He knew from happy experience that one quotation would lead to another, yet what better way to spend an April afternoon than to sit here in his garden and sip good scotch, to turn the pages at random and let his mind wander through the words of history’s great thinkers?
He crossed the flagstone terrace and paused to savor again the beauty of purple petunias, red geraniums, and silver-gray dusty miller. More geraniums and petunias trailed from hanging baskets. White Lady Banks roses were beginning to bud amid the purple wisteria blossoms that hung like clusters of grapes from the trellis that shaded his back door, and terra-cotta tubs of shasta daisies, basil, and dill stood on either side of the gate that opened onto a passageway to the street.
To his dismay, he heard the clip-clop of backless sandals hurrying up that same passageway.
He reached for the doorknob and wondered if there was time to get inside and pretend not to be at home.
As he suspected, it was Deanna.
Other men bragged about their children, he thought wearily—how bright they were, how industrious, how motivated to succeed, how thoughtful of their parents.
He had Dee.
Twenty-two years old. Bright? Yes. But motivated? Thoughtful of her parents?
Ha!
Yet, as he stood motionless under the wisteria vines that grew over the small trellis above his door and watched his daughter fumble with the gate latch, he could not suppress the enduring wonder that he and Candace had produced such beauty.
Today she was dressed in white clam-diggers that sat low on her slender hips, a bright green shirt, gold loop earrings, and gold sandals. He gloomily noted that she had a black duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
Small-boned and deceptively delicate-looking, Dee had the wide deep-set eyes of his family. Their intense green came from her mother, though, as did her long reddish-brown hair. From the genetic pool, she had drawn his thin Bradshaw nose and strong chin. The dimple in her right cheek had skipped a generation and came straight from his late mother-in-law, one of those trashy Seymours from east of Dobbs.
Or so he had been told by white-haired colleagues who sometimes, when in their cups, waxed nostalgic about that dimple and, behind his back, wondered aloud if they had sired his wife.
He himself could not put a face to Candace’s mother. Before they lost their money, the Bradshaws had sent their children to private schools, so he had no direct memory of Alice Seymour Wells or her husband, Macon, even though the three of them were native to the county and must have been about the same age.
As the gate finally clicked open, Dee spotted him in the shaded doorway.
“Mom’s kicked me out again,” she said, her full red lips poked out in a childish pout. She dropped her duffle bag onto the white iron patio table, where her father had planned to spend a peaceful afternoon. “Like it’s my fault George puked on her fuckin’ couch.”
“You let him in the house?” asked Bradshaw, who still winced at the crudities young women so carelessly voiced today. “I thought she told you to quit seeing him.”
“And I told
“Then she said, ‘Not in
“Been there, done that, haven’t you, Dad?”
“When are you going to quit yanking her chain, honey? If you’re really going to drop out of college this near graduation, then don’t just threaten to get a job. Do it. Stand on your own two feet.”
“Like you do? Taking an allowance from her every month?”
His thin lips tightened. “It’s not an allowance, Dee. And it comes out of the company, not from your mother.”
“A company you started long before you met her.”
“A company I still own,” he reminded her. “And one that she helped build up to what it is today.”
“So what? She couldn’t have gotten her foot in half those doors without the Bradshaw name. And then you just gave it all to her and walked away.”
It was an old complaint and one he was tired of hearing, especially since it was not strictly true. Yes, he had handed control of the company over to Candace when they separated, but it was with the stipulation that he would receive a certain percentage of the profits in perpetuity.
“I was ready to retire and it’s an equitable arrangement.” He brushed away a spent blossom that had dropped onto his white hair from the wisteria vine above his head.
“You sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“She could be cooking the books, couldn’t she?”
“Not with my accountant going over them twice a year.”
“And how do you know she’s not screwing him twice a year just to screw you?”
In spite of her language, Cameron Bradshaw was amused to picture nerdy little Roger Flackman in bed with Candace. She would eat him alive. On the other hand, that last check had been smaller than usual. He had put it down to her preoccupation with her new position on the board of commissioners, but what if she and Roger really were—?
“So anyhow,” said Dee, interrupting his thoughts as she picked up her duffle bag, “can I crash with you for a few days till Mom gets over being mad about the damn couch?”
