She crossed her arms in front of her and leaned back a little, drawing on all the attitude that she had learned growing up. “This isn’t five years ago. I’m in a much better position now than I was then. And unless you’re going to blackball me with every museum in this country—and I don’t think you’d do that—then I have nothing more to say here.”
She turned on her heel, wanting to make a dramatic exit, something she had been known for in her prior life. The theatrics might be a little rusty, but she hoped she had one last performance in her. Benson cleared his throat and called her back in.
She turned, cocking one eyebrow at him. “Yes?”
“I need you, Delaney. The docents love you. You’ve done an excellent job developing that program. I can’t do anything now, but who knows what the future will bring? Don’t make a rash decision. I won’t block you if you decide to leave, but I can’t promise the same for others. They hate you. And I’ve always stood up for you. You owe me this one thing.”
“I owe you?” Disbelief tinged her laughter. “I’ve more than repaid my debt. I’m grateful to you, but maybe it’s time we parted ways.”
“Don’t be hasty. Why don’t you take some time to think about it? We can talk after the wedding. You are going to the Masters’ wedding, aren’t you?”
She eyed him shrewdly, gauging his desperation. “Fine. I won’t decide now. I’ll take the week. But I want it as a paid vacation. And it doesn’t count toward my normal time off.”
He smiled at her, but all the bite, all the anger, was gone. It was a toothless anger, and they both knew it. “Fine. I’ll expect your answer in two weeks. Delaney? Make the right decision.”
* * *
Delaney didn’t wait for the end of the day to leave. After her meeting, she wrapped up a few loose ends, grabbed her things, and slipped out of the museum’s back entrance. Benson owed her for all the times she’d worked extra hours, coordinating events that he or members of his staff were supposed to do, and all the other little extra things she had done for him, including stifling her pride and serving him and the rest of the museum trustees at various functions. And he owed her for failing to back her up on the promotion.
How long would her past haunt her? How long before she’d be free of the stigma? Would she ever be free as long as she remained in Houston, remained a Winters?
She parked in front of the building where she shared an apartment with her mother. The brick building in Houston’s Museum District neighborhood was a far cry from the elegant River Oaks home she had grown up in and the condo she’d had in Austin during college. At least it had a parking lot, and it was in a fairly safe neighborhood, and far from anyone she would ever see from her old life.
Delaney grabbed the mail and took the elevator to the third-floor, two-bedroom apartment. She let herself in and paused, listening for any sound. Hearing nothing, she walked down the hall to her room. She closed the door to her bedroom and walked over to the closet, thumbing through the limited assortment. Target poly-blend dress, no. Ann Spencer black linen shorts, maybe. Four year old Prada black silk dress from the consignment shop around the corner, definite yes. Delaney held the little black dress against her chest, her fingers instantly recognizing the quality fabrics she’d once been accustomed to wearing. It wasn’t the latest style, but it would suffice.
A timid knock echoed in the room. “Delaney? Is that you?”
Delaney sighed. It was too much to hope that her mother might’ve left the apartment for the day. And why should today be different? The irony was that her mom, former socialite extraordinaire, had become a hermit, a martyr even. It might be comical if it weren’t for all the extra responsibility it heaped on Delaney.
God forbid Mom would go to counseling to deal with her demons. “Shrinks are for weak people,” she’d argued, as if hiding out from the world were a show of strength.
Delaney didn’t pause sorting clothes but called out, “Come in.”
Her mother stepped into the room and sat on the bed with a long, drawn-out breath, the very image of a delicate English lady from the eighteenth century, except her mother wore lounge wear from Neiman Marcus. From her mother, Delaney had inherited her ash-blond hair and blue eyes, but time, years of depression, no expensive hair salons, and no Botox had lined her mother’s face, aging her.
Without missing a beat, Delaney asked the question she asked every day, but already knew the answer. “Did you go out today?”
“Actually, yes, I did. I had lunch with your Aunt Trudy and a nice meeting with a very polite young man.”
Delaney nodded, only half listening. How warm would it be on the island? It was September, and Houston was still hot and humid, but the island had cool ocean breezes, keeping temperatures lower. Did she dare wear shorts? It had been months, well, years, since she’d worked out regularly. And her skin was creamy pale, not sun-kissed like it had been. She tossed the shorts aside and grabbed a couple of white linen capri pants and tossed them on the bed.
Her mother huffed and glared at her. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my meeting?”
Delaney paused and turned slightly, but dutifully asked the question. “Who were you meeting with?”
“Tom Reynolds, a reporter with Houston Lifestyle magazine.”
Shock wound icy tendrils up her spine. “You spoke with a reporter?”
Her mother had never voluntarily talked with a reporter, not since the attacks every time they showed their faces outside. It had taken a couple of years, but finally she’d started going out to lunch, and Delaney had even gotten her to help at the museum with some of the event planning. But she always dressed in disguise, a scarf around her hair, large sunglasses and a coat wrapped protectively around her. She never quite understood that people paid more attention to someone who was so obviously hiding.
It had been a couple of years since anyone had done anything but express polite interest. Well, anyone except for Ethan’s stepmother, Kira Van Owen, whom Delaney had to see at every museum function. What could a reporter have wanted from her mother?
She sat on the bed next to her mom and laid a hand on her mother’s hand. “Are you okay?”
Susan’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be? I asked for the meeting. I thought I told you about him. He’s the reporter who wants to do a follow-up on the story. A ‘where are they now’ story.”
Delaney froze, hand clenching her mother’s arm briefly. “I think I would’ve remembered a reporter digging up more dirt on us.” She jumped up and began to pace. “Mother, you know how reporters are. This can’t end well for us or anyone. How could you?”