. “Mr. Roth agreed to join us. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“The more the merrier,” Sam dutifully replied, though the presence of Beatrice’s family would put a crimp in talking to Ruth.
“I—I don’t think so.” Beatrice’s gaze flicked to the street. “We’re busy.”
That sounded like an excuse, but Ruth didn’t press the point. “Maybe next time.”
“Maybe.” Beatrice hurried toward a sleek black Cadillac that had just pulled to a stop. She opened the rear door and lifted the children inside.
What a cad of a driver! A hired man ought to get out of the vehicle and assist the lady.
Sam started forward until he noticed that the dark-haired man behind the wheel sported a fashionable suit. The little girl called him “Daddy.” That cad was Beatrice’s husband. Sam recognized the distracted self-absorption of careless pleasure-seekers, whose quest for self-indulgence knew no limits because they’d been born privileged. Money bought them out of scrapes. Money insulated them from recrimination. Sam’s wife had been one of that set, and, to some extent, so had he. But she had paid the price for her sins, while he lived to regret his every day.
The driver leaned across to open the passenger door. Beatrice grabbed her expensive beaded bag off the fender and climbed in. Her diamond ring flashed in the sun, and the truth finally sank in. Beatrice had married into money.
The Foxes would not lose their shop. Beatrice could bail them out.
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