Where Rivers Part (6 page)

 7 

J
uliet pulled into the small parking lot of the New Beginnings birthing center, located on a lot next to the campus of the Talavera Community Church, a multibuilding complex off Bandera Road. According to Juliet's mother, the elder board had generously donated the land at her request, a fact that brought her mother a lot of personal pride.

TCC, as her mother referred to it, was a megachurch by anyone's standards, with members numbering in the thousands. The pastor's messages were broadcast via a weekly television program with a national following that rivaled Oprah. Well, maybe not that big . . . but he did have more books on the front tables of their local bookstores than James Patterson and Lisa Scottoline combined.

Juliet had been seventeen when her mother claimed she'd “accepted Jesus.”

She'd been sitting at the kitchen counter with a bag of Fritos and an open biology textbook when her mother appeared dressed in cream-colored slacks and a navy blouse and told her she was going out with Sandy. “Honey, I probably won't be home until late. I left a chicken and rice casserole.” She dug in her bag for her car keys. “In a half hour, turn the oven to 350 degrees, and make a salad for you and your father,” she added before heading for the door.

Juliet remembered thinking her mother was far too optimistic, given her father hadn't made it home for dinner in over a month. As if reading her mind, her mom stopped and looked back in her direction. “If he's not home by seven, put the remaining casserole in some Tupperware and store it in the fridge.”

Later Juliet learned Sandy and her mother had attended a Billy Graham crusade that night. Local newspapers reported the four-day event drew nearly two hundred fifty thousand people and filled the Alamodome for the first time in its three-year history. On the last night, some even watched from nearby Hemisfair Park, including her mom, who in the days following traded her weekly martini night with the girls for a fellowship group, which met in various homes for Bible study.

Juliet had watched with amusement as her father's face drew into a puzzled frown. “What do you mean you're
born
again
?” To his credit, he tried to talk his wife out of it. “Carol, what sense does it make that a man died and then three days later he came alive again? That's scientifically impossible.”

Her mother remained unmoved by his logic. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” she quietly responded. “I don't need physical proof. I believe what the Bible says.”

In the end, Juliet's father accepted his wife's new faith. As had she. They didn't really have a choice. And it had seemed to help her . . . with everything.

Juliet parked next to her mom's Buick Enclave. After checking her iPhone for messages, she made her way inside, where she found her mother on a ladder painting what appeared to be some kind of quote on the front lobby wall.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her mother turned, paintbrush in hand. “Oh, honey. What a surprise!” She pointed to her handiwork. “Do you like it? When I'm finished, it'll read, ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made.'” She
grinned broadly and dipped her long-handled brush in the paint can nested on the top of the ladder. “From Psalm 139.”

“Mom, please be careful up there. You could fall.”

“Oh, pooh. I'm fine.” She motioned to an overstuffed chair next to the window. “Sit, sit. I'll be done in a couple of minutes.”

Juliet nodded and sank into the chair to watch. Her mom returned to her task, finishing up the lettering. Her short red-haired bob was tied up in a cute scarf, and she wore a matching apron over her T-shirt and jeans.

To pass the time, she picked up a magazine on a nearby table. The pages were filled with photos of pregnant women and articles on caring for infants.

“That'll be you someday.”

Juliet looked up at her mother, confused. “What do you mean?”

Her mother pointed at the magazine. “You,” she said. “I can't wait to see you wearing maternity clothes and deciding what color to paint your nursery.”

Juliet held up an ad. “And buying hemorrhoid cream? Uh, no thank you.” No matter how much her mom pushed, motherhood was not a club she was anxious to join.

With one flowing stroke, her mom painted a perfect letter
F
in a calligraphy font. She leaned back to inspect her work. “You won't remember the bad parts, honey. Only the good.”

Juliet closed the magazine and tossed it back on the table. “Well, that's a ways off. I have to find someone I'd want to marry first.”

“Well, if you're having trouble in that department, there are some nice men at the church. I could introduce—”

“Uh, no,” Juliet interrupted. “That's okay. I don't have time for any of that right now.” Greer Latham flashed in her mind. Her mother would never approve of her casual relationship with a co-worker. And Greer wasn't exactly marriage material. “To tell you the truth, Mom, I'm not sure I'd enjoy being someone's wife.”

Her mom opened her mouth to argue when a woman with gray
hair and bright red glasses peeked her head into the lobby from down the hallway. “Carol, the plumbers called. They'll be here Monday morning, as promised.”

Juliet's mom nodded. “Okay, Jean. Thanks.”

The woman wiggled her fingers at Juliet before retreating back down the hall.

Her mother placed the brush carefully across the top of the paint can and stepped down. She wiped her hands on a rag. “Honey, take some advice from someone who loves you more than her own soul—life is so much better when shared with someone.”

“Not always.” Juliet felt the words escape before she had time to consider their impact.

Her mother dropped the rag onto a rung, nearly toppling the can off the top. “I know what you're implicating,” she said.

“But—”

Her mother held up her hand, cutting her off. “But, nothing. Yes, your father made mistakes. He's human.”

