Chances Are (18 page)

They fell silent and just sat there, fingers entwined, letting the night wash over them until Maddy stifled a yawn.

“You’re dead on your feet,” he said. “I’d better get moving.”

They stood up, and she walked him to his car. “Call me when you get home.”

“It’s three minutes away.”

“Humor me.”

“I’ll E-mail you before I go to sleep.”

“If that’s the best you can do.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

He bent down to kiss her, and she yawned again.

“I’m sorry! I—”

He caught her midsentence, turning words into promises only she could hear.

“One hundred twenty-nine days,” she said as he shifted into reverse.

He glanced at the glowing blue face of his watch. “One hundred twenty-eight.”

“I can’t wait until Saturday.”

He motioned for her to lean closer and murmured something so intimate, so deeply erotic that she began to tremble and continued to long after he left.

Marriage wasn’t all hearts and flowers. At least that was what she had been told, even if the romantic in her couldn’t help delighting in the fact that a few fragrant rose petals had just dropped in her path. So far they had managed to navigate family stresses, the scare with Hannah last year, and Aidan’s broken ankle with good humor and the very real sense that they were in this together. As much as she had cared for Hannah’s father and knew he cared for her, she had never had the feeling that they were partners on the same team.

It was different with Aidan. She knew he was on her side. She had known it from the beginning, known it in the way she recognized the sound of her own breathing in the heart of the night. In the blink of an eye, a mutual chemical attraction took a sharp turn into something deeper, more powerful, more profound than she had ever dreamed possible.

The word for it was love. The kind that grew stronger with time, the kind that lasted.

This sense of unease that had been haunting her for the last month or so was only temporary, a by-product of Aidan’s fall on the ice and the roadblock it had placed in the way of their romance. Maybe once they finally had the time and the place to be alone together, to express with their bodies all the things they had tried to express with words alone—maybe then she could let herself believe their story would end happily.

 
BY EIGHT A.M., the news was all over town that Rose DiFalco and Olivia Westmore had decided to go into business together. Maddy had been bombarded with questions at the school bus stop, and she had felt extremely uncomfortable when Claire and Billy Jr. joined them. As a teenager she had told more than her share of fibs and downright lies, but it was a practice she tried to avoid as an adult. Claire looked surprised but only mildly curious about the details, and Maddy was glad to escape back to The Candlelight, where she only had to deal with Rose’s and Lucy’s detailed questions about The Wedding Dress.

“Next time I’ll call you right away,” Rose said into the phone as she aimed an eye roll at Maddy and Lucy. “I’m sorry you had to find out about it from Mrs. Anselmo at the deli, Toni. That was unforgivable of me.”

Maddy and her aunt managed to suppress their laughter until Rose hung up the receiver.

“Menopause has not been kind to that woman,” Lucy said as she eased a tray of apple turnovers from the oven and carried them over to the counter. “God help us when the doctor finally takes her off Premarin. She’ll be unbearable.”

“She
is
unbearable.” Maddy drizzled glaze over the warm turnovers. “No wonder Charlie only managed to make it through six months before he filed for divorce.”

“He even gave her the Saab,” Lucy said. “That’s how badly he wanted out.”

“He loved that car,” Rose said. “I used to see him in the driveway on Sunday afternoons, polishing every last inch of her with an old cashmere sweater.”

“So when do you start working at Cuppa?” Lucy wiped her hands on a clean tea towel, then punched down a bowl of risen bread dough.

Maddy glanced toward Rose. “I don’t have a clue.”

Rose looked positively sheepish. “This all happened so fast yesterday I never thought to ask Olivia. We’ll need to all sit down and figure this out.”

“She’s opening in July, isn’t she?” Lucy asked as she lightly rained flour on the slab of marble she used to knead dough.

“The holiday weekend,” Rose said, “which doesn’t give us much time to get things sorted out.”

Maddy groaned and leaned against the work counter. “I think I’m beginning to understand what stage fright is all about.” In less than two months they would be opening the doors of Cuppa to hordes of summer revelers. What on earth had possessed her to say she could handle the undertaking? She must have taken temporary leave of her senses.

