Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir(32)
There had even been a time when that sort of power and cocky confidence would have impressed her. Now, though, it only made her nervous.
“I don’t want to be indebted to you, Marc,” she told him softly, honestly. “I don’t want to owe you anything, or know that The Sugar Shack has only expanded, is only successful, because you rode into town and saved the day with the Keller family fortune.”
“Why does it matter where the capital comes from, Vanessa? The important thing is that you’re getting your additional space and branching out into mail order.”
Shaking her head, she crossed her arms beneath her brea**sts and took a step back. “You don’t understand. It does matter, because if you come in waving your checkbook around and running roughshod over me and everyone else in this town, then it’s not my business anymore. It’s just another insignificant acquisition for Keller Corp’s multimillion-dollar holdings.”
Widening his stance, he copied her defensive position of arms over chest. “Don’t give me that. You asked Brian Blake to look for an investor you could work with. Preferably a silent one who would be willing to flush copious amounts of money into the bakery, but not have much say on how it was run or what you did with the cash. For the most part, that’s exactly what I’m doing. So your problem isn’t that I’m ‘waving my checkbook around,’ as you so eloquently put it. Your problem is that it’s my checkbook.”
“Of course that’s my problem,” she snapped, his earlier frustrations rubbing off on her. “We’ve been down this road before, Marc. The money, the influence, expecting everyone and everything to fall into line simply because your name is Keller.”
Uncrossing her arms, she raised her hands to cover her face for a minute, trying to collect her thoughts and her temper. Once she lowered them, her tone was more subdued.
“Don’t get me wrong, I liked it for a while. I enjoyed the lifestyle being your wife afforded me. The parties, the wardrobe, never having to worry about making ends meet.”
Oh, yes. After a lifetime of struggling, of working her fingers to the bone just to get by, marrying into money had been a welcome reprieve.
“But you have no idea what it was like to be your wife and live under that roof without truly being a Keller.”
His eyes narrowed, their green depths filling with genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? Of course, you were a true Keller. You were my wife.”
“That’s sure not how it felt,” she admitted softly, remembering all the times his mother had made a point of reminding her that she was a Keller by marriage only, making her feel as though she had no business even crossing the threshold of Keller Manor without a mop and feather duster in her hands.
“I’m sorry.” His arms slid from his chest and he started to reach for her, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hands to his sides. “I never meant to make you feel like an outsider.”
Guilt stabbed through her at the hurt look on his face. She opened her mouth to tell him that he hadn’t been nearly as big an offender as his mother, but a sharp rap on the glass cut her off, startling them both.
The same worker as before, apparently the man in charge of the rest of the crew, made an impatient face and tapped his watch. Time, as they said, was money, and he obviously wasn’t making any standing around on the sidewalk. Of course, Vanessa was sure Marc was paying them well, and most likely by the hour, regardless of whether they were actively working or not.
Marc lifted a hand, giving him the just a second gesture before turning back to her. “I’m going to need that key before these guys decide to sledgehammer their way in here.”
She licked her lips and swallowed, reluctant to do his bidding. She and Marc had been on the verge of an honest-to-goodness adult conversation. One where she’d finally almost worked up the courage to tell him the truth behind why she’d gotten fed up and left in the first place. She’d tried so many times in the past to let him know how she was being treated, how much she felt like an outcast in what was supposed to be her own home, but she’d never quite been brave enough to blurt it out.
Part of her had believed that if he loved her enough, if he understood her as much as a husband was supposed to understand his wife, then he would know what she was trying to say all the times she’d hinted at her growing unhappiness. Now, she realized that nobody should be expected to be a mind reader, especially someone of the male persuasion.
If only she had been wise enough and gutsy enough to simply tell him what was going on. Things might have turned out so differently.
But that was water under the bridge and any chance they might have had of wiping the slate clean this morning had disappeared with the carpenter’s untimely interruption.
Licking her lips again, she inclined her head. “I’ll get the key,” she said, turning on her heel and hurrying away.
Ten
“I swear, that racket is enough to make me want to jump into this oven myself.”
Vanessa raised her head from the perfect circles of pastry dough she was currently topping with raisin filling to watch Aunt Helen slide a tray of baklava into one of the industrial ovens and slam the door with a clang that only punctuated the loud, staccato sounds of construction coming from the other side of the bakery walls.
It hadn’t been easy to put up with both the noise and the added traffic of having so many workers around. She’d made dozens of apologies to customers, as well as creating Please excuse our dust and Apologies for the excessive noise signs. Thankfully, no real dust or debris had made it into the actual bakery side of the building, but having the crew around all day every day didn’t make it easy for folks to come in and enjoy a quiet cup of tea and scones.