Crossroads (6 page)

“I’m afraid you are as close to family as this baby has,” Mr.

Robichaud said.

How did a person walk away from a responsibility like that?

And besides, now that the initial shock had worn off, she had to admit that a part of her was curious. In a sad, angry way that she wasn’t proud of, she wanted to see the baby her husband—who wouldn’t have a baby with her—had had with someone else.

“I have some time tomorrow,” she told the lawyer.

“I’ll drive you to her home.”

*                           *                           *         

She wasn’t a pretty child. She was small for her age, and her features were weak: a pinched little nose and thin lips. She hadn’t gotten those from Bradford. And those brown eyes weren’t his—the unknown woman was responsible for them too. But there was no question that she was her father’s daughter. She had his square jaw, his chin, and most importantly, that unmistakable red-brown hair. Cassandra would have known it anywhere. She looked at a little hand with its tiny seashell nails and for a few minutes she just stood there, gazing.

The child was very still—shouldn’t a ten-month-old baby be crawling around? Trying to walk? Crying because there was a stranger in the room?

“Is she always this quiet?” Cassandra asked the woman who had been hired to help take care of the baby since she was born.

It seemed that Bradford had indulged his lady love with household help.

“She’s good as gold,” said the woman looking down at the child who was sitting in her lap. The little girl was afraid, that was clear, but she wasn’t cowering. She stared at Cassandra from behind the nursemaid’s fleshy arm.

Good for her!
The thought flashed through Cassandra’s mind.
She doesn’t want to show she’s afraid. I wouldn’t, either. I think we
may be a little alike.
Except for the red hair.

“She never cries,” the nursemaid said.

Or laughs, I imagine,
Cassandra thought, looking at the serious little face.
I wonder what it would take to make her smile. . . .

“Lotta has been staying here in the house with the baby. She’s been paid through to the end of the month,” the lawyer said. “The house is rented by the month too. After that . . .” He let the sentence dangle.

The poor little thing has been through so much already. And if
someone doesn’t do something for her . . . But there is that red hair . . .
his red hair . . . Do I want to see it every day of my life? Don’t be so
petty, Cassie! Father would say I’m better than that. But am I?

“What will happen to her?” Cassandra asked.

“If you don’t intervene? The state will take her.”

“And they’ll find parents for her. A good family. Right?”

“They’ll try. But she’s ten months old, and most people want to adopt an infant. It’s more than likely she’ll wind up in the system.”

“The system?”

“Foster care.” He sighed. “That’s a slippery slope. The longer a child is in it, the harder it is to get them out.”

So there they were. A man and a woman had had some pleasure and the result was a human being who didn’t ask to be born, but she had been anyway. She was small and weak at that moment, but she had a right to grow and find her place in the world. And there was no one to help her except Cassie Wright—who knew if a stray dog had landed on her doorstep that was half as vulnerable and needy as this child, she wouldn’t have hesitated to rescue it.

I wanted a child. I wanted one so much. And this would be
the right thing to do. I can ignore the red hair. In time I’ll get used
to it. . . .

Mr. Robichaud said he’d take care of the paperwork for the adoption. The only thing left to do was shut down the little girl’s life in New Orleans. But that was a revelation. It seemed that the house in which she lived, the nursemaid who cared for her, and the bank account that had been opened in her name had all been charged to Wright Glass works.
Clearly, I’ll have to call for
an audit of the company now that Bradford is gone,
Cassie thought. It was her first inkling of what was to come.

*                           *                           *                           

Cassandra closed her eyes and leaned against the window. Even now after all these years, now when she was safe, she couldn’t think about the time that had come next without shivering. And yet, it had been the making of her. What was that saying? That which does not kill you makes you strong? Well, it was true. Although there were times when she thought if she’d known what she would be facing, she might never have boarded the plane for home.

Chapter Eight

C
assandra arrived in Wrightsville with the solemn-eyed baby she had named Gwendolyn after her mother. The child had had another name, one that had been given to her by the mother and father who had died in the automobile crash. The parents Cassandra wanted to forget.
This baby is mine now.
Maybe I should have let her keep the name they called her. Perhaps I
shouldn’t try to erase all traces of them from her life. Well, I’m not
that big a person. Sorry, Father.

Gwendolyn was installed in her new home with a new nursemaid to take care of her, and her new mother. And if the child was frightened or unhappy she didn’t give any indication of it. She ate her food, she took her naps, and she never cried herself to sleep at night. But she didn’t smile, either.

Meanwhile Cassandra was facing disaster as one by one the heads of departments at Wright Glass works came forward to report to her.

“I’m afraid we’re very much behind the rest of the industry when it comes to research and development of new products,” said one of the top managers. “Mr. Wright—that is, Mr. Greeley—put more of an emphasis on selling than production. . . .”

“We’re pretty much shut out of the fiber optic field,” said her father’s trusted vice president. “I felt we ought to get into it, but Mr. Greeley didn’t agree. Now it’s too late.”

