Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(32)

I shake my head and scrub a hand down my face to wake myself up. "Um, she's not here right now."

"This is her phone, right?"

"Yes, sorry." I give her my cell phone number. "She's reachable on this other number until this evening." This is an absolute farce. How could two lives possibly get more complicated over a set of phones?

"Thank y—"

"Wait." I swallow. "Is everything all right? You said it was an emergency."

"Are you related to Miss Dubois?"

"No, but—"

"Then, I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to tell you. But if you hear from her, can you please ask her to call us as soon as possible?"

"Is it . . ." I rack my brain for the name. "David. Is it about David, is he all right?"

"I can't tell you, I'm sorry. I need to hang up so I can call her."

"Sorry. Yes, if I speak to her, I'll let her know you called."

I press end on the phone and sit down heavily in the desk chair. Apparently I missed four calls before I'd answered. Grabbing my unfinished water bottle from last night, I chug down the rest of it. Realizing I never quite got to the bottom of who David is to Emmy, I pull out my computer and type in Rockaway Nursing & Rehabilitation, learning that it's a senior care facility. I remember a David calling several times the first day I had Emmy's phone, but as soon as I'd answered, he'd hung up. He probably thought he'd dialed the wrong number. I didn't answer the next few times he tried.

I open the text message app.



* * *



Rockaway Nursing trying to get hold of you urgently.



* * *



I start typing Let me know if there's anything I can do and then delete it. I only need to pass along the information.

God, I spent way too long stalking Emmy last night. I was using her as a distraction to what was going on in my life. She's obviously taken the place of my usual methods. And it has to stop. We are getting far too involved in each other’s lives.

A quick workout and hot shower later, I check in with Dorothy then Mac to make sure everything is on for the closing of the deal next week. Dorothy still hasn't had any luck finding me a hotel. If Beau lived in town, I'd ask him if he had a spare room. Damn, I'd take a couch right now.

After I pack my roll-on, I head downstairs to meet with the Montgomery matriarch.



* * *



Isabel Montgomery stands, drawing my attention as soon as I enter the small but elegant lounge area.

She takes a step forward and holds out her hand. "Trystan."

"Isabel," I reply, accepting her handshake.

She clasps both cold, papery hands around mine and squeezes. It's a rare display of affection.

Clearing my throat, I look past her at the seating area. She's chosen two arm chairs in the corner that face each other and share a small table. A carafe of coffee and two cups are already there. "Shall we?" I ask.

"Let's." She purses her lips in what may or may not be an attempt at a polite smile, it's hard to tell, and holds her pearls as she lowers herself back to where she was sitting.

A server materializes silently.

"Are you eating?" Isabel asks me.

I don't have a menu, but I look up. "An omelet if you have it. Chef's choice."

"Very good, sir," the man inclines his head and melts away.

I pour some coffee in my empty cup and wait for Isabel to say whatever it is she needs to.

It's not until I've added cream, stirred, and taken a sip that she begins. I watch her over the rim of the delicate fine china cup I'm holding.

"It was . . . as I said, a shock to see you," she says and again her hand comes nervously to her throat. "I didn't know you'd heard of your grandfather's passing, let alone that you would come. And well, now with . . . the will, of course, it makes sense."

She looks at me expectantly, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to say. So I wait.

She breathes out, and her eyes flick away and back, becoming hard. "You're determined to make this unpleasant, aren't you?"

A stab of hurt, a memory from my childhood, hits low in my chest, but I do my best to use it to fuel annoyance instead. "I'm not determined to do anything, Isabel. You asked to see me." I take another sip of coffee. "And I do wish you'd get to the point."

She wrings her hands in her lap. They are bony with age, the knuckles a tiny bit out of proportion to the delicate line of her. Arthritic, perhaps.

"Look, Isabel." I soften slightly. "I'm sorry for your loss. I imagine it must be devastating to lose your life partner. And I'm sorry that seeing me was a shock. I am sure you were quite satisfied that you'd effectively cut my mother and me out of your life for good, and I—"

"I made a mistake." Her mouth pinches, and she looks away and blinks several times.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I made a mistake. I . . . was hard on her. And perhaps I shouldn't have turned my back on her like I did if it meant we lost you too."

I stare at her, my breath stalled in my lungs.

"Don't . . . you . . . dare," I finally manage in a low tone. Then abruptly lean forward.