Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(9)
I had a vague recollection of where it was. My GPS led me the rest of the way, to a huge billboard marking the entrance to a gravel road. ROLLING GREEN SOD AND TREE FARM, it read. The long dirt driveway was flanked on both sides by fields of baby Christmas trees, the next big cash crop Steven would undoubtedly use as Exhibit A in his custody case against me. Not only could he afford to keep my children clothed and fed, he could give them the perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas to boot.
Sitting tall in her booster to see out the window, Delia directed me to park in front of a small construction trailer at the rear of the tree lot. I freed Delia from her car seat and followed her to the sales office, knocking once before poking my head inside the trailer door. Delia scooted around my legs and rushed toward the desk, beaming up at the pretty young blonde seated behind it. The receptionist couldn’t have been much older than nineteen or twenty, with a sweet smile and perky boobs. Just like Steven liked them. The poor thing. Theresa probably had no idea, and I almost felt sorry for her, too.
“Hi, Delia,” the girl cooed, rubbing my daughter’s head. Delia’s cap shifted a little, exposing the edge of the duct tape holding her hair in place. The girl wrinkled her nose at it, flashing me a conspiratorial grin as if she had discerned the backstory Delia’s hat was struggling to hide.
Oh, honey, I thought to myself, you have no idea.
“You must be Finlay?” the girl asked, standing to shake my hand. “I’m Bree. Mr. Donovan is expecting you.”
How sweet. She called him Mr. Donovan in the office. I wrinkled my nose and smiled back. “Thanks, Bree. I’m just here to pick up Zach.”
“They’re in the Zoysia. Just stay on the gravel about a quarter mile, until you pass the tractors on your left. He’ll be in the field right behind them.”
“Thank you,” I said, genuinely sad for her when I thought of all the heartbreak ahead of her—all the phalluses just waiting to be drawn in the dust on the windshield of her future. I wanted to tell her to run. To save herself while she still could. But I had been about the same age when I’d fallen for Steven, and if anyone had told me he’d turn out to be a philandering creep, I never would have believed them.
I took Delia’s hand and led her back to the car.
“Can I ride up front with you?” she asked when I opened the back door.
“No, sweetie. You need to be in your booster.”
“But Daddy lets me.”
“Daddy’s setting a bad example. It’s not very responsible of him. What if a policeman saw and gave him a ticket?”
Delia rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a real road, Mommy. Daddy says it’s private.”
“What if we were in an accident?”
“But nobody ever drives here!” she whined. “Only Daddy’s pickup truck. Sometimes, he even lets me ride in the very back.” She confessed this bit with an impish smile. I returned it, making a mental note to share that information with my attorney—if he’d bother to take my call. I was pretty sure his invoice was in the pile with all the other outstanding bills on my front step.
I strapped Delia into her car seat and we bobbed down the gravel road, kicking up dust behind us as we cut through Steven’s farm. I hated to admit that it was a beautiful piece of land. Wide open and flat with unobstructed views of the rolling Appalachian foothills to the west, the fields neatly sectioned in squares of varying shades of green. I found Steven’s pickup truck easily among them. The red paint popped against the bright shamrock backdrop, and I could just make out the arch of Steven’s back as he chased Zach behind the cab. Zach zipped around it, emerging on the other side, his heavy diaper nearly dragging along the ground.
Well played, Steven. Well played.
Steven scooped him up at the sight of my van and rushed him toward me, eager to get us all out of his way before his clients arrived. If I knew Steven, he’d have his pretty assistant hold them back at the office until our van was gone. He was a master at shell games, hiding his interests and using distractions to move them smoothly out of sight, preserving his impeccable image. Though I doubted even Steven could hide the toddler-size stains Zach had left on his logo-emblazoned dress shirt.
He dumped our son unceremoniously in my arms, much like I had done to him earlier that morning. Zach’s pacifier—the one that clipped to the front of his overalls—was nowhere to be found as he screamed bloody murder in my ear. “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Steven said over Zach’s shrieks. “I wish I had time to say hi to Delia, but my client’s going to be here any minute.” He waved over my shoulder, then swore under his breath. I turned to see Delia already out of her buckles and climbing out of the van. She ran toward us, leaping into Steven’s arms. He planted a kiss on top of her cap and set her down beside me, his gaze drifting anxiously down the road.
“Must be a big one,” I said, struggling to get Zach to settle.
“The developer for that new planned community in Warrenton I was telling you about,” Steven said absently. “Twenty-five hundred units over the next ten years.” He held up a finger to one of his crew members, letting us both know he only had a minute to wait.
I bounced Zach on my hip. He rested his head on my shoulder and his wails faded to pathetic moans. “Great, well, I don’t want to keep you. Where’s Zach’s blanket?”