“Yes, but not in a bad way, just until I rediscover Breena Quinlan.”
“Leo will pay for this, you can count on it.”
“Let it go, Daddy. He’s not worth it.”
“Then she’ll pay. God help me, the girl always chased boys.”
My husband is not my tenth-grade boyfriend.
Not that her father had ever stopped Lizbeth even then. Her sister had merrily chased the opposite sex for years while Arthur stayed home and wrung his hands. Like now. A man of talk and no action. But Breena loved him.
“It takes two to tango in a relationship.” She laid aside the embroidery hoop. “Ours was short about four steps.”
“That’s utter hogwash. You’re a good, loving wife. A wonderful life partner. The guy’s a complete doofus. I never realized how much.”
Tears stung her throat. She pressed an arm against her stomach. “That’s a father’s bias talking,” she said softly. “Leo was my husband, after all.” And she’s still my sister. Her stomach took a sick roll.
Arthur harrumphed. “Far be it from me to denigrate your feelings toward the man. However, if he was standing here in this den, I’d be hard pressed not to kill the SOB.”
Damn drippy tears. “She’s as much at fault.” So am I for not seeing it, for not noticing the looks, the touches. Not wanting to notice.
Her father sighed, a shivering, mournful sound in her ear. “She is at that, sweetheart. Damn her soul. If your mother had lived…”
Breena had heard it all before. “If your mother had lived, Lizbeth wouldn’t be so wild. If your mother had lived, your sister would’ve been different. If your mother had lived, she wouldn’t’ve felt abandoned…”
But her mother had died giving birth to Breena.
Another hurdle on her track of life.
Quietly, her father said, “I love you.”
“I know.” Breena pressed her lips together. “You’re always there, though thick, thin or trim.”
“I’m here now, too.”
“I know.”
“When will you be coming home?”
“In a few months, probably December.”
“For Christmas?”
“I can’t say. It wouldn’t be…” The same. She swiped her cheek. “I’ll see.”
“Will you let me come there?”
“Daddy…”
“Okay. I won’t push.”
She knew him well. “Thank you.”
“You’ll phone again?”
“Yes,” she promised. “I’ll phone again.”
“If you need anything, anything at all…”
“I know. I have to go now.”
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t blame yourself. Ever.”
The tears came in earnest now. “Love you, Daddy.” She punched off the receiver and lay back on the bed. Not blame herself? She’d been in the other half of a marriage for almost a decade. A woman didn’t live with man that long and not know what made him tick to some small degree.
What made Leo De Laurent tick was Lizbeth Quinlan.
Her forty-one-year-old sister.
Breena set an arm over her eyes, blocking the memory of that night she’d confronted her husband. Top store manager who became a CEO of the food conglomerate where he’d worked. A master manager.
Who could not manage a marriage with her.
She heard her voice again, hurt, accusing. “You were with her twice today.”
Her mind’s eye saw him spin around, coat winging at his calves. “She was at Alphonse’s already, okay? I saw her, went to say hello, and she asked me to sit. End of story.” He’d picked up his briefcase, then headed toward the curved stairs, to the spacious room that once might have been a nursery but had been streamlined into an office. His office.
Breena had hurried after him. “You also took her to Ocean Beach—where I jog.”
“Nothing happened. I swear.”
“You kissed her. For a long time.”
The beach was, after all, a public place. People kissed there all the time—-but not with their sisters-in-law.
Breena shot off the bed. Enough! Mopping her face with a sleeve, she stood trembling, unable to move. Slowly, slowly, her breathing calmed. She glanced around her tiny bedroom. How could you, Lizbeth? He was my husband. Mine!
“Have there been others?” she had asked him.
“No others.”
Just Lizbeth.
She should be glad the house, Frisco and her unhappiness had forced her to request a year’s leave of absence, buy an ’89 Blazer, load it with her essentials and drive north to Misty River. To Great-Aunt Paige. To that little dream house and marmalade cat sunning itself on the rail…
Lizbeth could have Leo.
Breena stepped into the diminutive washroom. Off came her clothing: the black slacks, the tunic sweater, the cotton underwear. When she was naked, she inspected the body her husband had viewed hundreds of times. Seven years, seven pounds.
Nothing to complain about, Leo, damn you.
So, what had he wanted? A woman without flaws? With youth?
Lizbeth had neither.
But she can have kids.
God. How could she? How could her own sister betray her? Leo, Breena could almost forgive. Almost. But her sister? A woman whose unconditional—
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