The Perfect Hope, Page 23

  “Hey, Ry, I need you to—”

  He whirled on an unsuspecting Beckett. “Fuck off.”

  “If something’s crawled up your butt, you’d better clench. I’ve got—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you’ve got. I said fuck off. I’m busy.”

  Several members of the crew slid a safe distance away.

  “So am I, so suck it up.” Beckett’s eyes narrowed, fired as hot as his brother’s. “If you swing at me, bro, I’m swinging back, but at least I won’t walk off the job.” He turned, pitched his voice to a shout. “Take lunch. Now. Everybody.”

  “I run the crew. I say when they break.”

  “You want to do this with an audience? Fine by me.”

  Ryder ground his teeth. “Lunch. Now. Clear out. Whatever’s going on at MacT’s,” he told Beckett, “deal with it yourself. I’m up to my ass here.”

  “I don’t give a single happy fuck what you’re up to. Knock off. Go the hell home. Go beat hell out of your speed bag or whatever.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “And I don’t take shit from you. If you’ve got a problem with the work, or you had some fight with Hope, just suck it, Ry. Yelling at me in front of the men makes you look like a dick.”

  “I don’t have a problem. I didn’t have a fight with Hope, for fuck’s sake. Get off my back.”

  Beckett walked over to the cooler, flipped up the lid. He took out a bottle of water, threw it at his brother. “Cool off,” he suggested when Ryder snagged it an inch from his face.

  Ryder considered heaving it back, then stewed as he twisted the top, gulped water. “Stupid blond bitch comes shoving her way up here, piling on Hope. Slapped her.”

  “Say what? Who? Hope slapped some blonde?”

  “Other way.” Ryder rubbed the cold bottle over the back of his neck. He wondered that steam didn’t rise off his skin.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Owen came in, still wearing his tool belt. “I had two of the crew come into MacT’s and tell me there was a catfight in the parking lot, and the two of you were going at it in here.”

  “Does it look like we’re going at it?”

  Owen studied his brothers. “It looks like you want to. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Ry was just telling me. Some blonde slapped Hope.”

  “Jesus Christ. A guest hit her?”

  “Not a guest.” And, Ryder realized, he was making a mess out of this. “Wickham’s new wife, the blond bitch. I came out to talk with the rep for the exterior paint system, and I see Hope talking to this fancy blonde, over by Carolee’s car. It looks tense, full of drama. Sounds like it because the blonde’s yelling her goddamn head off. I’m not getting into that, and the next thing I know, the blonde’s hauling off and slapping Hope. You could hear the fucking crack across the lot.”

  “For God’s sake,” Beckett muttered.

  “By the time I got over there, it looked like the blonde might take another shot. She’s yelling all manner of shit about how Hope’s having sex with that asshole, how she slept with him to make manager, and other loads of bullshit.”

  “Sounds like the asshole deserves the blond bitch,” was Owen’s opinion.

  “That may be, but she kept going after Hope, threatened to go to her boss and say how she was banging Wickham to get back down to D.C. That’s when Mom got into it.”

  “Mom was there.” For the first time Beckett smiled, showed his teeth. “I didn’t hear any ambulance.”

  “She must’ve walked out during, I didn’t see her, but she told the blonde to get gone and make it fast. There was more in there. Threats to call the cops.”

  “Mom said she’d call the cops?” Owen wanted to know.

  “The blonde. And I said we could do just that. Anyway, she left. It was a fucking mess.” He drank again. “She left.”

  “Okay.” Beckett took off his cap, dragged his hands through his hair. “Harsh, ugly, and done.”

  “She made Hope cry.”

  “Goddamn it.” Beckett leaned back against a wall. There was done, in his mind, and there was done. “It sounds like we need to take a little road trip, have a discussion with Wickham.”

  “And after I bail the two of you out of jail, what then?” Owen demanded. “Beating the living shit out of Wickham doesn’t help Hope. It won’t make her feel better.”

  “We’ll feel better,” Beckett said, and Owen was forced to nod.

