Bed Of Roses (The Five Senses Series Book 4) Read online

  She grabbed her purse. Pulling her wallet clear, she dug an old photo from the plastic sleeve. The picture was faded and crinkled, but she could still clearly see the image of her mother, staring down the camera. Mal was eleven-years old, crowding her mother, gazing in adoration at the woman. A broad grin stretched across her face. She held a red, white, and blue pinwheel in one hand and Harriet’s hand with the other. Her mother, in stark contrast, had a grimace on her face, what must have passed for a smile that summer. And although Mal clutched her mother’s hand, it looked more like she was clutching a dead fish. Harriet’s fingers didn’t curl around hers. There was nothing warm about the woman with ash blond hair and steely blue eyes.

  Would Gaby look like their mother like Mal did? Would they share coloring? She imagined her sister as a little mini-me, petite and fair. It was unlikely her sister would be short. Harriet was statuesque, a true Valkyrie. Mal had gotten her looks from Harriet but her size from Dad.

  Oh, God! How was Dad going to take this news? She knew he’d harbored the hope for reconciliation, too. This news would crush him.

  A glimmer of a thought bloomed at the back of her mind. Harriet had passed away a week ago, about the time Dad had turned back into the happy man she’d referred to as Drinking Dad. He knew! Her father had known her mother had died in that car accident. He’d been morose on the day of the accident. Mal distinctly remembered catching him rubbing his eyes as if wiping tears away. She’d asked if he was okay, and he’d complained about a headache and escaped to the back room of the shop. Headache, her ass. Her father had known and hidden the truth from her.

  She slapped her palm hard against the wooden countertop. The sharp sound splintered the afternoon quiet of the shop. This is why she never wanted to be a parent. Her mother was a deserter, her father a liar. Those were the genes she was cursed with. Anger crackled along her spine, jabbing between her shoulder blades. Mal had been forced into a parental role with Dad at much too young an age. She’d sucked at it. The idea of repeating history with a child of her own rankled.

  Frowning, she grabbed the phone and punched in Dad’s number, but stopped prior to hitting Send. This was a conversation best held in person. It would be an opportunity to read expressions and interpret body language. Besides, once she got on a roll, she didn’t want to argue with him in front of any customers who might walk into the shop. There’d be time enough to address the issue with him when he came over for dinner tonight.

  That Dad had kept tabs on Harriet from the moment she’d left nearly drove Mal to her knees. Knowing he hadn’t bothered to share the information with his only daughter was like a catalyst, driving her anger and disgust.

  Running agitated fingers wildly through her hair, she cast a glance around the business she’d built from scratch. This business was the one place she’d found any real comfort or joy. Dad had started working here three years ago as part of her plan to keep him out of trouble. And this was how he repaid her? Hiding the truth, telling lies, and lapsing back into the bottle. Anger seethed to the surface again, but this time she didn’t try to push it back into place.

  She stalked through the fragrant shop to the workroom at the back, grabbing a stack of cleaning rags as she went. She might as well channel the extra energy into spiffing up the glass shelves and windows.

  * * * *

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you knew where Harriet was?”

  Dad had let himself in the front door, then shuffled into her kitchen. He set a bottle of wine on the counter. Great, just freaking awesome. He’d been to the liquor store.

  When she’d arrived home, her anger hadn’t calmed at all. The kitchen was a clear reflection of her state of mind. A small cleaver lay on top of the bamboo cutting board instead of in its slot in the knife block. A bowl, mounded with the results of her labor, rested next to the gas cooktop. Hacking and chopping the defenseless veggies had taken some of the edge off her ire. Not as much as she’d hoped. Grains of white rice that had spilled onto the black granite counter remained where they fell.

  It was unlike her to leave a mess to clean later, but tonight, she couldn’t be bothered with tidiness. Several cream-colored cabinet doors were open, exposing their contents.

  “How did you find out?” Dad’s brows needled together, a straight, stark line matching the set of his lips.

