Anything for Her Marriage. Karen Templeton
the door, then chuckled, carving a pair of gullies on either side of his mouth. “Oh, hell, Rod, I’m sorry. No dire news, nothing like that,” he threw over his shoulder as he strode out of the room, clearly expecting Rod to follow. “Sit.” He nodded at the mushroom-colored upholstered armchair that sat in front of an ornate mahogany desk, settling his lanky frame into the black leather chair behind it.
Rod sat, crossing his ankle at his knee, cautiously regarding the tanned, white-haired man in front of him, trying to calculate his age these days. He had to be easily seventy-five, yet looked no more than sixty. Arlen’s ties to Rod’s family went back further than Rod’s memory, that was for sure. And after his grandparents’ deaths, he remembered many times when Arlen and Molly James’s presence in his life had been the only thing that seemed to make sense in a world that by rights should have been downright idyllic. After Rod’s parents moved to Bloomfield Hills when he was ten, however, Rod had begun to sense an uneasiness between Arlen and his father he didn’t understand for some time, about things they hadn’t discussed for nearly twenty years, by mutual consent. Things that were behind him now. And he had no desire to resurrect ghosts.
The uneasiness humming in his veins at the moment, however, made him wonder if Arlen wasn’t about to. “Why do I feel like a kid who’s been called into the principal’s office?”
Arlen’s thin, sharply defined lips pulled up into a placating smile as he leaned forward, lacing together the consummate doctor’s hands. “I don’t know if this makes me old-fashioned or cutting-edge, but I’m not the kind of physician who treats the symptoms without addressing the cause. Yes, your blood pressure’s down, but not where it should be for a man in your condition.” He took a deep breath. “You’re stressed, Rod. And no, I don’t mean by the divorce, or the kids, or the new business, though they haven’t helped. This has been building up for years.”
And there they were. The ghosts. Some of them, at least. Well, two didn’t necessarily have to play this game.
His hands tented in front of him, Rod tapped one index finger on his lips, trying not to feel like a trapped animal. “Meaning?” he asked quietly.
“Meaning…I’ve been keeping track of your life since you were, what? Five or six, something like that. And I’d hoped, for your sake, after you got out of Claire’s clutches—well, I’ve never made it a secret what I think of her, although you got two great kids out of the deal—you’d finally get your head on straight. Work through some things. Apparently, I was wrong.”
Rod lowered his hands to his lap. Remained silent. The last thing he needed was a lecture, but Arlen was one of the few people in the world to whom he’d extend that privilege.
“I’d hoped,” Arlen continued, “that at least, you’d learn your lesson with Claire, make a better choice the second time. Instead, I’m wondering why you married Myrna to begin with.”
Admitting he’d often wondered the same thing would probably serve no useful purpose. Myrna had been perfect, on the surface—beautiful, monied, even-keeled, an ideal way to keep predators at bay without putting himself on the line. “I thought it would work,” was all he said. “But she…couldn’t deal with the kids, which I should have realized.”
The doctor made a move that was half nod, half shrug, then scratched behind one ear. “Be that as it may. But then there’s your work. Here I think you’ve taken some steps to get out of the rat race, but far as I can tell, all you’ve done is switch mazes. Now why is that, Rod?” Heavy brows formed a V behind his glasses. “Wasn’t it just a year ago you sat at my table and admitted how bored you’d grown with Star, how you were actually relieved when they decided to—what’s that term they used? Ah, yes—make your position redundant. Even I know you don’t need the money. If you still wanted to work, you could have done anything at all. Yet here you are, doing virtually the same thing you’ve been doing for fifteen years. Maybe I’m missing something here, but that sure as hell makes no sense to me.”
Rod shifted in his chair, caught himself. “Marketing’s what I do.”
“What you do, huh? Not…what you love?”
A beat, then: “You don’t have to love something to be good at it.”
“Fine. Then come on board with the foundation, put your skills to good use for something you actually believe in. Something close to your heart.”
“They get my money, Arlen,” he said quietly. “That’s enough.”
The ghosts hovered on the edges of the conversation, taunting. After a moment, Arlen let out a sigh. “Dammit, Rod. For years, I watched you bust your butt to please your father—”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Arlen—”
“Then we won’t. But growing up in that house…” He shook his head, his mouth taut with disgust. “That you turned out as well as you did is a testament to the human spirit.” He hooked Rod’s gaze in his own, obviously expecting a reply. When there was none, he rose from his chair, circled around to ease one hip up on the front edge of his desk. “Your parents have been gone for twenty years, Rod. You don’t have to play it safe anymore, you know.”
Rod stood, slipping his hands in his pant pockets. Breezy. Nonchalant. Far more shaken than he dared let on. “I really do need to be going—”
Arlen stood as well. Eye to eye, he thrust one finger in Rod’s face. “You don’t want to talk, I can’t make you. But let me tell you something—keep up this pretense of everything being fine, ignoring the fact that you’re one of the most miserable bastards I’ve ever met, and you’re headed straight to cardiovascular hell. You have no life, Rod.” He backed up a millimeter, crossed his arms. Grinned. “For that matter, when’s the last time you had sex?”
Shards of tension shot up the back of his neck, as Nancy’s laughter and tenderness and sweet, lush scent slammed into his consciousness. “None of your business.”
Arlen grinned more widely, misinterpreting. “That’s what I thought. Well, here’s a news flash, son—unless you want to shrivel up into something putrid and unrecognizable, you need female companionship from time to time.” He pointed that damned finger at him again. “In your case, more than from time to time. And next time, I suggest you try marrying a woman you love.”
That got a hollow laugh. “Oh, no. Not after—”
“Screwing up twice already? So what? Took me four trips to the altar to work the bugs out. But work out they did.” His eyes narrowed. “Might for you, too, if you stopped trying to choose the kind of woman you think you’re supposed to marry and pick one you want to marry.”
“No such woman exists, Arlen,” he said mildly, ignoring the hair bristling on the back of his neck, “because I’m not getting married again. And if you value our friendship, you’ll kindly remove that nose of yours from my business.”
He turned to leave, but Arlen grabbed him before he’d gone three feet. Concern simmered in those blue eyes, concern Rod had seen many times before. “You don’t have to listen to me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to keep my mouth shut. Not this time. Not like I did before.”
“Your concern is duly noted,” Rod said through the ghosts. Through the ever-present pain. “But I’m fine, Arlen. Really. Everything’s under control, okay?”
Out in the hall, the polished steel elevator doors shushed open as he heard from ten feet away, “And who the hell d’you think you’re kidding?”
Without answering, Rod stepped inside the elevator, let the doors close.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».