Page 82 of Small Town Frenzy
His pause is slow; his eyes narrowed on mine. “What are you going on about, Buggy?”
“Please don’t call me that. I have never liked it, and you know that. Is that why you still use it? To upset me?”
Resting his hand on the books in front of me, he leans down. “Are you challenging me? You do realize everything in your life is because I gave it or allowed it?”
An undercurrent of that darkness he mentioned shifts his mood. “I’m trying to talk to you like a daughter to her father, but you entered the library with built-in resentment. Is it me that you resent? Is it that I had a child out of wedlock, and you lost your spot at the men’s club for two years? Is that what bothers you? You got it back, so there should be no issues.”
“I bought it back for a quarter-million-dollar donation.” He walks away, stopping in front of the ladder that reaches to the highest shelf. Crossing his arms over his chest stretches the shoulders of his suit. The threads pull as if hanging on for dear life. It’s not worth mentioning, as he would view it as a slight instead of helpful.
“Seems like a lot of money to pay people you used to call friends.”
He hits me with a glare, but it doesn’t last before he turns away from me again, walking to the windows on the far side of the room. “Why is everything with you a confrontation lately?”
“Me? I was just using the library.” Playing dumb is not a defense. I need a strategy, but I’m too tired to fight his battles. “Why is there a feud between the Dovers and the Greenes?”
His head jerks as if he had been slapped. There’s no other reaction or word spoken. I almost wonder if he didn’t hear me. He paces past me and then stops at the side of the table again. He taught me one golden rule in sales: the first one who speaks loses. “Why would that be of any interest to you?” His voice is not one I recognize. Nowhere in there is the stanch, cutthroat businessman. The harsh tone he used with me as a child has softened.
I haven’t been nervous until now. My palms are sweaty, and I press my hands to my thighs to stop them from shaking. I don’t back down, though. I raise my chin and ask, “Were you in love with Julie Ann Greene?”
His face drains of color, and he walks away from me. Sitting in a leather chair with his back to me, he stares at the stained glass window. “Did you know your mother made this with her own hands?” He glances back at me.
I look at the colorful glass again and see the bluebirdsand cardinals sitting on the tree branches. The sun works through the leaves, and the flowers dot the grass freely as if there were no plan, just like in nature. “I didn’t know that. It was always my favorite growing up.” I push up despite my unsteady hands and cross the room to sit in the chair next to him. My heart thunders in my chest, and I keep my eyes ahead, but whisper, “Griffin Greene is Jacob’s dad.”
The weight of his stare blankets me like a shroud. I refuse to be scared of him, and I won’t let that control me anymore. Releasing a deep breath, I turn to him, ready to face his wrath.
He drops forward, his forearms to his legs, and hangs his head down. I’m not sure what to make of it. I reach over and touch his back, realizing I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this close to him. “Dad?”
Turning his head, he looks at me. “Is that Julie Ann’s son?”
“Her eldest.”
When he sits back, a breath is knocked from him. “Destiny, karma, the universe always finds a way.”
I sit back, feeling small like I’m supposed to be learning some great lesson as I soak in the knowledge. It’s just ramblings that make no sense out of context. “What does that mean?”
“I respect your mother. I haven’t made it easy on her, and she still stood by me, holding the family together, keeping our name out of the gossip groups and gutter.” He casually angles toward me like we do this all the time.God, I wish we had.“Julie Ann Greene.” He sighs, messing with a button on his jacket. “You want to know what’s in those books? You want to know why the Dovers and Greenes chose a fight instead of being allies?”
“I do. I want to know all that because I can’t find anyoneelse who does. They don’t even know why we supposedly dislike them.”
That manages a grin out of him. Not a full one, but one that shows the story entertains him. “Seven generations back, the families settled here at the same time, became friends, and you can imagine,” he says, spinning his hand briefly to fill in what I assume might be the naughty parts a.k.a. the good part. “What happened after that? Someone fell in love. Someone got hurt. They stopped speaking and remained on bad terms.” He looks younger somehow when he seems happy. Is he happy?I am.This is the dad I always wanted him to be—talking, showing interest in me, treating me like I matter.
“That was a long time ago. We’re still holding grudges because of a broken heart from seven generations back?”
“We Dovers are good at grudges.”
“We sure are.” The story has me thinking whose heart got broken? “It had to be the Dovers with the broken heart.”
His interest has him sitting straighter and eyes widening. “Why do you say that?”
“Because we’re the ones holding the grudge. They’re not.”
A humorless laugh escapes him as his brows knit together. “They’re not? At all?”
“Nope. Not at all. They’re very happy, actually.”
Seemingly stunned by this information, he replies, “Remarkable.” He touches my arm like we’re close. An ache in my chest floats to the surface. Maybe one day. This conversation gives me hope. “The story doesn’t end there.”
“It doesn’t?”
