Enright Family Collection (67 page)

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. O’Connor.”

“What is there to say?” He wiped his face with the fine white linen handkerchief he had pulled from his jacket pocket. “But I must tell you, when I found out that you were Delia Enright’s daughter, so much came back to me. I know how happy Maureen had been in Westboro. How close she had been to Delia . . . how close Ben had been to all of you.”

“Well, we all sort of grew up together.” Zoey’s eyes drifted back to the photograph that Delaney had rested on the table.
So this was the grown-up Ben Pierce.
She fought the urge to reach out and touch the glass, to reach into the photo and smooth the hair back from his handsome face. . . .

“Yes. So I understand.”

“Maybe you could give me his address,” Zoey said. “For my mother. I’m sure she will want to get in touch with him. And when you speak with him again, please give him my very best, and tell him”—she paused—“tell him that we have missed him very much.”

“Oh, I expect that, if all goes well, you will be able to do that yourself. I’m sure he’ll be around, sooner or later.”

“Ben, here?” Zoey felt her bottom jaw drop, but was helpless to do anything about it. Surely, he didn’t mean . . .

“Oh, yes.” Delaney O’Connor nodded brightly.

“Ben will be here?” she repeated. “You mean
here?”

“For a while, at least until he recuperates from his latest accident. I’m afraid he’s done a nasty job on his leg. It will be some time before the fractures heal.”

Delaney smiled and got up to answer the phone yet again. He said a few muffled words into the receiver, before turning to Zoey and saying, “I’ve just been reminded that I have another appointment. It’s been a pleasure, Zoey Enright. You’ve grown into a very beautiful young woman. I’m delighted to have you on my staff.”

“Thank you, sir.” She moved across to his desk on numb legs and took the hand he reached out to her.

“Call me Delaney. After all, we’re practically old friends, aren’t we?”

He hesitated, as if about to confide something, then, appearing to have thought better of it, merely patted her hand and smiled. “Do give your mother my very best.”

Zoey left the room in a bit of a daze.

Still holding the phone, Delaney walked to the window and looked out onto the rolling green landscape of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Off in the distance, on the next hill, he could see the old stone church that had stood since the days of the Revolutionary War. Earlier that morning, they had passed it, and he had had his driver stop and pull over. He had gotten out of the back of the car and walked among the flat thick stones marking the graves of soldiers whose names would never be known, the letters having been eroded a century or more ago. It had been a peaceful place, and he had gone into the little church and sat on one of the hard narrow wooden pews and stared at the stark altar. And there, Delaney gave thanks for having been given the ways and the means to bring his grandson home.

Then, being a God-fearing man who’d been raised in the bosom of the Church, Delaney O’Connor prayed for forgiveness for all the little half-truths he’d told to get him there.

Chapter
10
 

Zoey smiled graciously at Delaney O’Connor’s secretary, nodding mindlessly in apparent agreement with whatever it was the woman was saying. It couldn’t possibly be important compared with the news Zoey had just gotten from O’Connor’s own lips. Ben would be here—sooner or later, Delaney had said—
right here,
under the same roof. Breathing the same air. Close enough to touch.

Maybe they’d bump into each other in the hallway.

No, no, better yet, in the parking lot.

“Ben?” she would call to him. “Ben Pierce, is that really you?”

“Yes?” He would stop in mid-stride and tilt his head slightly to one side, just like he used to do.

“It’s me, Zoey. Zoey Enright.
”

And he would break into a fabulous grin and with a hoot lift her up off her feet and swing her around, just like she had dreamed he would do. She could see it so clearly, how his strong arms would lift her—in slow motion, with music playing in the background—and then he’d . . .

“Lady, for crying out loud, are you blind or something?” The delivery man yelled as she stepped mindlessly in front of the pallet laden with boxes.

“Oh. Oh. I’m so sorry.” A flustered Zoey blushed. “I was just . . . I wasn’t paying attention. Thank you for being more observant than I am.”

She stopped at the front desk and leaned over the clipboard where everyone entering or leaving the building signed in or out.

“Is CeCe still here?” She asked Lee, the weekend daytime guard.

He barely looked up from his newspaper, where he was making his selections from the daily racing form, but merely pointed at the television set mounted on the wall to his left, where CeCe was selling a hand-stitched quilt in shades of rose and green.

“Thanks.” She went back down the hallway and through the double doors leading into the studio, anxious to share this incredible news with her friend.

“Zoey,” one of the producers called to her, “did you already meet him? The new CEO?”

“Yes,” she called over her shoulder.

“Well? What’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s wonderful. It’s going to be wonderful.” She smiled dreamily.

Zoey stood just inside the doorway of the set, which was decorated with several beds upon which quilts of different styles were displayed. CeCe was, at that moment, stuffing pillows into shams that matched the pastel quilt Zoey recognized as one she herself had sold on-air two weeks earlier. She watched the dual monitors at the front of the set, waiting until the one on top—the one that displayed exactly what was appearing on the viewers’ television screens at that minute—showed the linens only, then cleared her throat softly to get her friend’s attention. CeCe glanced to the side of the stage, where Zoey stood, grinning like an idiot.

“What’s up?” CeCe mouthed the words.

“How much longer do you have today?” Zoey whispered.

CeCe pointed to the lower of the two monitors, the one that showed the on-air host the next shot that the viewers at home would see, and said to the camera, “We’re halfway through the first hour of this three-hour quilt special and I still have lots of pretty things to show you.”

