Page 21 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
"I'm glad to hear that." I straightened and looked at Bill, whose expression had grown even more hostile. "I hope you know that if there's anything I can do to help?—"
"We're managing fine," Bill cut me off, his tone sharp enough to slice glass.
The rudeness was so unlike him that I found myself momentarily speechless. Bill Whitmore was many things—demanding, controlling, occasionally arrogant—but he was never openly hostile without cause. Our business relationship had been built on mutual respect and shared goals, our personal friendship on fifteen years of shared experiences and trust.
"I didn't mean to intrude," I said carefully. "I was concerned when I heard about the family emergency."
Bill's jaw tightened. "Family emergency?"
"Ivy mentioned that she needed to take time off for a family situation. I assumed?—"
"Isn't cancer enough of an emergency?" The words came out loaded with venom, each syllable pronounced with precision. "Or did you need something more dramatic to satisfy your curiosity?"
The attack was so unexpected, so disproportionate to anything I had said or done, that I took a step backward. Barbara reached up to place a restraining hand on her husband's arm, her expression mortified by his behavior.
"Bill," she said quietly. "Duncan is trying to be kind."
But Bill shook off her touch, his glare never leaving my face. The anger radiating from him was palpable, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with business disagreements or professional competition. This was personal, though I couldn't begin to understand why.
"I should let you get back to your afternoon," I said, recognizing that any attempt at conversation would only make the situation worse. "Barbara, please know that you're in my thoughts and prayers. If you need anything—anything at all—please don't hesitate to call."
I leaned down to kiss her cheek again, then walked away before Bill could unleash whatever was building behind his furious expression. As I rejoined Nick at the fountain, I could feel Bill's eyes boring into my back, tracking my movement with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
Whatever had gotten into him I was entirely unaware of it. My heart sank as I realized maybe he was just upset with me for not reaching out sooner. I was distracted and busy with work, just the sort of reason why I knew retirement was the only option. I let my personal life slip when people needed me most and it was time I changed that.
It might even have a positive effect on other situations, like Ivy and this strange new dynamic between us.
9
IVY
The kitchen chaos had become my favorite kind of madness. Sammy sat in his high chair, mashed sweet potato smeared across his cheeks and forehead, while Chrissy attempted to feed herself with a spoon that seemed to have a mind of its own. Elena, ever the perfectionist at three years old, carefully picked up each piece of cut-up chicken and examined it before deciding whether it met her standards.
"Mama, Sammy's making a mess," Elena announced, pointing at her brother who had discovered that sweet potato made excellent finger paint on his tray.
"That's what baths are for, sweetheart," I said, wiping Chrissy's face with a damp cloth. She giggled and tried to grab the washcloth from my hands.
Lauren sat cross-legged on the floor beside Elena's chair, making airplane noises as she guided a forkful of green beans toward the little girl's mouth. "Come on, Elena. The airplane needs to land in the hangar."
Elena opened her mouth and accepted the vegetables, then clapped her hands together. "More airplane!"
"You're so good at this," I told Lauren, grateful beyond words that she had stayed late again. The third week of June had been brutal. Mom's treatments left her exhausted and nauseous, barely able to leave her room most days. Dad had been walking around the house carrying a storm cloud above his head, snapping at everyone and retreating to his study whenever the children got too loud.
"I love these little monsters," Lauren said, tickling Elena's side until she dissolved into giggles. "Besides, you need the help. Your mom's having a rough go of it."
The reminder made my chest tighten. Mom had thrown up three times today and couldn't keep down even the bland crackers I'd brought her. The oncologist said this was normal, that we had to push through the difficult weeks to get to the other side, but watching her waste away felt unbearable.
"Mama sad?" Chrissy asked, reaching for my face with her messy fingers.
I caught her hand and kissed her palm. "Not sad, baby. Mama's okay."
But she wasn't wrong. The constant worry, the sleepless nights, the pressure of keeping everyone fed and clean and happy while my mother fought for her life—it all pressed down on me every waking moment. These dinner times with my children were the only respite I had, the only time when their laughter could drown out the fear.
Sammy banged his sippy cup against his tray and babbled a string of nonsense syllables that sounded remarkably close to actual words while simultaneously sounding like a language he was making up.
"Buddy…" I said sighed, hoping he'd focus on his food and stop making such a mess.
"Ba-ba-ba," he responded, then threw his cup on the floor.