  “Yeah, we would. Hell. I’ll drive.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Ryder told him. But knowing his brothers had his back defused the time bomb of temper.

  “Somebody’s got to post your bail,” Owen reminded him.

  “I’m not going to pound on anybody. Probably. I’ve got a better idea. I’ve gotta go. The two of you will just have to pick up the slack for the rest of the day. And keep my dog.”

  “What are you going to do?” Beckett demanded.

  “I’m not going to hit him in the face. I’m going to hit him in the wallet and the pride. I figure that’s something he’ll understand.”

  “Call if you need backup,” Owen said as Ryder stripped off his tool belt.

  “I won’t.”

  THE DRIVE TO D.C. gave him time to think. He really couldn’t afford the time, but saw no choice. Somewhere during the rise of temper and the fall of it, he’d figured where all this could, and likely would, go. The blonde, all pissed off and worked up, goes after Wickham about Hope. Dragging her into it again. She’d probably have plenty to say, too, at the hair salon, the nail place, the freaking country club.

  Tossing her personal brand of shit all over Hope’s name and rep.

  That damn well wasn’t going to happen.

  The whole load of bull could make Wickham decide Hope might be more willing to take his offer, since she was being accused of it anyway. He might get it into his head to make another trip to Boonsboro, or call her, freaking email her, and get her twisted up again.

  That wasn’t going to happen either.

  He could warn Wickham off, but that would give the fucker too much attention, too much punch. He and his crazy wife humiliated Hope, and did it on her home turf.

  Let them feel a little of the same.

  As he got into the city, he followed his GPS directions, and cursed the traffic, the stupid one-way streets, the circles, the incompetence of other drivers.

  He hated coming down here, avoided it like the plague. Just buildings and roads and people and construction detours, all of them crowded together in a way that made no sense to him.

  He couldn’t wait to drive out of it again.

  But a job was a job, he told himself when he finally managed to park. Heat and humidity bounced off the sidewalk, slathered him as he walked toward the pristine entrance of the Wickham. Colonial elegance with rivers of summer flowers, windows that tossed sunlight, and a doorman liveried in dignified gray with red trim.

  Dignified enough he didn’t blink at opening the door for some guy in work clothes.

  The lobby spread, white marble floors veined with black, huge-ass urns of flowers—forests of them. Dark oak paneling, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas all worked together to say, clearly: high-class. And a gleaming front desk manned by a woman in black who could’ve made a living on any catwalk.

  “Welcome to the Wickham. How can I help you today?”

  “I need to see the owner. Wickham. Senior.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Wickham is unavailable. If you’d like to speak with our manager?”

  “Wickham. Tell him Ryder Montgomery needs to speak with him. Don’t bother to call the manager,” he said, anticipating her. “Or security. Just tell Wickham I’m here to discuss the charges against his daughter-in-law for assault.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me. If he’s okay with that, I’ll go on home and make that happen. If he’s not, he’ll talk to me.” Ryder just shrugged as she lost her composure enough to goggle at him. “I’ll wait.�
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  He stepped back, glanced around. Looked like a hell of a nice bar off the lobby, he noted. He’d have liked to go in—not for a beer, he was driving in this goddamn traffic again shortly—but to see how it was put together.

  He could see Hope here, easily. In her excellent suit and her fancy stilts. She’d fit right in with the marble and crystal, with the shine and elegance and flowers so damn big he suspected steroids.

  “Mr. Montgomery.”

  He turned, studied the man in the dark suit. “Security? No need to toss me out. I’ll just see Mr. Wickham in court.”

  “I’ll escort you to Mr. Wickham’s office. And remain.”

  “Works for me.”

  They walked up a curving staircase, along a mezzanine, then through a set of oak doors into a small secondary lobby.

  Security knocked on another set of doors.

  “Come!”

  “Mr. Montgomery, sir.” The security guard stepped back, stood at parade rest.

  Wickham remained seated at a heavily carved desk that might have suited a president or the king of some small country. He had a shock of white hair, hard blue eyes, and a smooth golden tan.

  “I don’t allow people to threaten my family.”

