“Yes, but I don’t resent him for that. He deserved to be happy. You deserved to be happy. And to be happy again, if the opportunity arises.” She closed her eyes again.
“As do you.” Pena’s thumb stroked over her jaw. “Though sometimes I wonder if that isn’t what you’re afraid of.”
“What?” Isabelle blinked at him. “Afraid of happiness? That’s ridiculous. No one is afraid of happiness.”
“Are you sure?” He cocked his head. “What are you doing? None of us need the money. And you are your father’s daughter—if they push you out, crush your part of the company, you’d build something else. Something bigger and better.”
“But it wouldn’t be like it was when he was—” And she couldn’t quite say the word and instead pulled away from him, staring at the floor.
“No, but it would be yours.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Just like your memories of him and the life we all shared.” He rubbed her arm. “Building something new after something wonderful ends doesn’t cheapen the value of either.”
He was right, of course, but why did it have to be so hard? Why did the dulling of the pain still feel like a loss? And more, if she was honest, make her into a coward? Like Aaron said. Defending the broken bits of what was instead of building what she actually wanted.
Isabelle swallowed. “I know,” she whispered as she blotted her eyes. “I just—I don’t know which hurts more now: allowing it all to change or realizing that I ruined—”
Pena thankfully didn’t force her to say the words and instead wrapped his arms around her and held her for a long moment as the tears flooded her defenses.
“I just want him back,” she sobbed. “I want him back so badly.”
“I know you do,” Pena whispered, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”
She clutched the older man’s coat. “We’re going to be the only ones who remember him, aren’t we?” she whispered.
“Perhaps. But I think we’re enough.” Pena’s voice was hoarse as he stroked her hair. “I think this is a situation where the quality matters more than the quantity, both in years and those who remain behind. Which is how it probably should be.”
And the two fell into silence as the tears continued.
“Do you think he’d be disappointed in me?” she asked as she blotted her eyes again.
“Never,” Pena assured her. “Win or lose, he would see what I see—how magnificent you are.”
Except she didn’t feel particularly magnificent. No, she felt like, well, a cad, as the gentiles said. Or something worse. She was going to lose it all, wasn’t she? Unless . . . She ran the handkerchief between her fingers, rubbing it as a spark, an idea, popped into her head. And the contours of a plan began to form.
It wouldn’t get her the ending her heart now acknowledged it wanted nor, as Pena said, bring her father and the life they all had shared back. That was gone. What the future held, however, depended on her. Whether she would be someone whose memory someone would want to hold. Time would tell on that front.
However, now she had the opportunity, if she tried, to help someone else. Someone who was, as a wise man had pointed out, a person too.
“Isabelle?” Pena cocked his head, his expression suddenly worried.
“I have to find someone.” She reached up on her toes and gave the man a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Pena.” Before he could say another word, she darted from the room.
It took her the better part of an hour to arrive at the Weiss house, unannounced. A rather confused butler showed her to a small study far removed from the grand parlor with its towering, if not slightly eerie, collection of mirrors near the entry to wait for the “younger Mr. Weiss.” A touch dark for her taste, with almost no windows. Frowning, she rubbed her gloved thumb over a faded damask curtain.
“Hello, Miss Lira.” A familiar male voice boomed through the dimness.
“Oh, you startled me,” she told him as she whirled around.
“You surprised me,” he said, indicating one of two chairs before the large desk.
She sat as gracefully as she could while he remained standing across from her, curiosity etched on his handsome features.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Weiss smoothed a stack of papers before lining up three pens parallel with each other. Glancing up at her, he inhaled. “Though I’m glad you’re here. There is something you need to know, Isabelle—may I call you that?”
Asking permission after already taking the liberty—how very much like him. Her lip twitched. Something to watch for in the future. She leaned back in the chair. “Yes, I suppose. We’ve had intimate discussions before—”
“I have it on some good authority that the Berab brothers are so determined to marry you that they are willing to go to extreme lengths to get their way,” he interrupted. “This is more than business to them—it’s personal.”
Personal? Isabelle wrinkled her nose. How could it possibly be personal? She had almost no relationship with Roger and Louis. She hardly knew anything about them. There were a dozen heiresses that would suit either of them. Her appeal was the business and only the business.
