Been In Love Before: A Novel (4 page)

“Okay, okay, now listen up. Hey, guys, quiet, please.” The room became still.

“Uncle Robert, we all miss Aunt Tess so very much. I know you started out with group counseling, but that seems to have tapered off. I want you to rededicate yourself to attending one of those sessions or one of those new social programs and get out and meet some people. Talk to them and listen to what they have to say. They have experienced the same kind of loss that you have. I think it will really help you. And that’s what Tess would’ve wanted you to do. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Funny you should mention that, Graw,” he said, as he pulled the business card from his shirt pocket. “I just got the name of someone who coordinates different programs locally. I plan to call her first thing tomorrow.”

“Good,” and her eyes narrowed, giving him the
look
. “Make sure you do. I’ll be checking back to see how it went.” Then she turned to her father. “And Daddy, almost two years ago we lost Mommy, and I know it hasn’t been easy on you. It hasn’t been easy for me either, losing Mommy, starting a new job, and looking in on you. We’ll never stop grieving. I’ve always dreamed of Mommy being there for my wedding. Helping me put on my wedding dress, my makeup, and just being there for me.” The strong-willed Scottish woman stopped, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and looked at all of them. Today she was the true head of the household.
A glass of Scottish milk would go down good,
she thought to herself. This was tougher than she had thought it would be. She pressed on.

“We miss them all and always will, but we know that each and every one of them would have wanted us to get on with our lives, and that’s what we are going to do, starting now. I have some things that I am going to need all of you to do for me. I’m getting married in two weeks, and you all promised me months ago you would learn to dance so you could dance with me at my wedding.” She looked at each of them and gave them all the evil stare. “And that hasn’t happened. So . . . I’ve bought dance lessons for each and every one of you.” She could hear them grumble.

“I can dance, Graw,” said Robert. “You know that. Hell, I been dancing since I was little up at the Scottish-American Club down the road in Lake Worth. The three of us just went two weeks ago to the Scottish Highlands Club and wore our dress kilts and all.”

“Uncle Robert, that’s Scottish swing. That’s not dancing.”

“I dance a bit too,” said Eian.

“Yeah, I know, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. You probably dance the best of the clan, except for Daddy—and he hasn’t danced in years.”

“I’m not taking any lessons, nor dancing with another woman. I only danced with your mother, nobody else. Never have and never will,” said her belligerent father.

“You will now! You’ll take lessons and you’ll dance or . . . ,” she said with her hands on her hips, glaring at her father. “I have bought all three of you dance lessons starting this Tuesday night. I set the first one up for five p.m.—sharp! You only need to learn a few dance patterns for the wedding, and don’t worry, I’ll lead. You will all go together on Tuesday and then arrange your next classes with the dance instructor. Her name is Alexi Cassini. Here’s her card. She’s a champion professional dancer and dance instructor from Argentina, and I told her not to take any guff from any of you.” She let her gaze settle on each one to tell them she meant business.

“She has also been instructed that if you don’t show up, or if you give her any problems”—she turned to look each of them in the eye—“she’s to call me, and I will personally take care of it. Do you understand?” She stood looking at them. She was serious.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” they grumbled.

“My dream was to dance the foxtrot with my two uncles and”—she turned to her father, pointing at him—“I want to dance the traditional
Tatusiu Waltz
, Daddy’s waltz, with my father. It has always been my dream. So don’t screw around with my dreams—do you hear me? All of you.” She spoke it like a command.

“What’s this Tatusiu waltz?” Eian asked Ryan.

“It’s a father-and-daughter first dance,” he whispered. “Polish tradition. Remember, Gracie was Polish?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” they rumbled again.

“And finally, guys, can you please—” Her cell phone rang, and they jumped from their seats. “Hold on, I’m not finished yet. Keep your seats.”

She looked at the caller ID, and a smile lit her face. “Hiya, Mickey!” She turned away to talk to her fiancé.

“Hey, girl. How’s it going with the gang there?”

“Oh, just some grumbling and such, but they took it well. I’ll be leaving here soon. Call me at home, all right? Love ya.”

“Love ya too, bye.”

Turning back to them on the sofa, she said, “Where was I?”

“Wait a minute, when do we get to know this Mickey of yours better?” asked Robert. “We only met him that one time at the Thanksgiving party. Is he a ghost or something?”

“No, he’s not. He just travels a lot for business.”

Theirs had been a whirlwind courtship. He had swept her off her feet and proposed six weeks later. She had hired a wedding planner to help with all the details, and now the date was fast approaching.

“Well, I’m having dinner this Thursday with him and Daddy. Next week he’ll meet all three of you at Duke’s Tuxedo Shop on Linton for a tuxedo fitting. The four of you can go out to dinner together afterward. Just don’t give him a hard time, okay?” She softened her tone and said to the trio, “Oh, and one last thing . . . I want you all to bring dates to my wedding.”

“What?” they all howled in unison.

“You heard me, and . . . this is not a request. It’s time for the three of you to rejoin the human race again. And by the way, clean this place up. It’s a mess. You have beer bottles, whiskey glasses, and pizza boxes everywhere.”