  Angry heat rose in her cheeks. He’d just confirmed his knowledge. She huffed out a frustrated breath. “I had a call from her attorney today. Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew where she was? Do you know how stupid I felt not knowing she lived less than thirty minutes away? Jesus Christ, Dad, how could you keep that from me?”

  He sagged onto the chair next to the drop-leaf table. His face crumbled, instantly aging him beyond the ravages of past drinking bouts. The toll was evident in the wrinkles lining his forehead and in the florid flush on his nose and cheeks. Usually, he had the ruddy complexion of someone who’d spent hours in the sun. At the moment, garish red stood out against his otherwise pale skin.

  “Malin, I... You see...” His voice trailed away as his left eye trembled. A twitchy eyelid had always been Ben Eckert’s tell.

  “Don’t lie to me, Dad. How long have you known?”

  “If ever there was a time for a drink, now would be it. Rehashing old wounds isn’t going to help.” His eyes beseeched her to let it go.

  But she couldn’t. God knew, she wished it were that easy, but it wasn’t happening. She narrowed her eyes at him and canted her head to the side, waiting for him to continue.

  He blew out a breath. “You could never leave well enough alone, girlie. Fine. I’ve known since a month after she left us.”

  Mal’s stomach dropped to her feet, then lurched back to her throat. Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the edge of the table hoping to regain her balance. So long?

  “Why? How?” she whispered, barely able to push the words past tense lips.

  Dad laid his hand over hers. “She called after she got settled. She wanted to give me her address so I could forward her mail.”

  Fighting a losing battle, Malin struggled to not give voice to the question searing her thoughts. She shouldn’t ask. The words would do nothing but rip away the scab that had formed over the wound. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at her father. “Did she ask about me?”

  He paused. “I’m sorry, girlie. She never asked.” His voice was soft, filled with regret. “She cared about her bills and magazines, but not about us. I thought it best to not speak of it.”

  Malin’s eyes snapped open in time to see Dad blink tears away. “You kept up with her whereabouts this entire time.”

  “Yes. She stopped communicating with me about fifteen years ago. But I kept checking on her.”

  “You still love her,” Malin accused.

  He nodded.

  Suspicion stabbed beneath her heart. “Do you wish you’d left with her?” It was a question she’d never dared to ask until now.

  His hesitation was all the confirmation she needed. The knowledge turned the remnants of her lunch into a lump of stone in her stomach. If Harriet had given him an ultimatum, her or Malin, Ben would have chosen his wife. Every bit of fight and anger fled Malin’s body. She jerked her hand away from his and took a step back.

  “Yes, I do still love her. I always will. I wish she’d have never left either of us. Raising you by myself was hard, but I love you. You’re my girlie.”

  “I think you’re confused about who raised whom.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the counter. Her words were a low blow, but she was beyond caring. Hurt warred with rage, and she chose to let temper win.

  His face went hard, his eyes snapping with anger to match hers. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be a father...to be your dad. It doesn’t change the fact that Harriet didn’t want to be a mother.”

  She laughed, the sound harsh and mirthless. “She didn’t want to be my mother, but apparently she didn’t mind being Gaby�
��s mom. They were quite close according to Harriet’s attorney.”

  “Have you been drinking, girlie? What are you talking about?”

  “Harriet got herself a whole new family. Did you know about them, too? A new husband and daughter. Her husband died three years ago, and now she’s gone, too, leaving young Gaby all alone. Guess who dear old Mom named as guardian?”

  Dad’s eyes widened. His shock looked believable.

  She continued, “Yep, in a colossal exhibition of irony, the woman who didn’t stick around to teach me the finer points of being a mom is entrusting daughter number two to my tender, loving care.”

  “You must be mistaken. Why in the world would she do that?”

  Malin blew out an exasperated breath. “Damned if I know. She hated being my mother so much she had to go. Maybe it was her final bitchy jab at me. Make the child she couldn’t abide raise the daughter she loved.”

