concerned about,” Jolene said. “After all the years you’ve devoted to taking care of other people, it’s about time you had a chance to focus on yourself.”
“Maybe you could go shopping,” Marylou said helpfully. “There’s this really cool green dress with sparkles on it that’s in the window of McBride’s.”
Lizzie smiled wryly. “I know the one. Thanks for the suggestion, but I’m not sure how well sequins would stand up to a roomful of three-year-olds with finger paints.”
“There won’t be any three-year-olds or finger paints where you’re going,” Jolene said. “And I think it would be a great idea to do some shopping while you’re away.”
“This is a business trip, remember?”
“Sure, but it’s your business you’re going to visit.”
“I don’t think that part has quite sunk in yet, either. What on earth am I going to do with fifty percent of Whitmore and Hamill?”
“Run the company, of course.”
At Jolene’s deadpan comment, Lizzie burst into laughter. “Oh, now that’s almost as good as working at the day care in sequins,” she said when she caught her breath. “Me? A business tycoon?”
Jolene didn’t join in her laughter. “Why not? You’re smart enough to do whatever you put your mind to.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but—”
“You know it’s true. You started up your own business already, didn’t you?”
“That’s different. The day care is just organized babysitting.”
“It’s a business,” Jolene insisted. “And who has been helping Ben with his books for the past six years?”
“I always helped him with his math homework. It’s just a hobby.”
“Hah. You managed to run Dad’s farm when you were only nineteen. Why, if you hadn’t turned down that scholarship so you could stay and take care of us—”
“That’s ancient history, Jolene. The family needed me, and I don’t have any regrets. I’m perfectly happy just as I am.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Are you?”
“Of course,” she said quickly. Automatically. Because she already knew from experience how useless regrets could be. One of the most painful phrases ever spoken was if only. So she didn’t speak it.
“Do you really own a company, Auntie Liz?”
“Well, part of it.”
“Hey, cool.”
“I’ll bring you some of their stationery for a souvenir, okay?”
As the engines droned on and the miles slipped past beneath her, Lizzie thought about her promise to her niece. She didn’t know much about the advertising business, but she was pretty sure that owning half the company involved more than lending her name to the letterhead. If all that was expected of her was her name, Mr. Whitmore wouldn’t have arranged this trip in the first place, would he?
That lawyer, Jeremy Ebbet, had been so kind over the phone, expressing his sympathy over the loss of her uncle and offering to help her sort out all those bothersome legal technicalities of inheriting the partnership, as he’d put it. He’d said that Mr. Whitmore had personally asked him to invite her to visit their office, insisting the entire staff was eager to meet Roland’s niece. It must be true, since Mr. Whitmore was paying for her plane ticket and even her hotel room.
And as if that weren’t enough, yesterday an extravagant bouquet of flowers had been delivered to the house on Myrtle Street, compliments of that nice Mr. Whitmore.
Relaxing back into her seat, Lizzie speculated about the owner of the other name on the Whitmore and Hamill letterhead. Uncle Roland would have turned fifty this fall, so his partner was probably around the same age. Not for the first time, she tried to imagine a face to go with the name, but the image that popped into her head was a cross between a white-bearded fairy godmother and Santa Claus in a three-piece suit.
He’d sent her flowers. Flowers. That was another first. She wasn’t the kind of woman to whom men sent flowers. A flower pot, maybe. Once while she’d still been seeing Bobby, he’d shown up at her doorstep with a foot-high cedar tree, its roots dripping clods of fresh earth on her welcome mat. She’d smiled and thanked him, of course. It had been a sensible gift, since she’d been looking for something to plant beside the fence in the side yard. But still, there was something so wonderfully impractical about flowers. And sequins.
She shifted, tugging down the hem of her short navy-blue skirt. What did she need with sequins? This suit was her best outfit, one she’d managed to keep in good condition for several years by saving it for special occasions. Like the weddings of her friends, and the christenings of her friends’ children, and all the other events that marked the milestones of life. Of other people’s lives.
Not that she minded, she thought hurriedly. She loved her job, her friends and her family. She loved seeing them happy, and hearing their children call her “Auntie Liz.” She had finally come to terms with the fact that no one was going to call her “Mom.”
She really was perfectly happy, no matter what Jolene said, right?
But if that was the case, why had she jumped at the chance to make this trip? Why had she spent the past week training not one but two women to take her place at the day care? Why did she get this heart-pounding, palm-sweating feeling each time she thought about her uncle’s…no, her company?
The plane banked in a wide, slow turn and the window tipped toward the ground. Lizzie braced her hand against the side of the fuselage and craned her neck to see the new view that unfolded. Her stomach didn’t roll quite as badly this time.
Just like any new experience, once you got the hang of it, flying wasn’t so bad after all.
The flight was forty minutes late by the time it landed at La Guardia. Tinged with gray, bleak as a closed barn door, the airport spread in drab determination across the patched asphalt. Inside the terminal, the air was thick with humidity and laced with the babble of strangers. Everyone appeared to know exactly where they were going and were in a heck of a hurry to get there, so Lizzie hitched the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder and let the stream carry her along to the baggage claim.
“Oh, Lord love a duck,” she whispered when she caught sight of the uniformed man standing beside the glass doors. Even though they didn’t have anything like this in Packenham Junction, she’d watched enough TV to recognize an honest-to-goodness limousine chauffeur when she saw one. And he was holding up a neatly lettered sign with her name on it.
That nice Mr. Whitmore had said that he’d arrange to have someone meet her flight, but she hadn’t expected anything quite so fancy. Dragging her suitcase behind her, she hurried to claim her ride before the limousine turned into a pumpkin.
The hotel room that had been reserved for her turned out to be a suite with a carpet that was thick enough to swallow small animals. There was a dazzling bouquet of flowers on the desk in the sitting room and another on the long, low dresser in the bedroom. And as if that weren’t enough to make
