sense of unease ran through me at hearing him call me Ms. Blakely. Other than a handful of instances, I hadn’t been called that name in over a year. It felt wrong coming from Marco’s mouth.
“Yes, of course,” she said, looking flustered. “Where are my manners? You must be tired from your drive. How long was it?” Resorting to Southern hospitality, she ushered us to a sitting area to the left of her desk.
“Uh . . . four hours,” I said, trying to keep my wits about me.
Why did this woman have me practically shaking in my shoes? One thing was certain, if I couldn’t handle talking to Tiffany—a neutral party—I wasn’t even close to being ready to take on my father. The realization was followed by disappointment and then, to my shock, relief.
Did I not want to face my father? Was that why I was miring myself in Drum business?
But I didn’t have time to consider it, because Marco was ushering me to the white leather sofa. He sat next to me, leaving a good six inches between us to look professional. Tiffany sat in an armchair that had a high back and reminded me of a throne. It was obviously her usual chair.
Marco pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?” When she hesitated, he said, “Again, you are not suspected of any wrongdoing. Just something I can refer back to later if need be.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Of course. I have nothing to hide,” she added with a forced smile. “Other than the recipes for my moisturizers and face creams.” She patted her cheek.
“You look remarkably young, Ms. Olson,” Marco said as he set up his recording app and turned his phone facedown on the table. “I thought you must have been your daughter.”
A bemused look covered her face, but it looked dulled from overuse. She obviously heard some version of that compliment several times a day. I’m sure her wrinkle-free and toned face helped sell those lotions and creams, although I suspected it was more likely a product of genetics and Botox.
“I was never blessed with children,” she said. “But thank you for your compliment.”
She was now staring at me in blatant fascination. When she realized what she was doing, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you look exactly like your mother.”
I gave her a tight smile in return. “So I’ve been told.”
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she seemed to regain control, narrowing her eyes and saying in a stern, motherly tone, “Caroline, where have you been?”
I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. “Eastern Tennessee.”
“Why haven’t you contacted your father? He’s worried sick. He’s contacted me, you know. Sounds like he’s doing everything he can to find you.”
I jerked my gaze to Marco. Why hadn’t I considered that he’d contact her? Now I realized why Marco hadn’t mentioned my name when he’d made the appointment. She likely would have called him.
“How long ago did he contact you?” Marco asked in a casual tone.
“I don’t know,” she said absently, with an unfocused gaze. “A month or so after the wedding? Well, when the wedding was supposed to take place. I think it was last September.”
“When he contacted you, how did he sound?”
“Worried half to death, of course,” she said in disgust. “How else would he sound? She disappeared the night before her wedding. We didn’t find out until about ten minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start.”
“You were at the wedding?” I asked in shock. More to the point, why hadn’t they called off the wedding? While I’d done plenty of internet searches using my name, Jake’s, and my father’s, I’d never come across anything indicating they’d let things go that far before cancelling the ceremony.
Except . . . they didn’t know why I’d run. Maybe in the beginning they’d fooled themselves into thinking I really did have cold feet.
Tiffany’s back stiffened. “You didn’t invite me?”
“No, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want you there. My father hired a wedding planner who took care of everything, including the guest list. I didn’t want a big wedding, but he insisted on having a public ceremony for some of his business contacts. I gave the planner a list of some previous work colleagues and college friends. My father and Jake invited the rest.”
When she looked hurt, I added, “I hadn’t talked to you since Mom’s funeral. I just . . .”
Something cracked in my heart, oozing a thin stream of