  Dad stood up and approached her. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Or maybe, she knew you’d take good care of her. Maybe she believes, believed, you’d be the one person who’d understand how much her dying would affect Gaby, making you most qualified to help her.”

  “How the hell would she know that? She hasn’t spent a single second with me since I was twelve.”

  A shadow of emotion flickered in his eyes before he shifted his gaze away, gnawing on his lip. Dropping his chin to his chest, he shook his head.

  Panic edged its way into her chest, scorching its way past anger. “I don’t want this responsibility. I’m not cut out to be a mother any more than Harriet. She has some nerve.”

  “Malin, you’ll be a fine mother. And remember, Harriet chose you. You may be the only relative this young girl has. Family is important.”

  Malin scoffed. “You’d never know it from past behavior.”

  “Girlie, I’m begging you to let go of your bitterness and resentment. For the sake of your...sister. If she was as close to your mother as the attorney says, this is a very difficult time for her. This girl’s life has changed, and you have to help her get through this any way you can. The way I did for you.”

  “Stop calling her my mother. I don’t have a mother.”

  “Anymore, you mean. You’ll help your sister through this because you are a very special woman.” Dad shifted around until they stood side by side and slipped his arm around her shoulders. Close enough to smell whiskey on his breath.

  Dismay gathered in her chest and tugged hard, jerking her out of the funk. “Is Harriet’s death why you started drinking again?”

  Dad hung his head, but not fast enough to keep her from seeing the shame written in his eyes. “I wasn’t sure you knew. If you’d guess I’d fallen off the wagon. I wish it wasn’t so, but yes. There are no more chances she’ll come back to me, you see. I’d hoped after Burton Jansen died, she’d want me...us again. It’s why I agreed to rehab. Now that she’s gone, there doesn’t seem to be a good enough reason to stay sober. I’m tired of fighting the constant need for a drink.”

  “Oh, Dad,” she said. Sadness slithered though her like a poisonous snake. “I needed you then, and I still need you. Can’t you—”

  The vehement shaking of his head cut her words off. “Girlie, you don’t need me. You never really did.”

  She turned to face him. “You’re wrong. I do need you. Now more than ever. I need you, and I think Gaby will, too. Please, for our sakes, please stop drinking. I’ll do whatever I have to help, or badger or browbeat you back to sobriety.”

  “I believe you will, girlie. I do believe you will.”

  Chapter 5

  Gunnar loved nighttime at his gym. The sky outside was dark while lights blazed inside. Dramatic, daylight-bright lighting reached every corner of the building, dispelling shadows, gleaming off shiny metal weight bars and display screens on the cardio equipment.

  One wall of his office was made up of windows. From his vantage point on the upper mezzanine of the two-story gym, he overlooked the vast expanse of floor space and equipment. When he’d finally taken possession of the club five months earlier, he’d purchased and installed new machines. The expense was a huge chunk of change, but the investment appeared to be paying off in new members. The state of the art weights and cardio systems had generated a lot of buzz. Muted music from the gym’s broadcast system penetrated the quiet of his office.

  At the moment, all his attention was focused on the spreadsheet displayed on his computer. He’d been staring at the numbers, perplexed and mildly alarmed, for the better part of three hours. As the hour hand on the clock swept around again, his gut twisted. Memberships had increased and, in theory at least, income should be outpacing expenses. But the spreadsheet in front of him wasn’t living up to the expectation. In fact, it looked like he was losing money.

  Something was wrong with the big picture and, in spite of the business classes he’d aced at Dartmouth, he’d be damned if he could figure it out. He scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. The loud rasping sound disturbed the quiet stillness of the room.

  A knock sounded at the door only seconds before Walt Johns, one of the personal trainers, poked his head through the opening. “Hey. You’re here late today. What’s going on?”

  The man had the lean, muscled physique you’d expect in a personal trainer, built like an upside-down triangle. Gunnar had witnessed many of the female patrons cast covetous glances at the man. Good thing the gym provided towels to mop up their drool.

