I Broke Up With My Poor Boyfriend to Date a Rich Heir novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Frank's Girl

At Sunday brunch Marguerite takes over Donna's care, and old Gus Thayer grips Stevie's wrist and whispers that her father's money was never a loan.

My mother heard about it from the Thayers' driver before I could tell her myself.

"Eighteen months," Mom said from the back seat. "Eighteen months that boy has driven me to dialysis, and you did it at a party."

"Mom, please."

"In front of the whole room. Without a word to me first."

She sat with her hands folded on her quilted robe and the clinic bracelet still on her wrist.

She was fifty-four and weighed less than she had in the spring.

Her eyes were the same sharp green as mine.

"I did it for you," I said.

"Don't you dare put that on me."

I looked out at the iron gates of the Thayer house sliding open.

I had nothing to say to that, so I said nothing.

The house stood on a hill with a lawn that went on for an acre.

Marguerite met us at the front door in a cream sweater, her silver hair brushed back and a kind smile ready.

"Donna, you came," she said, and took my mother's arm. "Mind the step. I had the ramp put in Friday."

My mother looked at the ramp.

"You had that put in for me?"

"For anyone who needs it. Come, brunch is on the terrace."

Warner kissed my cheek and pulled out my chair.

The table held eggs, strawberries, a tower of croissants I could have made better, and an empty chair at the head of it.

Then a nurse in blue scrubs wheeled in an old man in a gray cardigan.

His left hand lay curled in his lap, and his white hair had been combed flat for the occasion.

"Grandfather, this is Stevie," Warner said brightly. "My girlfriend. And her mother, Donna."

The old man didn't look at Warner.

He looked at me.

His eyes were pale blue and very clear, and I had the feeling he'd been waiting for me.

"Hello, Mr. Thayer," I said.

"Gus," my mother said suddenly. "It's Gus Thayer. Frank's Friday man."

I stared at her.

"He ate at the diner every Friday for fifteen years," she said. "Meatloaf and a slice of pecan pie. I didn't put it together. Gus, I'm sorry."

The old man's right hand lifted off the armrest.

It shook, but it reached across the table, and his fingers closed around my wrist.

His grip was stronger than it should have been.

"Frank's girl," he said.

The words came slowly, each one pushed out separate from the last.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm Frank's daughter."

"Grandfather had a stroke three years ago," Warner said, lowering his voice. "He talks in pieces, but he's all there. Don't tire him, Stevie."

Gus did not let go of my wrist.

"Gus, dear, let her eat," Marguerite said lightly. She laid her napkin down. "Donna, I want to show you something. The new clinic is a ten-minute drive, and the chair is yours Monday. Warner, take Stevie around the garden."

My mother looked at me.

I didn't know what she wanted me to say.

"Go on, Mom," I said. "It's a better chair than the one you have."

"I'll go see it," my mother said. "I won't promise to like it."

She let Marguerite lead her through the French doors.

Warner's phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it and stood. "Two minutes. Business. Don't let him wear you out."

That left me on the terrace with the old man and the nurse.

The nurse stepped to the sideboard to refill his water.

Gus's fingers tightened on my wrist, and he leaned toward me, which cost him something.

"Frank paid," he said.

"Paid what?"

His mouth worked.

"Not a loan," he said.

"I don't understand. What loan?"

His eyes went to the French doors, to the nurse's back, and to me.

"Ask the boy."

"Which boy, Mr. Thayer?"

The nurse turned around with the water glass and a smile for him, and his hand dropped from my wrist.

"Time for your medicine, Mr. Thayer," she said, and rolled him away from the table before I could say another word.

I sat there with strawberries in front of me and my wrist burning where he'd held it.

He had meant Caleb.

There was only one boy in my father's life that old man would have known.

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