“Have you spoken to Claire yet?” she asked.

“Olivia wanted to drop by this morning, but we decided to get to her house early for poker night and speak with her then.”

“I have something to tell you,” she said to Rose, “and you’re not going to like it.”

“Want me to leave?” Lucy asked.

Maddy shook her head. “You can stay.”

“Thank God,” her aunt breathed. “I’m too old to be eavesdropping at the door.”

“I slipped,” she said, “and told Aidan you were going to ask Claire to work for you.”

Rose exhaled sharply. “I hope you asked him not to speak with Claire before we do.”

“He understands that,” Maddy said. “What he doesn’t understand is why you think she would be interested in the first place.”

“Neither do I,” Lucy said as she rhythmically worked the dough with her capable hands. “She owns half of O’Malley’s, doesn’t she? She’s a fixture there. Why would she start working for somebody else?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rose said. “This is Olivia’s idea. She seems to think Claire is in need of a change.”

“But why Claire?” Maddy didn’t bother to hide her curiosity. “What does she bring to the mix that somebody else doesn’t?”

Lucy looked at her across the work counter. “You don’t like each other?”

“Maddy likes her just fine,” Rose said. “It’s Claire who doesn’t care for Maddy.”

“We’re not close,” Maddy equivocated.

“I thought you two were becoming good friends,” Lucy persisted. “I would see the two of you chatting up a storm at the school bus stop every morning on my way home from Mass. You looked like great pals.”

“It’s the engagement,” Rose offered.

“Of course.” Lucy began to shape the loaf on the baking tray. “Classic situation. She’s been mothering Aidan and Kelly for almost twenty years. She’s not going to be too happy with Maddy taking her place.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like me,” Maddy said. “Did you ever think of that?”

Lucy popped the bread into the oven and set the timer. “Life is never that simple, honey. There’s always more to people than meets the eye.” She reached for another towel-covered bowl of risen dough.

“It’s all Olivia,” Rose said. “She’s very fond of Claire. Apparently they met years ago down in Florida when their parents lived in the same condo development.”

“Talk about an odd couple,” Lucy said, punching down a loaf of rye. “They don’t seem all that close on poker night. I don’t remember them exchanging more than a few sentences last time.”

“That makes me feel better,” Maddy said. “At least I’m not the only one she barely speaks to.”

“Go figure,” Rose said with a shrug. “All I know is what I’ve been told by Olivia.”

“Aidan doesn’t think she’ll say yes.” Maddy hoped to slip this tidbit in among the conjecture about Claire and Olivia’s friendship.

No such luck. Rose picked up on it immediately and arched a brow in her direction. “Really?”

“Family means everything to her,” Maddy said. “He doesn’t think she would ever stop working at O’Malley’s.”

“Neither do I,” Lucy said, clearly enjoying the mother-daughter byplay. “For one thing, it’s her last tie to her husband.”

“The woman has five children to support, Lucia.” Rose favored her older sister with a sharp look. “I would think those ties are stronger than anything she could find at a bar and grill. Let’s not romanticize pulling drafts.”

“Just my opinion.” Lucy rarely took Rose’s bait, a trait which Maddy admired inordinately. “Who knows what means the most to any one of us.”

“Well,” said Rose, as the phone rang again, “we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”

CLAIRE WAS FILLING two dozen wooden bowls with smoked almonds and salted peanuts when Peter Lassiter walked into the bar. Tall, skinny, with pale wire-framed glasses that looked like they were floating in the middle of his painfully privileged face. He was hard to miss in this crowd of old salts, ex-cops, and off-duty firefighters.

The guy had become a fixture in town over the last few weeks, interviewing everyone and her brother about Paradise Point. They said he was an up-and-coming star in New Jersey public television, destined to be the new Ken Burns. Lassiter had already interviewed a group of seniors at the community center, and her father was so taken with him that he had just about given the guy his social security number and the key to his safe-deposit box by the time it was over.

