Magdalene (22 page)

I looked up at the CEO. Tall, lean.
Powerful. He was gorgeous, from his closely shaved afro, to the
sharp planes of his dark face cut sharper by a meticulously trimmed
goatee, to his intense brown eyes. And almost twenty years younger
than I.

Oh, he fit my idea of the perfect lover to a
T. Four months ago, I would have taken him back to my hotel room
immediately and fucked him with no time-wasting niceties.

Now... I read his faintly predatory
expression and felt absolutely nothing but a slight annoyance.

“Would you care to have dinner with me
tonight?”

As an invitation, it was non-threatening and
sincere. Underneath all that pretty and arrogance and genius, he
was a good man, but he wasn’t Hol—

And he was most definitely eager to have
some quality time with me between the sheets. God knew I could use
a weekend of lithe young brainiac stud.

“I don’t think so,” I murmured after a
second, wondering why I didn’t take him up on it and angry with
myself for not doing so. “I’m, uh...not on the market right
now.”

“For men or...?” he questioned carefully. It
was a fair question and I shook my head.

“I’m— Um, for anybody.”

“Oh,” he said, as if that were a foreign
concept and perhaps it was. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that I
might dissemble; he had been witness to a protracted demonstration
of my nasty reputation. I didn’t realize I’d spent so much time
with Hollander that my concept of what “most single people” did had
expanded so far as to include adults who remained celibate by
choice because they believed that God requested it as a token of
obedience.

More than a token. Downright martyrdom.

Idiots.

“All right.” He held out his hand for me to
shake and I took it. “Let me show you to your limousine at
least.”

By the time I got to my hotel room only a
few minutes later, it dawned on me what would not happen the next
day.

No flowers.

No phone call.

No date.

I was back to Friday nights with chick
flicks and Chunky Monkey and Clarissa. If she didn’t have another
boyfriend yet. Maybe Nigel and Gordon would take me to a movie.

That made me wince.

I decided to have my pilot change his flight
plan, as I had the sudden urge to make myself unavailable to
everyone and perhaps go down to San Diego—hang out in TJ for a few
hours—then turn up Monday morning well rested and relaxed.

I stripped down to my expensive lingerie and
redressed in ordinary clothes that would allow me to blend in here
where beautiful young women teemed and I was considered plain.
Old.

There was great freedom in that.

I walked aimlessly, not caring where I went.
Eventually, I found myself in front of a bookstore, then inside it,
then in front of the romance section. An hour later, I walked out
with a bag full of books and went in search of alcohol and ice
cream.

Two Harlequins, a quart of Phish Food, and
half a bottle of Mount Gay later, I had accomplished some vague
goal of passing out completely shit-faced so I could awaken in the
afternoon, having slept through the absence of—

But
shit
, my stupid ringtone, the one
I’d whimsically, ironically, assigned to Mitch, taunted me even in
the dreams of my drunken stupor... It quit, but then J.Lo’s tinny
voice started up again and I groaned, wondering what in the hell
had possessed me to choose
that
song. I covered my head with
a pillow and rolled over to go back to sleep.

“Fuck,” I croaked when I heard my
assistant’s ringtone (“I Heard a Rumour”) some time later and
struggled to reach the phone. “What?” I rubbed my eyes and
yawned.

“Cassie, I’m so sorry. I know it’s three
hours earlier there, but I thought you’d want to know what today’s
were.”

I stilled as what she said penetrated the
fog. “Today’s?” I asked carefully.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous,” she breathed. “It’s
like Holland exploded all over your desk.”

“Tulips?” I whispered, my mouth dry.

“Dozens and dozens. In every color
imaginable, in those pretty metal vases that change colors.”

“Vas
es
?”

“Twelve, thirteen, maybe. I haven’t counted
yet. All completely different. They’re reflecting off the walls and
it’s like a pastel rainbow in here.”

I cleared my throat and struggled to sit up,
wondering if I’d only imagined my phone ringing earlier, then
groaned.

“Cassie, are you okay?”

“Migraine. Is there a card?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

She dropped the phone and I winced. I could
hear her scrambling to get it. “Oh,” she said when she picked up
the receiver again. “It just says, ‘eight o’clock, swishy skirt and
high heels.’”

My reflection stared back at me from across
from the bed: eyes wide, mouth open—exactly how I would expect to
look after getting shit-faced the night before.

I pitched the phone across the room and
burst into tears.

•

I cursed myself for fifty-three kinds of a
fool for the thudding in my heart as I checked my reflection in the
mirror at 7:54. My migraine had ceased, thanks to the half bottle
of Tylenol and the ice pack I’d laid over my eyes before I’d fallen
asleep in the corporate jet’s bed.

I had gone shopping as soon as I got home. I
looked good and I knew it.

From the white off-the-shoulders peasant
blouse to the short orange ruffled skirt over layers of short black
net petticoats to the orange leather ballroom dance shoes, I was
ready to salsa, mambo, rumba.

My stomach lurched when the doorbell rang
and I hated that I felt like such a teenager, but he made it all
seem so new and fresh, so...

Innocent.

I opened the door to find him there, one
hand in his pocket and the other braced against the jamb, a gleam
in his eyes I was only too willing to assuage. He wore Dockers and
a button-down shirt, already unbuttoned at the throat and sleeves
rolled up to his elbows, his most expensive piece of clothing the
loafers on his feet.

“I wasn’t sure you were still speaking to
me,” he murmured as he straightened and approvingly took in my
outfit. “You didn’t answer the phone this morning.”

