Flirting With Pete: A Novel (28 page)

Casey caught her breath. “A janitor? And Connie went to Harvard? His father must have been so proud.”

“He died before Connie was accepted. I don’t think they got along.”

“Emmett?”

“Coming!” Emmett yelled back with less patience now. Carefully, he removed one of the photographs from the little black corners that held it on the page, and offered it to Casey. “This is the best one, I think.” Connie was one of only three men in the shot. “That’s me in the middle. The fellow on the left is Bill Reinhertz. He passed on a while back.”

Casey took the photograph. It was indeed the best one— more close-up than the others, showing a youthful face, hair fallen casually across a brow, glasses angled less obtrusively. Connie looked kind here. She had always wanted him to be kind.

Emmett closed the album. “Are you keeping the house?”

It was a minute before the question registered, before Casey could raise her eyes from the snapshot. “The house? I don’t know.”

“If you want to sell, I have a buyer. He’ll pay full price. He’s loved the place for years.”

“You?”

“Oh, no. It’s my stockbroker.
I
can’t afford anything like that.”

“How could Connie?” Casey asked. She knew that the price would have been far less when Connie had bought it thirty years ago. But everything was relative.

“Textbooks, my dear,” Emmett said. “
Unger’s Intro to Psych
has been the standard text for twenty years. Do you know the kinds of royalties accruing from that kind of thing? My guess is you’ll come into some of that royalty money yourself. Didn’t the lawyer mention it?”

Casey shook her head.

“Well, who knows then. It could be that he left the royalty money to Ruth. Have you met her, by the way?”

“No.”

“She’s quite a painter.”

Casey could agree with that, though begrudgingly. She passed those paintings every time she went up or down the stairs. There were layers to them, skillfully applied to create varied moods of the sea.

But it wasn’t Ruth’s painting talent that intrigued her. “What was their marriage like?”

“I believe it was actually quite normal, with the exception of having separate homes, but I can understand why they did it, knowing how quiet Connie was. Ruth is far more social. She likes having people in. She lives in Rockport, which is a fabulous place to visit on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve often thought that Connie married her to help him out with people, but then found that the strain was just too much.”

“Emmett.”

Emmett shot a peeved glance at the door. “I can tell you one thing,” he muttered under his breath. “There are times when I think Connie had the right idea.”

Casey walked for a while. She was acutely aware of Connie’s picture in her pocket. From time to time, she took it out and studied it. When she settled onto a bench in the Public Garden, she did it again. This time, when she put it back in her pocket she took her cell phone out in its place. She punched in the number of the nurses’ station on her mother’s floor, and was quickly talking with Ann Holmes.

“How is she?”

“About the same,” Ann replied quietly. “There haven’t been any more seizures. She had a brief problem with neck spasm—”

“
Neck
spasm.” That was new. Casey bent her head and pressed her fingertips to her brow.

“It’s not an unusual thing,” the nurse explained, “but it’s probably just as well that you weren’t here. The sound that results isn’t a comforting one. Her breathing was labored for a while, but it’s back to normal now.”

That was some relief. Caroline couldn’t recover with physical complications piling up. “Neck spasm,” Casey repeated. “Why neck spasm?”

“It’s like any other muscle spasm. The cause could be one of a number of things. Likely it’s related to circulation. When there’s a slowing-down, this kind of thing can happen.”

A slowing-down. That didn’t bode well. “Could there have been anything deliberate in the movement?”

“I’d like to say that she seemed more aware, Casey, but she didn’t. Not at any point.”

Casey squeezed her eyes shut for a last few seconds. Then she sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow. You’ll call if there’s any change?”

“You know I will.”

Heart aching, Casey ended the call. The hole inside her pulled and tugged as she tucked the phone into her pocket alongside the photo of Connie. Hugging her middle, she sat back on the bench, crossed her ankles, and watched the people pass. Some were in pairs, very much self-absorbed. Others were in groups and likewise preoccupied. Those who were alone walked faster, clearly heading somewhere.

