My Secret Valentine. Marilyn Pappano
gun and a badge might stop the endless teasing his name subjected him to, or so he claimed. He knew more about explosives and the people who tended to use them than all the other agents on their squad combined, and he wasn’t at all shy about sharing his knowledge.
He sat down in front of Justin’s desk. “The secretary told me about your aunt. I’m sorry.”
Justin acknowledged him with a nod.
“You need some time off?”
“Just a day. The funeral’s Friday afternoon, the reading of the will Saturday. I’ll come back that night.”
“You can take a couple extra days.”
“There’s no need to.” Golda had told him many times that she was leaving the bulk of her estate to him, but he couldn’t do anything with it until the will had been probated. That would give him at least a few weeks to consider it.
“Were you close to her?”
“She was my dad’s sister, older by about eighteen years. She helped raise him. After my folks split up, she helped raise me, too. I didn’t see her as often as I should have, but I liked her. I liked her a lot.”
“Why don’t you go on home? You must have people to notify.”
There was his mother in London, who would be too busy playing hostess to her latest husband the earl to feel much more than a twinge of regret. His father, living in Paris with his latest spouse—a twenty-something poster girl for eating disorders—probably wouldn’t even feel a twinge. He might have better luck with his father’s two older brothers, their wives and children, though he wouldn’t swear to it. With little chance of being included in Golda’s will, there was little chance they would care she was dead.
The Reeds were nothing if not greedy, he thought with a cynical smile.
Fiona would care. Whether she profited or not, she would be sorry that Golda was gone. She would miss her, and know life was poorer without the old lady in it.
“Justin?”
He gave George a weak smile. “Yeah, I need to call the family. It’s already evening in London and Paris. If I don’t get my mother and father before they go out, I may not get them.”
“Go on home. Take tomorrow off if you need it. And if you want a few extra days when you get there…”
“Thanks.” As his boss left, Justin packed the papers he wanted to take home in his briefcase, then signed out. By the time he got to the apartment he called home, the news had sunk in, and he was feeling less dazed and more regretful. He should have been a better nephew, should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with Golda. He never should have let fear compromise the one healthy lifelong relationship he had.
But it was too late for regrets now.
When he reached his mother in London, she was dressing for a party. She said all the right words, but, as usual, they lacked sincerity. And she wondered why her marriages never lasted.
It was 10:00 p.m. in Paris and his father, surprisingly, was in. He said the right words, too, but when Justin asked if he would return for the funeral, he sounded genuinely perplexed. “It’s a hell of a long flight to Colorado, and what would be the point?”
“I don’t know, Dad. What would be the point of showing up for your only sister’s funeral? Maybe showing that you cared about her? That you respected her? That at least you were grateful for everything she’d done for you?”
“What did she do for me?”
Justin bit back an obscenity. “Forget I even asked. I’ve got to go—”
“Don’t you want to say hello to Monique? Talk about respect… Calling halfway across the world, then hanging up without even saying hello to your stepmother is a fine way to show your respect for her.”
“Give her my best. I’ll talk to you soon.” Justin hung up before his father could say anything else, before he could blurt out what he really wanted to say—that Monique wasn’t even old enough for him to lust after, so she for damn sure wasn’t old enough to be his stepmother. That he felt little respect for her and none for his father. That with Golda gone, so was the Reed family’s last chance at decency, generosity and humanity.
Without Golda, the entire rest of the family was nothing but a bunch of coldhearted, self-absorbed bastards.
Himself included.
Next he talked to his uncles and five of his six cousins, leaving a message for the last one. There might have been one or two genuine I’m sorrys in their responses, but he couldn’t say for sure.
After the last call, he took a beer from the refrigerator and went to stand at the balcony door. As the sky darkened and lights came on across the city, he lifted the bottle in a salute to the west. “The family’s gonna let you down again, Aunt Golda. But that doesn’t surprise you, does it? We always disappointed you while you were alive. Why should it be any different now that you’re dead?”
Unexpectedly his throat tightened with more emotion than he’d felt in years. “I’m sorry, Aunt Golda,” he murmured as his eyes grew damp. “I loved you…and I’m so damned sorry.”
“He’s coming back.”
Fiona Lake looked up from the table she was polishing to meet her mother’s gaze. Delores looked both regretful and triumphant. The triumph came from her success in finding the answer to the question that had haunted them both since learning of Golda’s death two days ago. Her regret came from the answer itself.
So Justin was coming to Golda’s funeral.
He had every right to be there. He was her nephew, and she’d loved him like a son. It was only fitting that he honor her one last time by being present for her funeral. If he hadn’t come, Fiona would have hated him for it.
Oh, but she didn’t want to see him!
“How did you find out?” Fiona asked as if it wasn’t important.
“I asked Roger Markham. He was Golda’s attorney, you know. He called Justin at work Wednesday to tell him that she’d passed, and Justin said he would be here.”
How many times had Fiona tried to call Justin at his Washington office six years ago? Eight? Ten? And yet he’d always been conveniently out. Now she knew she should have asked Roger to call for her—or anybody else in the world whose name wasn’t Lake.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I’m going to Golda’s funeral, and I’m going to pretend that Justin and I have never met.”
Delores snorted. “Oh, yes, I can see you pulling that off. And what about after the funeral? When you go home and he’s right there next door?”
“I’ll be home. He’ll be next door.”
“What about Katy?”
Fiona’s hand trembled at the mention of her daughter. Almost five years old, Katy was the light of her life. She loved her daughter more than she’d known she was capable of loving—more than she’d ever loved Justin, more than she’d ever hated him. She’d needed all that love to make up for the father who’d never given a damn that Katy existed, to atone for her sin of falling in love with a man who could be so coldhearted and selfish.
“What about Katy, Mom? He didn’t care about her before. He’s not going to care now.”
“Are you going to let him see her?”
“I’m not going to hide her away like something to be ashamed of. But no, I’m not going to make a point of bringing her to his attention.” She wasn’t going to do anything to bring herself to his attention, either. Golda had had hundreds of friends. The church would be packed to overflowing this afternoon, and virtually all of them would want to express their regrets to Golda’s only relative in attendance.