You Say It First

He’d only known the gallery owner a few weeks but he was already impressed. The fifty-something woman had buyers everywhere. She drove a hard bargain, got an excellent price, then handled shipping. He’d sold more through Atsuko in the past three weeks than in the past three years.

His father’s philosophy had always been to let the art buyer come to him. Nick was beginning to believe that was a very shortsighted way of doing business.

“Heard anything on the Dubai commission?” Mathias asked.

“No. It’s going to be a couple of months until they decide. Then I’ll have to figure out what I want to do. Two years is a long time.”

“Is this where I point out you don’t have the job yet?”

Nick grinned. “Hey, it’s me. Who else would they give it to?”

“Someone with talent.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Not of you, big brother.”

Nick laughed and turned his attention back to the night. “Any bats around here?”

“Scared?”

“Intrigued. I keep getting flashes of a piece that has a lot of bats in it.”

Mathias shook his head. “There’s something wrong with you.”

“Probably.”

“Bats. Fruit or vampire?”

“Fruit. I think. I should do some research.”

“On bats.” Mathias took a drink of beer. “Do you think Mom dropped you on your head when you were little?”

Nick laughed. “Not as often as she did you.”

* * *

WHILE PALLAS ENJOYED lunch out with friends as much as the next woman, lunch with her mother was a completely different animal. First there were the logistics involved. They didn’t trade off picking restaurants. Instead the command performance always occurred in the bank’s executive dining room. A fancy title for a slightly nicer than average display of tables and chairs in a square, windowless room. There wasn’t a kitchen, so food was brought in. Still, there was an assigned server and white tablecloths were the norm. All of which meant changing from her usual jeans and T-shirt into a dress.

As she drove across the river to the north side of town, Pallas told herself she would be fine. She’d been dealing with her mother for twenty-eight years. She knew how to get through the conversations with a minimum of pain and judgment. She just had to smile and nod and say what was expected. No big deal.

Except it always was a big deal—one way or another.

All her life Pallas had wanted desperately to please her mother, which shouldn’t have been a problem. Libby Saunders loved rules. The most sensible plan would have been for Pallas to follow said rules and voilà—motherly love. Only it hadn’t worked out that way. Not even once.

Perhaps it had something to do with the old saying about the road to hell and good intentions. Or the fact that Pallas had felt torn between wanting to make her mother happy and wanting to make herself happy. Whatever the reason, her childhood had been an ongoing battle—one she’d never won. Not for a lack of trying.

Cade, her twin brother, had been much smarter. He’d simply withdrawn from the field of conflict and had gone his own way. Emotionally and physically. Pallas still remembered their shared fifth birthday. Libby had asked her children if they wanted to work in the bank when they grew up. Pallas had immediately said she did, even though she had no understanding of what “working in the bank” meant. All she knew was that her mom went there every day and it was important and that working in the bank would make her mom love her enough that she didn’t feel scared inside.

Cade had smiled that happy smile of his and said, “No. I’m going to grow up to be a cowboy.”

Libby had been unamused, but Cade stood firm. He loved horses, not stuffy banks. He’d never once wavered. At eighteen, Pallas had dutifully gone off to college to major in finance and Cade had taken off to learn his trade at a famous breeding farm in Kentucky. Five years later, he’d moved on to Texas.

They stayed in touch, and from everything he’d told her, he was blissfully happy. Life away from Libby and the bank was, apparently, very good. Pallas wouldn’t know. She was still trying to prove herself to the stern matriarch of the family.

Pallas parked in the customer parking lot, careful to take a spot at the far end so as not to inconvenience anyone, then walked into the bank.

Her great-great-grandfather had established California First Savings and Loan in 1891. It wasn’t the first S and L in the state by a long shot, or even the second, but it was still standing and she figured that had to be a point of pride. A lot of people thought that if she came from a banking family, she must be rich. Alas, no. While her grandfather had been the only one to inherit, he’d produced seven daughters, all of whom had children. Not only was Pallas’s sliver incredibly tiny, she wouldn’t inherit anything until she was thirty-nine. Because if nothing else, Grandpa Frank had a sense of humor.