Zoey frowned and gestured to CeCe to call her later, then turned and all but skipped to the locker area where she had earlier hung her coat and her purse. Her head was buzzing. All she could think about as she walked from the building to her car was
Ben.
She had seen his face. His
grown-up
face, which was every bit as heart-breakingly handsome as, somehow, she had known it would be. Ben Pierce. Her very own Ben Pierce was coming home.

Humming, she started up the car, then pulled into the roadway leading out of the complex where the Home MarketPlace sprawled over three buildings connected by covered walkways.

She couldn’t wait to tell her mother. Delia would be thrilled. She dialed the number on her car phone and waited impatiently while it rang.

“Hello, Mrs. Colson,” she said when Delia’s housekeeper answered the phone. “It’s Zoey. Is my mother there?”

There was a long pause before the voice on the other end of the phone said, “Zoey, is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?”

“Zoey, you know your mother is in Tulsa at a writers’ conference.”

“Oh, of course she is.” Zoey laughed. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll call her tonight at the hotel. Thanks.”

She hung up, then dialed another number. It rang four times before the answering machine picked up. “Hi. I’m not able to take your call right now, but if you leave your
name and the date and time of your call, and your number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Georgey-girl, it’s your big sister. I have the most incredible news. Call me the minute you get home.”

Stopped at a red light, Zoey disconnected the call, then dialed yet again. Three more rings. Another taped message.

“Nicky! It’s Zoey. Call me tonight. I have something so exciting to tell you.”

She disconnected once again, still holding the phone in her hand, trying to think of someone else to call. She could not.

Sighing, she returned the phone to its base and drove toward home, trying to think of things that were more frustrating than having great news, and no one to share it with.

Even Wally’s car was gone from his driveway when she got home. It was Saturday, so the workmen were gone as well. Slightly dejected, she parked near the back door and got out of the car. The steps to the new deck had recently been completed, and she took them two at a time. The contractor promised that his men would be back the following week to paint it, and to finish up a few details inside the house. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Gracie stretched languidly into a large, loose apostrophe of orange velvet on the gold-colored carpet and raised one delicate feline paw straight up into the air, as much a greeting as an admonition for Zoey having left her alone for hours.

“Oh, you big old hairball.” Zoey dropped her pocketbook and the day’s mail on the kitchen counter to give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “Don’t you have the life. No daily bread to earn. No traffic to deal with. No bills to pay—”

The phone rang shrilly.

“No phones to answer.” Zoey pounced on it, hoping it was Delia. Or Nick. Or Georgia.

It was a wrong number.

Sighing, she pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and plunked down in it.

“Well, then, perhaps you’d like to hear my news.” She turned to Gracie, who hadn’t as yet bothered to open her eyes. “Well, that’s too bad, because I’m going to tell you anyway.”

Zoey decided she wanted coffee to accompany her telling of the tale.

“This is a story, Gracie, so pay attention.” She rinsed the remnants of the morning’s coffee from the pot, then refilled it. “Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Zoey . . . yeah, just like me. She had a little sister who everyone said was the most adorable thing in the world. That’s because she
was
the most adorable little thing in the world, tiny and blond and graceful . . . and Zoey was tall and skinny and awkward and had dark stringy hair and was a tomboy. No one ever said that Zoey was adorable.”

Zoey stuffed a white paper liner into the basket of the coffeemaker.

“Her name? Oh, we’ll call the little sister . . . Georgia.” She opened the cupboard and took down her coffee grinder. “And the two sisters had a big brother. His name was, what do you think, should we call him Nicky? Sure, why not. Anyway, Zoey and Georgia and Nicky lived with their mother . . . what? Sure, they had a father. But he didn’t live with them.” Zoey sorted through the bags of coffee beans in her freezer—which was where Mrs. Colson always insisted was the only place coffee beans would stay fresh—until she found the bag of decaffeinated beans she was seeking. “He had left them, a long time ago.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “No. I don’t know where he went, or why he left them. He just did. And their mother had to find a way to make money to feed them all. Luckily, the mother—sure, let’s call her Delia.”

At the sound of her mistress’s voice, Gracie raised a lazy head and opened one eye. “Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it? Anyway, Delia was a very clever
lady. She liked to tell stories . . . and she started writing them down. And people liked to read her stories. And before you could say ‘catnip,’ Delia had an agent and a publisher who was paying her to tell her stories. And Delia had lots and lots of stories to tell.” Zoey dumped a handful of coffee beans into the bowl of the grinder and said, “Cover your ears, Gracie, you don’t like this noise.”

At the sound of the grinder, Gracie sat up and gave Zoey what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a dirty look.

“Anyway, Delia was very busy writing her stories, so busy that she decided that she needed someone to come and take care of them all, to cook and shop and be part of the family. And one night, she went out to the little local market for bread and milk, and she brought home Maureen. And Maureen’s son, Ben.”

Zoey stood with her hand still on the lid of the grinder, a faraway look on her face. “You didn’t know Ben, Gracie. He left before Mom found you in that parking lot where you had been dropped off. But you would have liked Ben. We all did.”

Zoey could close her eyes and see him as he had followed her mother into the kitchen that first night, carrying Delia’s grocery bags for her. Zoey had been at the table in the breakfast room, just about to scoop some ice cream into a bowl for a snack.

“Zoey, this is Maureen, and her son, Ben,” Delia had said by way of introduction. “Get another bowl, sweetie, and see if Ben would like some ice cream, too. Maureen and I are going into the study for a few minutes to talk.”

“Would you like some ice cream?” Zoey had asked shyly. “It’s cherry vanilla.”

“That’s one of my favorite kinds,” he had said.

It had been very quiet in the kitchen then, as she could not think of anything to say as she dug a scoop into the brick hard ice cream.