Juliet shook her head. “Mom—all those women.”

“That's between us.” Her mother gathered herself. “You never understood. I loved him. We got through it.”

Juliet's throat went thick with unshed tears, and she sank deeper in the chair. “Well, someone had to fight. You didn't.”

Her mom's face softened. She placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder, then knelt at her feet. “Sweetheart, I did fight. I fought
for
my marriage. I forgave him. That doesn't mean I placed a stamp of approval on what he did. It means I accepted his apology and released my husband from any grudge I might hang on to—so he could be free to choose a more honorable way of living.” She took Juliet's hands in her own. “We are never more like God than when we forgive.”

Juliet wanted to roll her eyes at the Christian cliché. Instead, she stared across the room at the freshly constructed admitting desk. Her mother was quick, smart, and well-read, but when it came to
her father and issues of faith, Carol Ryan's mind remained rigid as that countertop.

“I got way more than I gave up. Consider what I'm telling you.” Her mother patted her hand and stood. “Forgive him, Juliet.”

Juliet answered quietly, “I'm sorry, Mom. I can't.”

Her mother's eyes filled with sadness. She sighed and stood. “I swear you two are just alike. You even chose the same line of work.”

“No, Mom. We have very different jobs. Dad talks about food safety . . . and I'm on the front line actually making sure food products are safe.”

 8 

O
n Sunday morning, Juliet woke to chimes ringing from the San Fernando Cathedral, located only a half mile from Greer's downtown condominium. It took her a few disoriented minutes to remember where she was and why. She lifted from his sofa and opened her drowsy lids to bright sunlight streaming through the plate-glass windows no longer shaded by drapes, indicating Greer must already be up. That thought barely crossed her mind when he appeared at the doorway, a mug of hot steaming coffee in hand.

“Want some?” he asked.

She nodded, and he moved to the edge of the sofa and handed her the cup. He grinned. “I'd like to think I'm exciting enough not to put a woman to sleep by ten o'clock.”

Juliet sat up. She smoothed her wrinkled shirt. “Sorry, I haven't been sleeping through the night lately. Guess I was exhausted.”

He sat on the edge of the sofa next to her. “Forgiven. This time,” he teased.

She wrapped her fingers around the mug, leaned against the pillows, and took a sip of the steaming liquid. “Normally, I take advantage of my insomnia and catch up on some reading I need to plow through.”

He smiled, showing off a perfect set of white teeth. “You stay up and read in the middle of the night?”

Juliet nodded. “Better than television programming at that hour.” She glanced at the clock on the side table. “How long did I—” She bolted up. “Is it really nine o'clock?”

Greer slid a finger down her arm. “Why so tense?”

Juliet stared across the sterile-looking room, decorated in monochromatic shades of gray with dark wood furniture and metal accents, trying to come up with an appropriate answer. “I'm not tense. I just—”

Her phone buzzed.

Greer leaned to pick it up. She quickly grabbed his arm. “No! Don't.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Okay.” He slowly withdrew his hand, clearly confused.

“It's likely my mother,” she explained. “She always calls on her way home from church.” She checked the screen and confirmed it was indeed her mother calling and clicked off the phone. “I'll call her back later.”

No doubt her mom had called her own house first, and when Juliet didn't pick up, she tried her cell. If Greer had answered, her mom could have easily put two and two together. She wasn't exactly pure as snow, but she didn't like the idea of pointing out that fact to her mother.

Greer scowled. “How old are you exactly?”

“I know, I know.” Using her free hand, she pulled the afghan up and tucked it around her. Juliet barely understood her need to closet her relationship from everyone, especially her mother. How could she make him understand?

From the look on Greer's stubble-shadowed face, he knew what she was thinking. “I don't get it, Juliet. What is it with you and your parents?”

Her eyes followed his manicured nails as they made their way up her arm. She swallowed, not entirely comfortable with his question. “It's hard to explain.” She pulled the mug to her lips and took a sip of coffee.

Greer tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Your father is a highly respected voice in your profession. From a purely business perspective, I would think you'd benefit from mending whatever is broken between the two of you.”

She could tell by the way he looked at her he thought she was acting like a petulant teenager swept by her moods. “Think about it,” he urged.

Irritation sparked in her gut. Why was everyone pushing her to play Chelsea Clinton?

It was time she took control.

With a sly grin, she slid her mug onto the table. “So . . . you want to spend our Sunday morning talking about my parents?” She locked her gaze with his.

He reached and clicked a remote, sending a light sax tune sifting through the speakers mounted in the ceiling. “I know what you're doing,” he said.

Juliet raised her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What's that?”

Greer moved closer. “You're avoiding this conversation you never want to have.”

She buried her face against his neck, taking in the slight scent of Acqua di Gio cologne still clinging from the day before.
Guilty
as charged
, she thought.

Juliet felt his fingers run through her hair. “Don't worry,” she assured him. “I've got everything handled.”

She lifted her face and waited for his lips to find her own, while outside, the church chimes rang yet again in the distance.

