“What are we gonna do, Boss?” Peg asked, rushing to keep up with him as he marched to the executive elevators. The store didn’t open for another two hours; however, he knew the press would descend soon.
“First, take the knife out of my back, Peg.”
She chuckled, smacking him on the arm. “Thatta boy.”
“Call Charlie. I know mornings are still difficult for her, but she needs to know. Once I read all of this, I’ll draft a statement. And I’ll call Priscilla…” He trailed off. It had to come from him.
The other shoe had dropped.
***
Shaking, Priscilla waited in Charlie’s office for Griffin to join them and Francie. “It’s Mother,” she assured the other two. “When she confronted us weeks ago, she called Griffin a fraud. Riff-raff, too.”
“Yep, that’s in here,” Charlie said, running her finger down the page to find that saying.
“She did it on purpose, so you’d know it was her,” Francie piped up. Leaning over, she touched Priscilla’s arm. “Look, now we’re in the same club. Attacked by Mother club.”
Charlie tossed aside the paper. “Really, someone has got to stop her.”
Griffin entered, saying, “I’m trying. I have been for years.”
Priscilla jumped up from her seat and turned to look at him. “Griff.” She went to him, hugging him. “She’s attacking you to get to me.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then he pulled her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead and setting her away from him. He went to the door, closed it, and then turned back to them. “I think you should sit down for this,” he said to Priscilla.
His eyes were dark and troubled.
She swallowed hard. “What is it?” she asked, but did make it back to the chair that Francie had turned around to face him. Charlie sat on the edge of her desk, touching Priscilla on the shoulder.
For a long moment, Griffin held Priscilla’s gaze. “I have a confession to make.”
Her middle dropped.
“I came here,” he nodded to Charlie, “for the interview under false pretenses. I wanted to destroy King’s.”
Priscilla gasped. The night they’d met. Francie pulled her chair closer, wrapping her arm around Priscilla’s shoulder.
“I assumed, incorrectly, that to get to Mrs. Agnes King, I had to go through the store and ruin it. That goal sustained me for years. However, once I met all of you, I realized that she was gone and to take down the store would mean I would also destroy all of you and your dreams.” His gaze landed on her. “I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Griffin, who are you?” Priscilla asked, shock racing through her veins. She didn’t even know the man she married.
“Not a nice guy,” he said, looking away. “So I did the opposite. I did everything I could to make this store a success.” He spoke to Charlie. “The one-year and five-year plans I gave you still hold.”
“I approved them,” Charlie agreed. “They’re sound, bringing us up to date within months and projecting our future needs. They’re nothing short of brilliant.”
“Mrs. King, if you choose to believe me or not, wanted to pay me to make King’s fail.” He glanced at Francie, saying, “You were right when you said months ago your mother didn’t want this place to be a success. She thinks once this store is gone, all of your misplaced dreams for the store will be over and done with. Also,” he looked at Priscilla, “she thinks then you’ll have no place to go except home to her.”
Her mind swirled with thoughts, but her heart ached. She shook her head, not wanting to believe he could be a part of this. “And us?”
“Has everything to do with protecting you from her.”
“How so?”
“No more men to deal with.” Francie said, “No more trying to control you or the prospective groom. Griff took you off the market and ticked Mother off to no end.”
“Yes,” he agreed. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lip. “I did enjoy getting under her skin.”
“You hate her? That much?” Priscilla asked, stunned at the things he stooped to.
“Yes.” His short, clipped answer rang in the air. “She did get something right in the article. Griffin James did not exist before I became of age.”
“What? You invented him?”
“The name only. My mother’s maiden name and my father’s first name. Mrs. King carved out my black heart when she destroyed my father. He died a drunk, broken man.”
Priscilla felt sick. She recalled the bits and pieces he’d told her. Losing his father when he’d drunk himself to death, in his aunt’s care until she died, then foster care, and then the military. She stared at him. He stood remote and suffering.