“We’re miles behind Corning and the other companies.”

“I don’t mean to disrespect your husband’s memory, but he never really understood the glassworks. . . .”

“He said our high-end glassware was the jewel in our crown, but that is not where our money is made.”

And then came the terrifying reports. The reports that sent ice water down the veins.

“I tried to warn your husband that we were overextended. . . .”

“Your husband kept saying you have to spend money to make money . . . but we weren’t making it.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t paid the taxes. . . .”

“There’s a discrepancy in the employees’ pension fund. . . .”

“We’re late with the bank loans. . . .”

“Good God, what a mess,” said the outside accountant Cassandra finally brought in to try to make some sense out of the books that seemed to be bleeding with red ink. “How did your people let it get this bad? I know these men; some of them have worked here since your father was alive. Why didn’t they say something?”

Because I told them not to. Because I said Bradford was the boss.

Because I was being a loyal wife.

“
How much time do I have to turn it around?” she asked.

“I don’t see how you can. Your best bet is to declare bankruptcy and get out now.”

I’m going to be the one who loses Wright Glass works? My
family’s company is going to go under on my watch? No! Never!

“I know how hard that sounds,” said the accountant sympathetically. “But it is done all the time. . . .”

But not by my family! I come from a long line of survivors. My
great-great-grandfather lost his leg in the Civil War, so he went into
the business of making artificial limbs and equipment for the disabled.
He made a fortune, sold out, and founded the glassworks. My
great-grandfather lost his personal fortune in the Great Depression,
but he hung on to the glassworks and he and my grandfather worked
three jobs each to make enough money to keep it going. I can’t let it
go under. I won’t!

So she started fighting.
Bail out the financial mess first,
she told herself.
Mortgage to the hilt the house you grew up in, and don’t
think about the fact that you could be living on the streets if you lose
it. Liquidate your portfolio, and don’t even let yourself wonder how
you’ll support yourself if you can’t revive the glassworks. Sell the
jewelry. Start with all those showy pieces Bradford gave you and
pray they’ll bring enough, because if they don’t you’ll have to sell
your mother’s diamond brooch and your grandmother’s pearls. Try
not to sell the Tang horse your great-aunt Cassandra left you in her
will. Try not to sell the Corot your father loved so much. Gamble although
you’re not a gambler, take risks with things it will break your
heart to lose. You’ll have to do whatever it takes. And this time you’ll
do it yourself. You won’t try to find a man to do it for you. Because
you aren’t going to hand over your company, your legacy, your sacred
family trust to anyone ever again.

What she accomplished with her fire sale was that she bought herself time. “Not a lot,” the accountant told her, “but it could be enough to get the business moving again. With a little luck.” But she didn’t believe in luck anymore. She believed in being smart.

So educate yourself, Cassie. You, who majored in Old English in
college. You, who wrote your senior thesis paper on the Wife of Bath.
Learn to become an expert on the various industrial uses of glass. Go
to the local college and pick the brains of the science and engineering
professors. Give yourself a crash course in the photonic products that
are used in the telecommunications industry. Learn about optic materials
used in the semiconductor industry. Find out what the semiconductor
industry is. Find out what a ceramic substrate is, and how
it’s used in the automotive industry. Oh, and in your spare time, learn
to be a businesswoman. And do it all yesterday.

*                           *                           *                           

She did it. It took her three years. Years when she didn’t sleep. Years when she would have killed Bradford with her own hands if he had been alive. And during those years there were times when she was exhausted and frightened and she’d see his child with his red hair playing in her playpen, or sitting in her highchair. And Cassie would have to turn away. She’d feel herself pulling back emotionally from Gwen; she wouldn’t want to, but she couldn’t help it. All she could do was hope that the little girl didn’t sense it. The smart quiet little girl who still wasn’t smiling.

But she had turned the business around. Wright Glass works had become one of the major providers of the specialized polymer products used in biotechnology. They were a top producer of high-performance glass for computers and television screens. On the retail side, their handcrafted, one-of-a-kind glassware was still the jewel in their crown, but a much more durable and reasonably priced line of tableware went on the store shelves. The marketing division was cut back, and Wright Glass works was once more focused on the excellence of its products. The unprofitable outlet in New Orleans was closed.

And Cassandra Wright became the woman she now was. A formidable woman, some said. A woman whose slightest command was followed instantly, whose life was run like a well-oiled clock. A woman who had survived fear and doubt and betrayal. And for a long time she was a woman who thought she was going to spend the rest of her life without a man.

*                           *                           *         

There was a footstep behind Cassandra, one she knew very well. She started to turn away from the window but was caught by a kiss on the side of her neck. “Hi,” she said.

“Good morning,” Walter said. Walter, her husband. And oh, how good that word sounded—even after all these years.

They had met at the dentist’s office. “Do we know how to pick a romantic spot or what?” Walter said later—after they had established that they were involved in a romance. And they had both laughed. Because they liked to laugh together.