For a minute, watching the stream and not knowing a one of them, Casey felt invisible. She thought of Connie sitting in his chair up on the roof deck, looking out at occupants of other roof decks as they gathered, cooked out, partied. Casey had many friends in the world, but, in that instant, she was as alone as he must have felt.

Then she saw Jordan. He stood with his back to an iron railing some thirty feet away. He, too, was alone, and he was looking at her.

At least, she thought it was Jordan. This man had the same dark hair, same wide brown eyes, same tall, tapering body, but aside from sinful good looks, there was nothing remotely disreputable about him now. He was clean-shaven; his hair looked damp and freshly combed. He wore clean khaki shorts and a collarless navy jersey that had three buttons, unbuttoned. His bare legs were long and tanned. He wore Birkenstocks.

Was it Jordan? Of course it was Jordan. Her insides wouldn’t be jumping if it wasn’t— unless she was simply remembering the morning’s passion— which wouldn’t be beyond the possible. Sitting here on a bench in the park, with people passing her by, a snapshot in her pocket of the father who had died without a word to her, and her mother physically less than ten minutes distant but so far out of reach that it broke her heart to think of it, Casey was desperate to connect in a special way with someone.

She looked away, then back, and he was still there. Definitely Jordan.

With the tiniest hitch of her chin, she invited him over.

Pushing off from the fence in a fluid movement, he held her gaze as he approached. She had to tip up her chin when he neared, but she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. She imagined she saw tentativeness in his eyes. It gave her the courage to smile and say, “I thought that was you. I have a whole empty bench here. Want to sit?”

He joined her, leaving an open space between them. Coming forward, he put his elbows on his knees and let his wrists hang between— and it was hard not to notice those wrists. They were lean but strong and tanned. Gone was the watch with its ratty old band. In its place was a Tag Heuer, not quite a Rolex but handsome, highly fashionable, and far from cheap.

For a minute, he faced out, taking in her view from the bench. Then he turned his eyes back to hers. “You looked sad.”

It was a simple statement. She didn’t have to respond. But he was there, and she remembered the fullness she’d felt that morning, and it was so far preferable to loneliness that she said, “My mother’s sick. She was hit by a car three years ago. She hasn’t regained… awareness in all that time. She’s in a long-term care facility on the Fenway.” She patted her cell phone. “I just talked with the nurse. Mom’s had some trouble lately. I try to be hopeful,” she said with a brief, brave smile, but it was gone in a flash. “I mean, she
has
to wake up. She’s only fifty-five, which is too young to die, and I need her. She’s the only family I have. But something’s changing. I’m afraid… she’s… giving up.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“That she’s giving up. Maybe she should, if there’s no hope.”

“Is there none?”

Casey struggled to find an answer. She had fought and fought to hold on to even the smallest bits of hope. Sitting here with Jordan, though, she just didn’t know. “Everyone was hopeful at first, right after the accident. Then she passed the three-month mark without waking up, and it wasn’t so good. Six months, nine months, a year went by. That was awful, the first anniversary of her accident. Now we’ve passed the
third
anniversary, and there are times when I feel like I’m holding up the banner of hope all by myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked out over the Public Garden. “I used to be able to shut it away. This week— I don’t know— it’s harder.”

“Is that because of inheriting the townhouse?”

“No.” She could be honest— with him, with herself. “Something’s changing. The nurses sense it.” She added quietly, “So do I. I want to think she’s on the verge of waking up. But the odds are against it.”

“Were you and she close?”

“In the way of most mothers and daughters.”

“Meaning?”

“On and off. I wanted to think we’d be ‘on’ more as we got older. I really wanted to think that.” Looking back at him, she forced a smile. “There you have it— the reason for my sad face.”

“It’s a beautiful face.”

The remark might have been innocent, had what happened that morning never been. But it had been. The look on his face said he remembered it as clearly as she did.

“I was worried it was something else,” he said, still with his elbows on his knees. “I was worried you were having second thoughts.”

Feeling the heat afresh, she pressed her lips together and shook her head.

He seemed relieved. Releasing a small breath, he sat back against the bench.

Casey let the heat warm her insides. It filled the emptiness now, just as it had that morning. Tucking away thoughts of Caroline, she watched the world pass. She was momentarily content.