  “No?” Ryder hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Me either. Let me lay this out for you, and when I have you can say what you want to say, and we’ll be done. My family owns Inn BoonsBoro. Hope Beaumont is our innkeeper.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Good, saves time with the setup. I’m not going to get into what went on with Hope and your son, your part in it or anyone else’s. I wasn’t around, and that was then anyway. This is now.”

  “My family has nothing to do with yours, Mr. Montgomery. And I take threats against my son’s wife very seriously.”

  “Good, you should, because they’re damn serious. As to your family having nothing to do with mine? You’re going to need to reevaluate that when I’m done. A couple of months ago your son showed up at our inn. He told Hope you had an offer for her, a big fat one to lure her back. That’s your business, and I can’t blame you for trying. She’s damn good at what she does. Then he made her a side offer. She comes back to him, too, and he’ll take care of her. He’ll set her up, make it worth her while.”

  A red flush—temper or embarrassment—rose onto Wickham’s cheeks. “If you think you can come in here—”

  “I’m going to finish, Mr. Wickham. She turned him down. If you knew her at all you’re not surprised by that. She left here because he’d lied to her, cheated on her, used her. And when she learned he was going to marry someone else, she got out of the way. But that’s not enough for some.”

  “What was, or is, between your employee and my son is their business.”

  “There’s no is, and you know it.” Ryder could see it. “He, and his crazy wife, made it my business. Today, this morning, your son’s wife made the trip to Boonsboro, to our inn. She drives a red BMW Roadster, this year’s model. She had on mile-high shoes with red soles and one of those sleeveless jobs that looked like someone painted a garden on it. You could probably check on her wardrobe choice this morning if you need to verify. She caused a scene on our property. I witnessed this myself, as did a number of others. She yelled accusations, threats. She thinks Hope’s sleeping with your son again, which I can guarantee she’s not—but he’s sure as hell sleeping with somebody not his wife. Women know. She topped it off by physically assaulting Hope, and wouldn’t stop or leave until we threatened to call the cops.”

  A visible heaviness settled over Wickham, and sounded in his voice when he spoke. “Sit down, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Jerald.” Wickham waved to the security guard, who slipped quietly out of the room.

  Wickham himself rose, turned to the window overlooking the back garden and patio of his hotel. “I’m not comfortable discussing my family with you. I’ll only say I have no reason not to believe you.”

  “That saves time, too.”

  “Were the police called? Have charges been filed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want five minutes alone with your son, and for your daughter-in-law to spend thirty days in a cell. But I’ll settle for neither of them coming near Hope or our place, neither one of them contacting her in any way, for any reason. And if I hear they’re spreading lies that damage her reputation, I’ll do a lot worse to theirs, and by proxy yours and your hotel. Make that happen, and we’re square.”

  “You have my word.” He turned back, face grim, and Ryder saw the kindling of disgust in his eyes. “Neither my son nor his wife will trouble Hope again, in any way. I regret, deeply, they’ve already done so.”

  “All right. I’ll trust your word; you’ll trust mine. But I’m going to warn you, Mr. Wickham, if they don’t keep your word, I’m going to cause them a whole shitload of trouble.”

  “I understand.” He picked up a card from the desk, wrote something on the back. “If you would contact me—this is my private line—should either of them break the word I’m giving you. Trust me, Mr. Montgomery, I can and will cause them both more trouble than you. And I will.”

  “Fair enough.” Ryder pocketed the card.

  “I’ll have Jerald show you out.”

  “I know the way. Let’s hope we don’t speak again.”

  RYDER FOUGHT THE miserable traffic toward home, and felt some of the tension dissolve when he caught his first sight of the mountains as he traveled north.

  He’d done what seemed right—not as personally satisfying as kicking in Jonathan Wickham’s balls—but it wasn’t about personal satisfaction.

  He trusted Wickham would make good on his word. God knew what kind of wrath and pressure he’d bring to bear, but Ryder imagined it would be fierce and plentiful.

  It hadn’t just been anger and embarrassment he’d seen on Wickham’s face at the end. There’d been regret, too.