“Pizza! Oh my God!” shouted Robert as he sprang to his feet. “I gotta go. I forgot, I left a pizza in the oven.”

She hollered at him as he ran for the door, “Don’t forget, Uncle Bob, Tuesday is your first dance class. Don’t be late.”

His tires squealed loudly down the driveway as he sped away, hoping it was not too late. He drove as fast as he could toward home.

As he approached his street, racing down Boynton Beach Boulevard, he saw the flames rising above the tree line from three blocks away. He turned onto the gravel road leading to his house. It was blocked by fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance, with their red, blue, and yellow lights flashing in his driveway. He could only stand there and watch his house be consumed by the flames as they blazed high in the sky.

Hours later he realized the house was a total loss as he walked through it searching for anything that had been spared. The tall Scotsman’s shoulders drooped as he walked amid the still-smoldering rubble. Everything he had had was gone. The only things he had left were his memories. Gone. Now he would even have to find a place to stay. What was he going to do?

When he turned around, he saw his two brothers there, standing beside him. They all joined together, wrapping their arms around each other.

“Everything will be okay. We can rebuild it, Bob, better than before. You’ll see,” said Eian.

“Grab your things, you’re staying with me,” said Ryan.

Robert turned to have one last look at the smoldering ruins. His home was gone, but not his memories. Time to move on.

Chapter Six

Michael Thompson, Mickey to his friends, listened to her voice on voice mail before ending his call. No answer. Her cell-phone message box was full. Where was she? He tried again and finally left a message on her machine at home. “Graw, are you there? Call me when you get this message. Love ya.”
She must be out and about,
he thought to himself.

Mickey loved her and trusted her, even though they had known each other for only a little over six months. He did not normally give of his emotions so freely, but he had been in love with her from the moment they met. He believed in fate, and as fate would have it, he was in love with a Macgregor. Head over heels in love.

They had met at a charity dance event his company was sponsoring for the House of Ruth. They clicked immediately—like a match and gunpowder. At first they fought every other day, then made up at night. They both were headstrong and iron-willed. Friends said it would last only a week, but they endured.

He had never felt this way about anyone else before and had asked her to marry him six weeks later. Much to his surprise, she had accepted. How he loved that fiery redhead. Yelling at him at the top of her lungs one minute, and wrapping her arms around him, kissing him, the next.

He stood in his penthouse office, high above the city of Boca Raton. He looked at his reflection in the tall window and instinctively touched the wavy white streak in his hair for good luck. He would need it for his meeting today.

As a kid Mickey had lackluster grades in school. His teachers told his father he was not very motivated about anything except soccer. He would practice his kicking at least two hours every night after school. His goal was to kick a soccer ball through a swinging tire to score a point. He always imagined it was the winning point. He kept trying.

One Sunday night his father drove him to a nearby practice field. His dad was good that way—taking him to practice, games, and tryouts for the new kids’ league. Mickey wanted to make the team so bad he was willing to practice day and night. The skies were overcast that day and threatening rain. His dad watched and waited while sitting under a nearby tree.

That gray day Mickey had spent the last hour trying to perfect his technique, but to no avail. It began to thunder and lightning, and soon began to rain. It was getting late. One more kick, he promised his father, and then they could leave.

“Just one more, Dad,” Mickey pleaded.

“All right, just one more, but hurry; I don’t like the looks of that sky.”

He was determined to hit his target, and he raised his foot and kicked the ball. It sailed right for the center of the swinging tire, but right before it did, he was struck. A crack of lightning at his feet sent him hurtling through the air, and he landed against a tree with a broken leg and two fractured ribs. He never saw the point being scored.

When he woke two days later in the hospital, he remembered nothing of the event, but life had changed for young Mickey. His father, a single parent, had died from the lightning strike. A wealthy Scottish family Mickey had worked for—cutting grass, shoveling snow, and washing their cars—adopted him. They lived near his home just outside Boston and had grown fond of him.

He had worked in the family’s real estate business, Boston Real Estate Advisors, since high school. They started him at the bottom, working for minimum wage as a janitor during the summer, and he worked his way up. The family was known to be tough but fair in business dealings, and over the years, the company and the family prospered as a result.

The accident and the loss of his father changed him: he became more aggressive after the incident and went from a carefree, happy-go-lucky kid to a very intensely dedicated young man. The lightning also changed his appearance, giving him a distinctive white streak in his ink-black hair that extended from his forehead to the back of his head. When he was angry, his dark eyes flashed an intense red, cobra-like warning to those foolish enough to cross this tall, muscular man. Very few people ever did.

Mickey dialed her number again. No answer.
Sunday? Where is she?
he thought to himself as he watched a black-and-gold helicopter flash by his office window, heading for the rooftop heliport of the building. The side of the copter was emblazoned with a large initial
R
painted in bright gold. He was here. The one and only Fabian Rumpe.

Mickey’s office was the corner suite on the top floor of the Boston Real Estate Advisors office building. The office was carpeted in white plush Berber wool, and original modern artwork adorned the walls. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind Mickey’s broad oak desk provided a splendid view of downtown Boca Raton to the west and the Atlantic Ocean to the east. The view was magnificent, and many times calming, but not that day.