After a time, she said, “Why aren’t you married?”

He gave a startled laugh.

She shot him a sharp look. “It’s a fair question.”

“But blunt, the way you ask it.”

“Why aren’t you? I know some guys your age who’ve been married three times.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m waiting. When it happens with the right woman, it lasts.”

“Are your parents still married?”

“Yup.” Hooking his elbows over the back of the bench, he stretched out his legs. “Going on forty years.”

Casey was envious. “Is your father a gardener, too?” She pictured a tight-knit family, with father and son sharing their love of the land.

Jordan dashed the image with a crisp, “Lord, no. He thinks gardening’s for women. He’s a cop.”

“Wow. There’s an extreme. And you didn’t want to follow in his footsteps?”

“Nope. Never wanted to be a cop.”

“Just a gardener.”

“It’s a kinder life. You find a weed, you pull it out. Can’t do that with humans. Even the bad ones have rights.”

“You could say gardening is cleaner in that sense.”

“In that sense, yes,” he said, and smiled.

Casey caught her breath. It was the first time she had seen him really smile. It lit his face, turning what was handsome into something heart-stopping.

“What?” he asked, still smiling, but distractedly now.

She pressed a hand to her chest, gave a quick headshake, and looked out across the Garden toward the swan boats. After a minute, she asked, “Have you ever been on those?”

“No.”

“I have. My mother took me. It’s my very first memory of Boston. I’ve been telling Mom that she needs to hold on so that she and I can take
my
daughter there. If I ever have a daughter.” But, of course, having a daughter wasn’t the immediate issue. Making Caroline hold on was paramount now.

Casey felt a gnawing inside and gnawed on her lip in response. She didn’t know why, but the worry was stronger now— certainly more persistent, popping up again so soon.

“Have you had dinner?” Jordan asked.

She came forward on the bench. “Meg left sandwiches. I had half of one. It’s a good thing. I don’t think I could eat now.”

“Too worried?”

“Mm.” She pushed up from the bench. “I have to go.” She set off with her hands in her pockets, one on the phone, which was on the picture of Connie.

Jordan was beside her in an instant, matching her pace. When he was still beside her after crossing Beacon, going down Charles, and turning up Chestnut, she realized that he was walking her home.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

He just kept walking, and she didn’t argue. Safety wasn’t an issue. Nor was independence. She was confident on both scores. What kept her quiet was the attraction. The closer they got to Leeds Court, the more she felt. The closer they got, the more she wanted him again.

When she turned onto the cobblestones that led to the Court, Jordan paused. She stopped and looked back. His eyes met hers in the dusky light.

She retraced those few steps, coming very close. “You don’t have to do this,” she said again, more softly this time and with such a different meaning.

“I do,” he said, also softly, and there was no mistaking the unsteady breath he took. His eyes moved over her face. She felt wanted. More, she felt
needed
. Coming from as solid a man as Jordan appeared to be, it was a heady thing.

She walked into the Court with Jordan beside her. Neither of them betrayed any urgency, but when she reached her front door and tried to fit in the key, her hand shook. Taking the key from her, he did the unlocking, let her inside, followed, and closed the door.

He caught her to him then, and the instant their mouths met, every bit of the sensation that had burned in Casey that morning was back, and it was mutual. They kissed at the door with a deepening involvement of tongues, and touched as they reclined against the stairs. But Casey wanted it slower this time. She wanted to prolong the possession, because she couldn’t think of a better way to spend the night.

So she led him up to the room she had claimed as hers, and there was something about the comfort of a bed that was conducive to lingering, even when the heat between them was high. They kissed, they touched, they tasted. Jordan’s shirt came off first, then hers, and the rub of her still-sensitive breasts against his chest, first from under, then over, was heavenly. Piece by piece, the rest of their clothing fell to the floor, and though Casey was as fully aroused as Jordan, there was no instant joining. Rather, they explored each other in ways that they hadn’t had the patience for that morning, and it pushed them even higher. When he finally rose up and entered her, she was so close to release that it would have happened anyway. Having him inside, reaching his own climax while she was still throbbing, made it all the more intense.