Her father didn’t say anything. He grabbed the remote and started with the endless channel surfing. It drove Betty crazy.
Herschel Barker told his son to eat and shuffled over to Betty. “How’s our little boy?”
“He’s beautiful. Didn’t you get the chance to head over to the hospital?”
Herschel glanced back toward his son.
Right. Trent Barker wasn’t in any shape to be left alone.
“You should go see him. Get a ride with Shane. I’m pretty sure he’s heading up with Bobbi in about half an hour.”
A wide smile broke over his face. “Is that right? I’d love to see the little guy.” Herschel pushed his white cap back and scratched his head. “Are you home for the night?”
“I am. So go and see your great-grandson.” Betty paused. “How’s Dad been today?”
Her grandfather sighed. “He’s been in a mood.”
“Haven’t we all. I’ll be good company for him then.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Go.”
“If you’re sure…I thought I’d sneak in some of my homemade wine, you know the red that Billie likes so much.”
“You can’t take wine into the hospital.”
“Sure I can.”
“Gramps,” she couldn’t help but smile because he looked so damn self-righteous.
“What are they going to do? Frisk an old man?”
She shooed Herschel away and sank into the loveseat that was kitty corner to the chair her father always claimed. His clothes looked ratty. That bothered Betty. She was going to have to do something about the state of his closet. Everything hung on him. Made him look old and sick.
He continued channel surfing and for a moment she tuned out. She heard the front door open and then slam shut and she watched through the window as Herschel climbed into his car, no doubt heading out to hook up with Bobbi and Shane.
“Chantal?”
Her father’s voice, scratchy and ill used, grabbed her attention and her gaze flew to the television. The screen was divided into two, one half filled with a sultry shot of Betty from one of her last photo shoots. She lounged on a rock, her body barely covered by the thin black bikini she modeled, her long hair billowing in the breeze.
The other side of the screen was filled with a sexy as hell image of Beau, long blond hair slicked back, that week old stubble gracing his strong chin. His smile was wide and easy and her heart squeezed at the sight.
She couldn’t hear what the reporter was saying—her dad had the volume on mute—but since they flashed to fuzzy pictures of Beau and Betty in front of the hospital the day before, she had a pretty good idea what the story angle was.
“Chantal?” he said again, this time louder with a hint of anger in his voice.
Betty got up and gently took the remote from him. “It’s not her, Dad. It’s not Mom.”
She hit the volume by accident and cringed as the reporter’s voice cut right through her.
“At first Beau Simon refused to comment, though later this afternoon he released a statement through his publicist. He said, and I quote, ‘I have the utmost respect for Betty Jo Barker and while I did spend time in her hometown recently, it was strictly for charitable reasons. I don’t make a habit of commenting on my personal life, but in this instance I thought I should be clear. We have a strictly professional relationship and nothing more.’”
Betty stared at the screen and felt that hollow hole inside her expand until she couldn’t breathe. Carefully, she handed the remote back to her father and sank onto the floor, leaning back against the sofa as she stared at the channels flipping past.
“Wow,” she said softly to the screen. “Didn’t take you long.”
But isn’t that what she wanted? Denial? Space? Isn’t that what she’d told him only a few hours ago?
&
nbsp; So why the hell did it make her feel so awful to hear him say those words?