“Of course they will,” Marla said, balancing James in one arm while placing the bottle in the microwave with the other.
Carmen opened an unlikely cupboard where measuring cups were stacked. “She must have misplaced them. No one on the staff would ever steal from the family.”
Marla wanted to melt through the floorboards at the thought that some of the servants were under suspicion. The keyring in her pocket felt as if it suddenly weighed a ton. The microwave bell chimed. Shifting James to one arm, she withdrew the bottle and tested the contents on her wrist. Satisfied with the temperature of the formula, she said, “I’m sure Eugenia will find the keys soon.” Holding James and his bottle, she hurried upstairs while Carmen began pawing through yet another drawer.
Nick was already seated in a high-backed chair, a drink in his hand. Eugenia stood at the window, frowning into the night, her back to the room.
“. . . I wish I knew,” the older woman was saying, unaware that her daughter-in-law had entered. “These days it’s impossible to keep track of everyone. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you back here, Nick. I thought . . . no, I hoped that you would be a stabilizing force. You were good at finding out what was wrong with a company—a troubleshooter, isn’t that what they’re called these days. In mine they were auditors.”
“Auditors are a little different.”
“Doesn’t matter. When Alex confided in me that Cahill Limited w
as having financial troubles, I thought of you and what you’d done for other corporations.” She rotated her neck, as if to relieve a stiffness in her shoulders, and continued to stare through the glass. “But, the truth of the matter is that the corporate finances weren’t the only reasons I wanted you back home. I guess you can see by now that Alex and Marla aren’t as close as they used to be. They’ve been having trouble for years and I prayed that the new baby would change things, but . . . oh, well, it’s obvious they’re drifting farther and farther apart. Even though I knew that you and Marla . . . well that you were involved a long time ago, I still thought that you being here might help.”
“How?” Marla asked, unable to hold her tongue, her cheeks flaming, her mind screaming with questions.
Eugenia whirled on one high heel and blushed to the roots of her apricot-colored hair. One hand, fingers splayed, covered her heart. “Oh, my, I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”
“Obviously,” Marla said dryly. She sat on a sofa and held the baby in her arm, offering him the bottle. “But, please, go on. This is fascinating.” She couldn’t keep the bite from her words. “Why would Nick help?”
“Let me guess,” Nick suggested. “Alex and I have always been rivals and you thought if I came back here and showed even the slightest bit of interest in Marla, Alex would realize what a prize she is.”
“Now, I didn’t say anything of the sort,” his mother argued, but guilt chased across her eyes.
“Jesus, Mother, that’s right, isn’t it?” Nick’s disgust showed in the tic over his temple. “What if your plan backfired? What if Marla and I ended up together? How would you feel then?”
Marla’s heart pounded and Eugenia, paling, looked from Nick to Marla. “Of course . . . of course, that would never happen,” she said, clearly not convinced. “Marla has the children and you . . . you have that warped code of ethics . . . You always swore that you’d never be involved with a married woman and so I thought . . .”
“Son of a bitch. Who’re you to play God?” Nick drained his drink then crunched on an ice cube in frustration.
“What business is it of yours?” Marla demanded, of the older lady. So angry she was trembling, she demanded, “Who are you to interfere?”
“Someone who puts family solidarity before everything else,” Eugenia said stiffly. “I’ve been accused by Alex of being cold and unbending, but I only want what is best for the Cahill name.”
“You can’t run my life,” Nick said. “Nor Marla’s, nor, for that matter, Alex’s. Didn’t you learn that lesson from Dad? You tried to tell him what to do and it didn’t work, did it? A tight leash only made him want to pull further away. Telling him not to drink only served to make him pour more liquid down his throat. No one likes to be controlled, Mother. It’s against human nature.”
Eugenia’s lips quivered and she blinked against tears, but she staunchly held them at bay. Standing, her back ramrod stiff, she said, “I’ll see you both at dinner,” then left the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
“I should have known,” Nick grumbled and the look he sent Marla reminded her of a trapped animal. “Hell.”
From the foyer downstairs Marla heard the front door fly open to bang against the wall only to slam shut. Seconds later, in a thunder of footsteps Cissy, dressed in boots, jeans and a sweatshirt, appeared on the stairway. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bright, her cheeks rosy and she didn’t pause for a second at the living room level, but pounded up the stairs to the next floor.
“That’s my cue,” Marla said, and handed James to Nick. “Get to know your nephew.”
“But I don’t know how to do anything with him,” he said, holding the baby awkwardly.
She held out the half-finished bottle and Nick grabbed it with two fingers while he clutched James as if he expected the baby to squirm out of his arms, fall to the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces. “You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out,” she called over her shoulder as she took off after her daughter.
By the time she’d reached Cissy’s room, the girl was nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door was shut, the shower spray hissing and Marla decided to wait. She sat at the vanity and eyed the tubes of lipstick and bottles of nail polish in colors that seemed only appropriate for vampires and ghouls. “Don’t judge,” she told herself. “Remember how Mom hated what you wore.”
She froze. Stared into a mirror dulled by hair spray as she recalled a conversation of years past.
“. . . if you weren’t so wild, if you showed him just a little attention, then maybe your father would appreciate you.” Her mother’s voice rang in her ears and a faded image of a wornout woman who smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke, who tried to disguise the disappointment in her eyes, came to mind. She was thin, nearly bony as she stood in the doorway, her face in shadows, daylight slanting in through the Venetian blinds, shadows striping her floral skirt. In one hand she held a cigarette, the glowing red tip visible, the other rested wearily on her hip. “He’d recognize you for what you are.”
“I hate him,” she’d spouted.
“No, you don’t—”