He heard the engine of the helicopter cease. Mickey was ready for him.

Minutes later, when the door opened, the flamboyant presence of the famed Fabian Rumpe filled the lavish office. He walked in with his arms spread wide and a smile on his face the size of Manhattan. The pompous developer was a study in false bravado and joked with an uneasy laugh—always at the expense of others. Mickey did not care for him much.

“Fabian, good to see you again. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” Mickey said in the most gracious voice he could muster. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Scotch, or I think you call it mother’s milk.” He laughed hard, almost coughing, as if he was making fun of Mickey’s heritage. Mickey let it slide.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll join you,” Mickey said, handing him a glass of the finest premium Scotch available anywhere. His extended Scottish family had connections in Inverness, who sent him two cases of their finest private-label Scotch every year for his birthday.

He surveyed Rumpe sitting before him and almost laughed. He was tall, with a strawberry-blond pompadour hairstyle that was fifteen years out of date. His custom-made suit was oversize to hide his growing heft. The jacket was buttoned in the center to disguise his ever-present girdle, which was squeezing him tight. He looked very uncomfortable.

Mickey thought of him as a buffoon, but knew he was not to be taken lightly. He was shrewd and still a considerable force in real estate. It did not pay to make enemies in this business. Mickey knew that, but he had work to do.
Be firm, but tread lightly.

“Not bad stuff,” Rumpe chortled, raising his glass. “I’ll have to send you some of mine. I get it directly from my own discount distillers in Miami. My stuff is the greatest.” He gulped down his glass of fine sipping whiskey.

Must not have been too bad. He drank the whole thing. Easy now. I don’t like this man, never did. He’s a bully, but this is business.

The developer coughed, then said, “Mickey, let me get right to the point. I know you’re planning to build a big hotel resort complex on the ocean, near Gulf Stream. I will consider letting you use my name as the headliner on the marquee in exchange for a twenty percent cut of the gross. You know my name will bring customers in by the droves. It will tell them instantly that it’s quality and pack ’em in.” Rumpe smiled that silly smirk of his. His forehead began to bead with tiny drops of sweat that ran down onto his shirt collar.

Rumpe picked up the empty glass and promptly set it down again after not receiving an offer of a refill.

“Well, it’s certainly something to consider, Fabian, along with the other proposals we have received.”

“Others? Like who? I was told we were the only ones you’re considering. Did I waste my time coming down from New York to this malaria hellhole?”

“All I am saying is we’re considering all of our options, but I will also tell you that no one is demanding a twenty percent cut of the gross and with no skin in the game. That’s a little excessive.”

“But look what you get for it. I can . . .”

I’ve had enough of his bragging. Time someone cut him down to size. Enough.

“Like what, Fabian? How much money are you willing to pump into the construction costs? Our total costs will be well over six hundred million dollars. Can I count you in for twenty percent of that? Your share would only be a little over a hundred and twenty million. Cash. Can I sign you up? How about it?”

“This is bull. I thought you’d be reasonable about this. You’re still the same stubborn punk, and you’ll never change.” He shifted gears with a veiled threat: “You know I have many friends in the construction business, the banks and . . . in the unions; you might just need those friends one day, my friend. Your last chance, my Irish prince.”

“I’m Scottish,” Mickey said, standing. “If you are going to make an ethnic slur, Fabian, at least get it right. I think we’ve concluded our business here.”

“Are you dismissing me, you little jerk? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Mickey turned, and his eyes flashed red for the briefest moment; he had heard enough and was not going to take it anymore, at least not from the likes of Rumpe. “Yeah, I’m looking at a guy who’s living off his past building projects and trying to suck the lifeblood of the business that sent him to the top. You have a reputation for not treating your employees well, or your staff, or your suppliers. Most of them are suing you just to get paid. So yes, I can understand why you would want this piece of business. To save your ass.” Mickey took a deep breath before continuing.

“And I expect the next thing out of your mouth would be a demand for an advance against the earnings that, quite frankly, I don’t think you ever do anything to earn.” He paused and said, his voice calmed, “Fabian, I saw you as a favor to my father, but I run the company’s operations independently here in Florida. I think I can handle this deal well enough without you.”

The New Yorker looked at the tall Scotsman and said, “Well, I guess there’s nothing else to talk about.” He stood and turned to leave after shaking his hand. “Hey, Mickey, how’s that hot little redhead of yours? Wow, what a body on her. She’s a real hottie! If you ever break it off with her, and she wants the taste of a real man, give her my number. I’d like a shot at that myself.”

Mickey turned to look away, not wanting Rumpe to see his anger. His eyes flamed red, hotter than white fire, at the lusty mention of his fiancée, especially from some lowlife like Rumpe. His hands closed tight into fists.
Easy now. Just get him out of here.

“Thank you for coming today, Mr. Rumpe. Have a good day.” Mickey turned to walk him to the door. “I think you should leave—now, before you make me angry.”

“You’ll regret this, friend.”

“I’m not your friend, Rumpe.”

Careful, Mickey.
This had not turned out the way he expected. What would his father say?