Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(63)

"But I can't just uproot Carrington like that.. .change her home, her school.. .not when I have no idea if this would work out or not."

"If you're asking for a guarantee. I can't give you one. All I can promise is we'll do our best."

"She's not even ten yet. Do you understand what it would be like, having her in the house? Little girls are noisy. Messy. They get into—"

"I've had four children," he said, "including a daughter. I know what eight-year-olds are like." A calculated pause. "Tell you what, we'll hire a language tutor to come here twice a week. And maybe Carrington will want piano lessons. There's a Steinway downstairs no one ever touches. Does she like to swim?...I'll have a slide put in at the pool. We'll throw her a big swim party on her birthday."

"Churchill." I muttered, "what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to make you an offer you can't refuse."

I was afraid he had done exactly that.

"Say yes," he said, "and everybody wins."

"What if I say no?"

"We're still friends. And the offer stands." He shrugged slightly and indicated his wheelchair with a sweep of his hands. "Pretty obvious I'm not going nowhere."

"I..." I raked my fingers through my hair. "I need to give this some thought."

"Take as long as you need." He gave me an amiable smile. "Before you decide anything, why don't you bring Carrington here to get a look at the place?"

"When?" I asked dazedly.

"Tonight for supper. Go pick her up from her after-school program and bring her here. Gage and Jack are coming. You'll want to meet them."

It had never occurred to me to want to meet Churchill's children. His life and mine had always been strictly separate, and the mingling of their elements made me uneasy. Somewhere along the way I had absorbed the notion that some people belonged in trailer parks and some people belonged in mansions. My concept of upward mobility had its limits.

But did I want to impose those same limits on Carrington? What would happen if I exposed her to a life so different from the one she had always known? It was like bringing Cinderella to the ball in a coach and sending her back in the pumpkin. Cinderella had been a pretty good sport about it; but I wasn't sure Carrington would be so complacent. And actually. I didn't want her to be.

CHAPTER 16

As I might have expected, Carrington had gotten extra dirty that day. She had grass stains on the knees of her jeans and splotches of poster paint down the front of her T-shirt. I picked her up at the door of her classroom and steered her into the nearest girls' room. Quickly I wiped her face and ears with paper towels, and brushed the tangles from her ponytail. When she asked why I was trying to make her look nicer, I explained we were going to dinner at a friend's house, and she'd better be on her best behavior or else.

"What's the 'or else'?" she asked, as always, and I pretended not to hear.

Carrington erupted with squeals of delight when she saw the gated estate. She insisted on climbing out of her seat to push the buttons through my open window while I read the code to her. For some reason it pleased me that Carrington was too young to be intimidated by the lavish surroundings. She rang the doorbell five times before I could stop her, and mugged for the security camera, and bounced on her heels until her light-up sneakers flashed like emergency signals.

This time an elderly housekeeper answered the door. She made Churchill and Gretchen look like teenagers. Her face was so gnarled and grooved she reminded me of one of those dried-up apple dolls with the tufts of white cotton for hair. The bright black buttons of her eyes were set behind glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. She had a Brazos Bottom accent that swallowed up her words as soon as they came out. We introduced ourselves, and she said her name was Cecily or Cissy, I couldn't tell which.

Then Gretchen appeared. Churchill had come downstairs in the elevator, she said, and he was waiting for us in the family room. She looked over Carrington and reached out to cup her face in her hands. "What a beautiful girl, what a treasure." she exclaimed. "You call me Aunt Gretchen, honey."

Carrington giggled and played with the hem of her paint-splotched shirt. "I like your rings," she said, staring at Gretchen's glittering fingers. "Can I try one on?"

"Carrington—" I began to scold.

"Of course you can," Gretchen exclaimed. "But first let's go in to see Uncle Churchill."

The two of them went hand in hand down a hallway, and I followed close behind. "Did Churchill tell you what he and I talked about?" I asked Gretchen.

"Yes, he did," she said over her shoulder.

"What do you think about it?"

"I think it would be a fine thine for all of us. With Ava eone and the children away, the house is too quiet."

We passed rooms with lofty ceilings and tall windows hung with silk and velvet and tea-stained lace. The walnut floors were scattered with Oriental rugs and clusters of antique furniture, everything done in muted shades of red, gold, and cream. Someone in the house loved books—there were built-in bookcases everywhere, filled from top to bottom. It smelled good in the house, like lemon oil and wax and antique vellum.

The family room was big enough to host an auto show, with walk-in fireplaces set on opposite walls. A circular table occupied the center, bearing a massive fresh flower arrangement of white hydrangea, yellow and red roses, and spikes of yellow freesia. Churchill was at a seating cluster on one side of the room, beneath a big sepia-toned picture of a tall-masted sailing ship. A pair of men rose from their chairs as we approached, an old-fashioned courtesy. I didn't look at either of them. My attention was riveted on Carrington as she approached the wheelchair.