Great,
she thought as he made his approach, stopping to shake hands with some of the old-timers he’d met previously. You would think he was running for mayor the way he greeted everyone.
And now you’re going to start haunting O’Malley’s.
The place was lousy with town history. The wall of photos near the pool table would keep him busy for a week.

He didn’t look much older than her Kathleen, maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with one of those big trust-funded smiles that probably cost more than her house. She had spent a lifetime watching his type spin through O’Malley’s on their way to somewhere better. That alone was reason enough to dislike him.

He turned that smile on her. “Mrs. O’Malley?”

She could play barroom tough guy with the best of them. “Who’s asking?”

He extended his right hand. (His soft-as-a-baby’s-butt right hand.) “Peter Lassiter from NJTV. You haven’t been answering my E-mails.”

“Sure I have,” she said, surprised by the firmness of his grip. “Not answering
was
my answer.”

Tiny patches of color bloomed on the apples of his cheeks. So Mr. Ivy League was feeling uncomfortable. This was too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. She should be ashamed of herself.

“I tried phoning you,” he said. She had to admire his tenacity in the face of utter rejection. “I left three messages with Tommy.”

“Speak to Aidan,” she said. “He makes all the PR decisions around here. I’m sure he’d set you up with some scrapbooks and answer your questions.”

“I’d like to arrange to interview you.”

“Sorry, Mr. Lassiter, but I don’t have any interesting anecdotes for you about growing up in a bar and grill. I’m an O’-Malley by marriage, not birth.”

“I would like very much to talk to you about your husband and his considerable impact on this town. I’ve spent a fair bit of time with your friends and neighbors, and they are unanimous in their praise for your husband’s bravery on the job.”

She met his eyes, and the look in hers made him take a step backward. “No.”

“I’ve talked with two of the other widows—”

“What part of
no
don’t you understand, Mr. Lassiter?”

“Your husband was a hero. Everyone said so. He went back into that building and—”

He was still talking. She knew he was. She heard sound emanating from somewhere near him, but nothing made sense through the thick red haze of rage that enveloped her. She could have killed him with her bare hands, just reached across the counter and wrapped her fingers around that skinny throat, pressed her thumbs into his windpipe, and gleefully watched him die.

“Is something wrong, Claire?”

The haze of red parted slightly, and she saw David Fenelli standing next to the reporter.

Lassiter extended his hand. “Peter Lassiter, NJTV. I’m here to—”

David ignored his hand. “I know who you are, Lassiter, and I believe Mrs. O’Malley said she doesn’t want to be interviewed about the accident.”

Lassiter’s smile was steady as he regarded David. “And you are—?”

“A friend of Mrs. O’Malley’s who thinks it’s time you moved on to your next appointment.”

“I believe I’ll wait until I hear that from Mrs. O’Malley herself.”

Bless David for showing up when he did, giving her just enough space to regain her composure. “If you want a draft, I’d be happy to pull one for you. Beyond that, you’re wasting your time.”

“Please think about it.” Lassiter’s expression wasn’t quite as open and easy as it had been a few moments earlier. He looked uncomfortable but not defeated. “Why should you let someone else tell your husband’s story when you can tell it best yourself?” He flashed his expensive smile one more time. “I’ll be in touch.”

David turned and watched until the front door swung shut behind Lassiter’s ass.

“Bastard,” he muttered, followed by a quick, “Sorry. I just don’t like the guy.”

“Join the club,” she said, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her forearm. “You might have saved me from a murder rap.”

“We’re in the minority,” David said, glancing around the room. “The rest of them are in his fan club.”

“My father is ready to adopt the guy,” Claire said. “Go figure.”

“Talk is seductive,” David said. “Especially when there’s someone to listen.”

Which was one of the many reasons why she was standing clear of the project.

“I know being nosy is his job,” David said as she pushed a cup of coffee toward him then waved away his money, “but the guy goes too far.” He emptied three packets of sugar into his coffee, then slugged it down in two gulps. “Would you believe he wanted to talk to me about Jill?”