  Gunnar leaned back in his padded leather chair and stretched his legs under the desk. “Just a little bookkeeping. My ass aches from sitting too long. You done for the day?”

  “Just finished with my last client. It’s been back-to-back since I walked through the door this morning.” Walt leaned against the doorjamb and crossed muscle-bound arms over his chest. “I didn’t have time to eat anything other than a protein shake between my six and seven o’clock appointments. Needless to say, I’m starving. Want to go grab dinner and a beer somewhere?”

  Glancing at the spreadsheet again, Gunnar was torn. He liked the easy camaraderie among his staff, but he knew he’d be plagued by the accounting headache. His gut picked that moment to rumble, reminding him Walt wasn’t the only guy in the room who’d missed dinner. He reached for his mouse, saved, and closed the spreadsheet.

  “Hell, yeah. This freaking nightmare will still be here tomorrow, despite wishing it would vanish like a steak in front of a hungry guy.” Gunnar stood behind the desk and neatened a stack of papers. “I have to find George to let him know I’m leaving. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten.”

  Giving him a thumbs-up, Walt sauntered out of the office.

  Gunnar dropped a large ring of keys into the middle drawer and shoved several folders into the file cabinet positioned behind the desk. Digging his personal key ring from the pocket of his khakis, he meticulously locked the cabinet and his desk. He grabbed the walkie-talkie he used to communicate with his staff and called for his night manager.

  “Hey, George? Where are you?”

  “Locker rooms.”

  Great, right where he needed to go. “Stay there, I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

  “Will do.”

  On his way out of the office, he hit the light switch before he pulled the door shut. He trotted down two flights of stairs toward the laundry. He was confident he’d find George helping the high school-aged locker room attendants get caught up on their work. January was one of the busiest months. It often took several members of the management team to get the locker rooms stocked and ready for the next wave of members.

  “Getting ready to leave,” he said as he approached the towel desk. “Do you need anything before I take off?”

  George dropped a folded towel onto the two-foot stack in front of him and moved from behind the counter. “We’re good here. Housekeeping has already started the night routine. We’ll be out of here by eleven. Hey, before I forget, we’re running low on shaving cream and shower gel.”


  “Didn’t we just order three weeks ago? We’re blowing through the stuff faster than anticipated.”

  “We must have used last year’s membership numbers when we ordered.”

  “Yeah, but we ordered six cases. That should have lasted longer than a month.” Gunnar had suspected the supplies line item in his budget was one of the accounts bleeding the most. He’d have to implement stricter controls on inventory in the future. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension. He hated the paperwork accompanying the rights of ownership. “Fill out the requisition form and leave it in my box. I’ll order more in the morning. Anything else?”

  “Nope, have a great night. See ya tomorrow.”

  A loud beep sounded, and George saluted as he walked through the swinging gate and into the laundry area. He’d move what Gunnar knew would be a massive load of clean, wet towels from the new washer they’d just installed to the industrial-sized dryer. The machines easily processed one hundred towels at a time. Damn machines ran constantly this time of year.

  Gunnar spun on his heel and walked into the plush locker room to collect his belongings. After entering his personal code on a keypad, he pulled the door open. He shoved his water bottle into the mesh pocket on the side of his bag. A quick inspection of the locker room assured him everything was shipshape.

  When they arrived at Red’s Tavern, Molly the bartender greeted them. “Hey, Walt, Gunnar.”

  Once she’d seated them at an available booth, Walt turned on the charm. “Having a good evening, Molly?”

  “The night improved dramatically when you guys walked through the door.” Molly’s smile lit the darkest corners of the booth, and her gaze settled on Gunnar.

  “Molly, my love,” Gunnar teased. “When are you going to leave this glamorous life behind and run away with me? I can offer much better than the drudgery you find here. You could be folding towels with me.” Truthfully, if he wanted anyone to share the burden of ownership it would be Mal. Her business appeared to be a success. Maybe she could help him work magic with the gym’s bottom line. It wouldn’t be the only kind of magic they could make.