So making her own way in the world wasn’t an option and she had the student loans to prove it. She also had Gerald’s business, which wasn’t exactly the shining example of flush.

It was early April. Except for one oddly vacant date in June, she had a wedding booked every weekend from now until late September. If all went well, she would be able to pay her bills, make a few repairs and continue to take a small salary herself. Assuming she kept the business. Because as much as she loved Gerald and appreciated his completely unexpected gift, she’d never planned on making Weddings in a Box her life’s work. She’d always thought she would go to work with her mother at the bank.

Pallas walked into the old, Spanish-style building. The combination of high ceilings and dark wood made her feel as if she were stepping back to a more elegant time. A floor-to-ceiling mural depicting the desert at sunrise dominated the east wall. It had been an old WPA project paid for by the government during the Great Depression in the last century. For reasons not clear to Pallas, her mother had always hated the mural, but there was nothing to be done. It was as much a part of the bank as the marble floors and old-fashioned teller windows.

She passed through the lobby and headed toward the executive suites. Despite her brisk steps, she felt a growing need to bolt for the door. Her stomach clenched and her chest tightened. When Pallas was ten feet from the door to her mother’s office, Libby stepped out into the hall and gave her a tight smile.

Pallas instantly felt as if she were eight years old and had broken a treasured plate. Or tracked mud on the floor. Or been responsible for one of a million transgressions that had marked her childhood.

“Hello, Pallas.”

“Mom.”

Libby offered her cheek for the expected brief kiss. The Saunders clan weren’t much for hugging.

Pallas had inherited her brown hair and average height from her mother. She knew she had her father’s hazel eyes, but other than that, Libby’s genes dominated. Their smiles were the same, as was the way they walked. As a teenager, Pallas had hated looking so much like her mother. Eventually she’d surrendered to the fact and had tried to appreciate that despite the passing years, Libby never seemed to age. At least that was something to look forward to.

As always, her mother wore a dark suit and a white blouse—appropriate attire for her senior vice president position. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was light and tasteful, her jewelry elegant and simple. Pearl studs and, despite being a widow for eighteen years, a gold wedding band.

“Thank you for being able to make lunch,” Libby said as she led the way to the small dining room.

Pallas didn’t know what to say to that. “My pleasure” wasn’t exactly the truth and “You’re welcome” seemed oddly snarky. She settled on a noncommittal throat noise.

As per usual, the table was set with china and crystal. Two large delivery bags sat on the sideboard. As a kid, Pallas had been so impressed to learn that any restaurant in town would happily bring in food for lunch. Now she wondered why Libby couldn’t simply go get a sandwich or bring her lunch from home like the rest of America.

She also noted the lack of server, which was not a good sign. Not that she needed anyone plating her food—it was more that Libby didn’t want anyone else overhearing their conversation. Pallas spent a couple of seconds trying to figure out what she’d done wrong this time, before giving up. No way could she guess. Besides, Libby would tell her over and over again, when she was ready.

“Would you like to dish us up?” Libby asked, taking her seat.

“Sure.”

Pallas brought the bags to the table and opened them.

Inside the first were green salads, broiled chicken and a side of vegetables. The second bag contained bottled iced tea and one roll, along with a single, tiny square of butter. The latter were for her, Pallas thought, not sure if she should be amused or not. Libby wouldn’t eat carbs at lunch.

Pallas put the food onto plates, and then collected ice from the small refrigerator in the corner. Her mother poured the iced tea and they sat across from each other.

Pallas told herself that there was no need to feel defiant, yet she took two spoonfuls of salad dressing to her mother’s delicate drizzle. What was it about being around Libby that made her feel like a cranky preadolescent?