Jules came to stand next to him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “He’s going to be fine.”
“He’s been so stressed since my arrest,” she said.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jules. You heard the doctor say a lifetime of unhealthy habits was most likely the cause.”
“Still, I didn’t help.” She flung an arm around his waist. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to plead guilty to the drink-driving charge. Take responsibility for my actions and whatnot. Monica turned her life around—so can I.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Of course you can. You could rule the world, if you set your mind to it.”
“Maybe I’ll become world empress tomorrow. For right now, I’m going to stretch my legs a bit. Do you fancy a coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Jules held out her hand, palm up. “Money?”
He snagged a bill from his wallet. “I want change.”
“I want bigger tits. What’s your point?” She walked out of the waiting room and disappeared down a corridor.
A few minutes later, Tara stirred, and her eyes flickered open. She glanced around, then she blinked, owl-like, at Cal. “Where’s Jules?” Her accent was working-class plastered over with new money and willpower, but occasionally her roots came through, like now. At first it had surprised him, his father’s choice of a trophy wife, but when Cal stopped to think about it, he realized Tara’s father was extremely wealthy. That made up for a lot. Even for a snob like George Hughes.
“She went for coffee.”
“Thank you, Calum, for being here. I don’t know what we’d have done without you today.”
“Of course.” Over the last twenty-one years, Cal had barely spoken more than a few dozen words to the woman. Her job as Father’s wife was purely decorative, but she seemed to care deeply about the old man.
“Did you tell your mother about George?” she asked, a little too casually.
“No, not yet.”
“He refuses to speak of her, you know. I’ve always wondered why he married her in the first place.” Tara realized she’d blundered, and her cheeks burned bright. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Cal sat across from her. “I’ve often wondered the same thing. They have absolutely nothing in common.”
“They have you,” she said.
“You know Father’s opinion of me.” How Cal was an uneducated wastrel who’d never amount to anything. He couldn’t really argue with that assessment. After all, what had he contributed? Making the world a better place, one restored car at a time? Hardly life-changing.
Perhaps Monica Campbell and her charitable ways were rubbing off on him. Cal admired Monica’s drive, the fact that she’d gotten her life in order when she had fallen pregnant. That one still gutted him. That she’d gone through that pain and kept it locked away inside of her. Everything made sense now—her complete transformation. He finally got it.
Tara leaned forward and shyly touched his knee. “For what it’s worth, Calum, George is wrong about you. He always has been. You’ve got such a good heart, and you adore Juliette. It’s never been my place, but I’ve tried to turn him around.”
Cal’s smile felt twisted, bitter. “No worries. Father can have his opinion. I’ve never let it bother me.” Huh, and he’d accused Monica of being a liar. Of course it bothered him. Hurt like bloody hell.
Pix had been an unconventional mother, but she loved him utterly. Although limited in her capacity for feeling empathy, she was great fun, just not terribly useful in a crisis. Between his parents, Pix came out on top. She may have dragged him from pillar to post, but having Pixie Hughes as a mother wasn’t so bad, in the scheme of things.
“I shouldn’t have let Father keep me away from Jules. I’m quite mad about her, you know.”
“You’re not going to start crying like a little girl, are you?” Jules’s voice sounded behind him. He turned to find her walking toward him, two cups of coffee in her hands. She gave one to Cal and one to her mother. “I’ll go get another.” She rubbed Cal’s arm. “And I love you too, you giant wanker.”
Paolo’s pleas replayed in his mind. Seeing his father look so ill, thinking about Babcock—he should really make things right with his mum. Cal nodded to Tara and, excusing himself, walked down the hallway. He called Pixie and filled her in, giving her the details of George’s condition.
“Your father is a very angry man, Cal. That’s bad for the heart. And he ate too many sausages. That will do it to you, which is why I never let Paolo eat red meat.”
“Sausages are pork.”
“Isn’t that red meat? Ham is pink, surely. What about you, are you all right, darling?”
“I’m fine, Mum.”
“Please give Jules a hug for me. I’m terribly sorry the two of you are going through this, and you have my deepest sympathies.” She sounded like a greeting card, but Cal knew it was her attempt at showing concern.
“Will do. I love you, Mum.”
“And I, you. Call me if you need anything at all. Anything, Calum, I’m quite serious.” He didn’t know what she could possibly do, but at least she made an effort.
He felt better, having made his peace with her. Now if he could make things right with Monica. He missed her terribly, but what was he meant to do? Despite her wild, impulsive nature, Monica Campbell was a forever kind of woman, and Cal didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.
Chapter 22
Workers and movers and caterers swarmed through the garden. They nearly careened into one another as they furnished three tents, strung thousands of lights, hammered on a dais for the string quartet. The gala would be much less formal than the event Allie had originally planned. Monica couldn’t believe they’d pulled it off in less than two weeks. So why couldn’t she muster some sort of pride or satisfaction?
Monica ran a hand over her tired eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been living at the mansion, not only because it was convenient, but because she didn’t want to lie in her own bed. The last time she used it, she’d been with Cal. He seemed to be all she could think about. Her days were miserable, her nights unbearable. Monica had made a mistake, breaking it off with him. A terrible, painful mistake.
“Things are coming together.” Allie stood next to her, the ever-present binder in her arms. She’d morphed into a bossy, busty general, ordering everyone around the garden and making sure all would be perfect for the big night. She was totally in her element.
“Yep,” Monica said. “Looking good.”
Allie gazed at Monica’s profile, but Monica avoided eye contact. Seeing her sister’s compassion only made her feel worse.
“Mon, I say this with love—you look like shit.”
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her eyes on the men carefully threading lights through the rosebushes. “And I say this with all due respect—fuck off.”
“Still surly, I see. Do you have a dress yet?”
She turned to Allie. “Can you just beat me to death with that binder so we don’t have to have this conversation again? I’m wearing something from last year. It’s fine.”
Instead of snapping a retort, she rubbed Monica’s shoulder. That damn compassion again. “Go get some rest, Mon. We have this thing under control.”
Monica cleared her throat and looked away. She couldn’t rest, and yet, she was exhausted. Not just from all the work or the sleepless nights—she was exhausted from grief. How was she supposed to get over Calum Hughes? The man had driven back into her life with that shitty Mustang. He’d told her about cities she’d never heard of, he’d called her out on her bullshit, and he’d made love to her like it meant something. Now Monica was nothing more than a puddle of useless, gooey sorrow.
“Seriously,” Al said. “Go take a break.”
Monica nodded and dodged men moving tables as she made her way to the house. Pandemonium ruled in here too, with florists and cleaners bustling through the hallways.