  He turned off the highway, took the winding, blissfully familiar road that wound through those mountains, into and out of Middletown, and straight into Boonsboro.

  He turned at The Square, spotted Beckett’s truck—but not his dog as he pulled in beside it.

  He did catch a glimpse of Hope in one of her floaty dresses, serving drinks to some guests in The Courtyard.

  He needed to check on what had been done at Fit in his absence, and at MacT’s, needed to find his dog and an ice-cold beer.

  But even as he climbed out of the truck, Hope stepped around The Courtyard wall.

  He didn’t see any signs of tears—thank Christ—and didn’t think she’d let guests see any.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m fine. I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

  “Okay.”

  “In there.” She pointed to the fitness center. “Carolee’s here.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she started across the lot.

  Okay, he thought, she was a little pissed that he hadn’t patted her hand while she cried. Maybe the flowers hadn’t come through yet.

  He unlocked the door, took a quick scan. Progress on the rough electric and plumbing on this level, and signs the HVAC was moving. He needed to get upstairs, check it out up there. Maybe they’d—

  “Ryder, I’d appreciate it if you’d pay attention.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “You had no business confronting Jonathan behind my back. You had no right to take this situation out of my hands, or to do anything at all without so much as a discussion with me. It’s my business. Did you think I wouldn’t hear what you were doing, where you went?”

  “Didn’t give that much thought. And I didn’t bother with your ex-asshole. I went to the power source, it’s usually the best way. I talked to his father.”

  “You—” She went pale first, then righteous fury bloomed in her cheeks. “How could you do that? Why would you do that? This is my mess, it’s my business.”
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br />   He’d just spent over three hours on the road into and out of what he considered a man-made hell. And she was ragging on him?

  “You’re my goddamn business. Do you really think I’d let some bitch of a blonde come around here and slap you around and do dick about it?”

  “I got slapped. She’s stuck with Jonathan. I’d say she’s got the worst of the deal.”

  “You got that right. She doesn’t get away with it. She doesn’t get to walk away after hitting you, after making you cry. That’s it.”

  “I wasn’t crying because she hurt me. I was humiliated. Beyond humiliated. I don’t even have the word. That your mother would have to see that, hear that.”

  “She can handle it.”

  “And your crew, all those men who saw it. Everybody in town knows what happened by now, or some variation of it.”

  “So the fuck what?” Jesus, he was tired, and getting a damn headache, and she stood there bitching at him for doing what needed doing. “It’s how it goes, and she’s the one who comes off the idiot, not you. And don’t, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t start crying again.”

  “I’m not crying!” But one tear trickled through. “And I’m allowed to cry. People cry! Deal with it.”

  “Here.” He grabbed a hammer out of the tool belt he’d discarded earlier. “Hit me in the head with it. That I can deal with.”

  “Stop. Just stop.” She spoke to herself as much as him, gripping her hands in her hair as she turned. “None of that matters. None of that is the point! You took it on yourself, without a word to me, to drive to the Wickham, to tell Jonathan’s father all this sordid mess.”

  “That’s right. I talked to him, and it’s handled.”

  “You talk to him, but you don’t talk to me. You couldn’t spend five minutes talking to me, but you’d spend close to four hours driving round-trip to Georgetown and talking to Baxter Wickham. I don’t expect you to dry my tears, Ryder, or kiss it better, but I damn well expect you to talk to me, to take my thoughts, feelings, needs into account. And until you do, I’m done talking to you.”

  “Wait a damn minute,” he said when she strode to the door.

  She looked back. “I waited four hours. It’s your turn to wait. And thanks for the goddamn flowers.”

  She sailed out, leaving him baffled and pissed off all over again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CLIMBING UP AND DOWN HER STEPLADDER TO REMOVE, wash, and replace every vent filter in the inn kept Hope’s mind from wandering—very often—in Ryder’s direction. With that seemingly endless task accomplished, she dived into paperwork.

  They’d made a mistake, obviously, believing they could maintain any sort of relationship with too much passion and too little common ground.