She had gone to the dentist for her regular teeth cleaning. He was having a cavity filled. He had the first appointment and when she was finished, he was waiting for her. He asked her to go down the street and have a cup of coffee—only he couldn’t drink his because the Novocain hadn’t worn off. They had laughed about that too. And then somehow he was coming to her home to pick her up and take her out for dinner and the symphony and she was visiting his painting studio to see his work.

And then he was walking up the hill to Gwen’s secret hiding place to ask the little girl if he could marry her mother.

“Gwen’s gone off to her never-never land?” Walter asked as he moved to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“She ran out there without any breakfast, not even a piece of toast. I do wish . . .” Cassandra stopped short.

Walter laced the coffee liberally with cream and sugar. It was not fair that he never gained an ounce. “That you could organize her.” It was said fondly with a smile.

“Don’t you think she needs it?” she countered.

“Since I tend to resist that kind of thing myself, I’m probably the wrong one to ask.”

“You are very organized when you work.”

“But that’s my passion. I’m not particularly good at the rest of life. Remember, you’re the woman who refuses to share a clothes closet with me because I’m such a slob.”

“Oh dear, I am a monster, aren’t I?”

“No. Just . . . organized.” She tried to smile, but of course he saw through it. “She’ll be all right, you know.”

“You think so? Look at the choices she’s made! She’s so smart, she got into Yale on early admission, and instead she’s going to a little local college.” This was not a new complaint, but she kept on bringing it up because it was one of the few things in her life she could not fix.

“She can always transfer if she wants,” Walter said.

“That’s just it, she doesn’t know what she wants! She doesn’t know her own worth. . . . Do you know why she’s up in her never-never land, as you call it? Because yesterday that ridiculous Jewel Fairchild came here on an errand and she ran into Gwen in the library. By the time I got there Jewel was swanning around as if she owned the place and Gwen was wilting in front of her. Just because the girl is pretty in a cheap way and she—”

“Excuse me, who is Jewel Fairchild?”

“The receptionist at the glass works! You met her when you dropped in on the company Christmas party last year. She was the one who started everyone singing the carols.”

“Oh, yes. She is very pretty.”

“She’s breathtaking. And Gwen is worth ten of her. Make that twenty.”

“And Gwen will figure that out eventually.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Of course you’re not; you’re her mother. Hovering is a part of the job description.”

But that was the problem. Because there had been those times when she hadn’t hovered . . . when she had pulled back. And she would always be afraid that she had hurt Gwen during those times. “In the beginning,” she said softly, “when I first brought her home, it was a bad time . . . and she looked so much like her father . . . I wasn’t always . . .”

“The perfect mother? I wonder how many women are.”

“But I knew how much she needed and I . . .”

“Did you love her?”

That was the hard question. The one that could still flash through a troubled dream. But it had to be answered honestly. “I always felt there was something that made me take her. Some reason that I couldn’t understand . . .” The next part was the hardest. “I learned to love her. It grew—the love did. I’m not sure it was there at first.”

“It would be surprising if it had been, given the circumstances. Don’t you think?”

“But Gwen deserved better.”

“Yes. So did you.”

“But I was the adult. And now I don’t know how to . . . well, to fix it.” He didn’t answer. “Say something.”

“I think you know what I want to say,” he said.

“I should tell Gwen about her father.”

“I think she’d be able to understand a lot of things she can’t now. And it is a part of her history—”

“I know.” She cut him off. “You’ve told me all of that. Repeatedly.” But then guilt—an emotion she tried to avoid at all costs—overcame her. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry for snapping.”

She drew in a deep breath. “The truth is, I’ve been wrong about that. And you’re right.”

He put his arms around her. “It’s not a contest, you know.”

“I’m afraid it can get to be one with me. I hate being wrong.”

He grinned. “I’ve noticed.”

“And I hate being told when I’m wrong.”

“Fortunately, it doesn’t happen very often.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s working, isn’t it? See, you’re smiling again.”

She was, but then she pulled away from him. “I know I have to tell Gwen—all of it. But it isn’t going to be easy.”

“No.”

“I’ve decided I’ll do it when we’re in Paris. It’ll just be the two of us—no interruptions or distractions. I thought about waiting until we get back home because she’d be on more familiar ground . . . but that would be procrastinating.” She paused. “All those years when I kept it from her—the truth about her father—I was trying to do what was best for her.”

“I know.”

“As long as she’s happy, I really don’t care about anything else.”

But that wasn’t altogether true. There was a picture in Cassandra’s mind that was too private even to share with Walter: a picture of Gwen taking her place someday as the owner of the glassworks. She could see Gwen as the mistress of this house, see her standing in a garden behind the red maples, see her following the path that the Wrights had laid out for their own for generations. With her fine mind and her deep appreciation of all that was beautiful in art and in nature, Gwen would be such a worthy heir to follow Father and Grandfather and all the Wrights who had come before them. If only Gwen could just . . .