“Where are you going?”

Juliet slipped into her jacket and zipped up. She glanced over at Greer, propped up against the back of the sofa, his sandy-colored hair still perfectly in place. “I told you. I have to go back to the office.”

He reached out. “C'mon, babe. What project is so important it can't wait until tomorrow?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do I have to remind you about the workload my department is under, given the demands of the Water Circus deal?”

“At your level, you oversee the effort. Let Malcolm Stanford carry the ball when it comes to the lab operations. He's the supervisor. He's qualified.” Greer turned and straightened a cushion. “In case I have to remind you, supervisors make a nice salary. Let him earn it.”

Juliet pulled her loafers from the floor. “Can't.” She bent and slipped them on.

Greer pulled her backward and moved to kiss her.

Juliet blocked him with her arm. “Now I know what
you're
doing.”

He laughed. “Busted.” He diverted and gave her a peck on the forehead. “Seriously though, Juliet. Take some advice. If you're going to score in the executive leagues, you're going to have to coach and let your quarterback run the ball into the end zone.”

She gave him a look. “Are you really going to use a football analogy on me? You—a guy who doesn't even know a quarterback from a fullback?”

“True,” he responded, “but if I played for the PGA, I'd be on the top of the leader board every time.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Which is why . . .” He paused, trying to attract her full attention. When she failed to look at him, he gently took her chin and turned her to face him. “Which is why you are going to skip going to the office this afternoon so you can join me and Alexa on the back nine at Dominion.”

He got her attention. “You're playing golf with Alexa?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but the fact he had a tee time set up with their boss and just now was mentioning that fact put her on edge.

“I was going to invite you earlier, but . . . well, I got a little distracted.” He folded his arms behind that perfect head of hair.

“What time?” she asked, mentally calculating how she might juggle her work to fit in a round of golf. With everything she had on her plate, she'd have to work through the night to make up for it, but she wasn't about to pass up a whole afternoon of face time with Alexa Carmichael. She especially wasn't going to forfeit and let Greer continue to position himself with the CEO of Larimar Springs.

Call it jealousy if you want, but Juliet was already thinking Greer had grown a little too arrogant when it came to work, and somebody needed to mow him down a little. Professionally speaking, of course.

Besides, who was he to suggest she needed to coach her lab supervisor? A good leader never failed to get their hands dirty in the everyday. She'd stay in the trenches with the troops. That way, when the grenades hit, she'd know exactly how to take cover.

Sure, Malcolm Stanford could be a real pain. She wouldn't argue that. But she didn't need Greer Latham, or any man for that matter, telling her how to do her job—or how to relate to her father.

“What time are you teeing off?” she repeated, a little more harshly than she'd intended.

A slight grin broke on Greer's face. “One o'clock.”

After racing home for a quick shower, Juliet grabbed her Calloways and tossed her bag in the hatch of her Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Greer Latham might be a scratch golfer, but her own handicap wasn't shabby. She could hold her own—behind a desk and on the greens, a fact she'd bragged about the first time she met Greer.

She'd been home for Fiesta last spring, and some girlfriends from high school prodded her to join in an afternoon of fun. Feeling more than festive, the four of them took a cab out to Brackenridge Park—known by the locals as Old Brack—and rented clubs. After a less-than-stellar nine-hole round, she followed the girls into the
clubhouse for a refresher. Patty Jo spotted him first, sitting at the bar pouring a can of cola into his glass, followed by a healthy squeeze of lime. “Oh my heavens, look at
him
,” her friend said in a low voice filled with admiration. “He couldn't have even broken a sweat out there—not and look like that.”

True, the man in the light blue polo and pressed chinos ranked pretty high on the gorgeous meter. Even before he turned around, she could tell he was model perfect, like he'd stepped out of a magazine—hence the nickname Mr. GQ.

He turned and their eyes met.

Like most women, she was attracted to his chiseled jawline and the way his cheeks dimpled slightly when he smiled. But his eyes—his eyes were a magical blend of blue, as deep and stirring as the ocean water that had captivated her attention on a road trip along the Oregon coast, near a place called Devil's Cauldron.

Despite the admiration heaped on him by her friends, Greer's attention that afternoon focused solely on her. Nothing about Greer Latham was subtle. He unashamedly targeted his frequent glances in her direction, and later his conversation.

Juliet ditched her friends and let him drive her home. Despite what had originally appeared a chilly exterior, she found him warm and engaging. In no time, she discovered herself opening up, telling him about her family and her job, and eventually, when he asked about her father, she let her guard drop a bit. Without disclosing details, she revealed the tension between them.

“Well, he raised you. He's got that going for him,” he'd responded, cementing her budding affection.

She spent several evenings out with Greer before returning to New York, and many more evenings last spring with her eyes glued to her phone app as they exchanged tweets. When she saw his hashtag #MoveHome4JobIFound4U, she let herself take a ride on the wild side. She bought a ticket, met with Alexa Carmichael, and soon became quality assurance director for Larimar Springs.