“I was in California,” I replied, unable to
raise my voice above a whisper. “It was very early. I wasn’t
expecting you to call, so I thought I was dreaming.”

He took a deep breath and straightened, then
stuffed his other hand in his pocket. “Cassandra, I meant what I
said last week.”

I pressed my lips together, but only said,
“So did I.”

“Yet here we are, both of us dressed to go
dancing all night. What does that say?”

His wry tone made me laugh then and my
jitters evaporated. “I have no idea.”

He held his hand out to me then and said,
“Shall we dance?”

* * * * *

Ere You Left Your Room
This Morning

February 2, 2011

There was only one man who’d ever come close
to earning Mitch’s hatred, and at the moment, he stood in the
doorway of Mitch’s office, trembling with anger. It gnawed at
Mitch, the way he couldn’t let go or forgive Shane Monroe for
breaking Mina’s heart.

His daughters’.

His son’s.

“Come in,” Mitch said over his shoulder.
“Have a seat.”

Mitch turned back to his laptop to enter a
few more details on his report. The door slammed. Fabric rustled. A
shadow appeared at the corner of Mitch’s right eye.

He looked up at his father-in-law staring
over his shoulder at the screen. “Don’t,” Mitch growled and closed
the lid a little too hard. “This is
my
office. Go sit down
until I’m done, then you can speak your piece and leave.”

Shane’s nostrils flared and his fists
clenched.

It was Mitch’s job to forgive, yet he
couldn’t.

Mitch’s eyebrow rose when he didn’t move.
“Would you rather I had you come to the foundry and talk to me
while I’m on the line?”

“Still playing in the coal?” Shane sneered,
but finally he did as Mitch ordered. “You just can’t get the blue
off your collar, can you?”

“Who says I want to?”

Mitch turned back to his report, then
started when his door opened without a knock. “Dad, what—” Trevor
stood in the threshold, wearing his greasy coveralls, staring at
his grandfather, who stood slowly and stared back at Trevor in
shock. For Shane, seeing his grandson for the first time must be
like looking in a mirror.

Crap.

“What can I do for you, Son?” Mitch asked
calmly.

“Uh...” Trevor had a hard time dragging his
attention from the old man, but finally did. “I got a message at
work. Said you wanted me to come over here.”

Mitch’s jaw ground as he glared up at Shane.
“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Shane, but I will not
tolerate you manipulating my son the way you manipulated Mina.”

“I wanted to meet my grandson. Sue me.”

Mitch gaped at Shane, unable to believe what
he’d just said. What could he say to such blatant manipulation?
Rather,
which
thing would he choose to say?

“So, young man,” Shane said heartily,
flagrantly ignoring Mitch, holding out his hand, never flinching
when Trevor’s greasy hand clasped his. He pulled him into a one-arm
hug and heartily thumped his back. Trevor, still shocked, allowed
it. “I hear you’re getting ready to go on a mission?”

Trevor’s face betrayed his confusion and
underlying hurt. He had no idea how to deal with this: a
grandfather who’d refused to acknowledge him suddenly appearing,
acting friendly, asking about the one thing he did not want to
do—the very thing he was willing to do to earn Shane Monroe’s
attention and, possibly, love.

“Trevor,” Mitch said. “Go back to work. I’ll
talk to your foreman in the morning.”

He almost protested, but one look from Mitch
was all it took to get him moving out the door.

The door closed softly, and Shane pursed his
lips. “Well, you’ve got that boy trained. Congratulations.
Wilhemina was never that tractable.”

Elder Snow. Elder Snow. Elder Snow.

“Mina was tired. And ill. She
couldn’t
do what you expected of her. If you’d paid the
least bit of attention to her, you’d have known that. Or was it
that you didn’t want anything messing up your perfect life?”

Shane sucked in a sharp breath. “You
worthless piece of scum,” he hissed.

“You wouldn’t take her to a doctor when she
asked. You pushed her into soccer and wouldn’t let up on her. You
browbeat her into silence. Shane, face it. You just didn’t want the
inconvenience of taking her to the doctor or the embarrassment of a
daughter with a terminal illness.”

“You accuse me of, of, of—
that
, but
you’re the one that made her cook and clean house and have
babies.”

“That’s what you trained her to do, isn’t
it? But only for Greg.”

He flushed.

“For the record, I didn’t
make
her do
anything except see a doctor when I finally figured out she was
lying to me about her health—and even then it took her obstetrician
admitting her to the hospital to do it. Because
you
made her
think it was all in her head, and she didn’t want to burden
me
with either the time or the expense. Not only did
I
give her excellent medical care, I also gave her a
housekeeper, a nanny, and a cook, which Greg would never have
done.”

Mitch and his father-in-law squared off
until Shane looked away and down, toward the wedding picture Mitch
kept on his credenza.

The man reached out as if unwilling to touch
it, but compelled by some greater force. He picked it up gingerly
with fingers that had never known hard labor, a fact of which he
was proud. He had made his money early on and was very successful
by most standards—but not compared to Mitch. It didn’t matter.
Shane would never allow himself to see Mitch as anything other than
a failed missionary and loser steel worker in a dying steel
industry with nowhere to go but McDonald’s and shanty town.

Shane tapped the glass over Mitch’s
twenty-one-year-old face. “That should’ve been Greg standing
there,” he whispered. “In Salt Lake. Not you in DC.”

“Tell me what Greg could’ve given her that I
didn’t,” Mitch murmured.

Shane glared at him, opened his mouth—

Nothing came out.

The old man deflated in front of his eyes,
aging ten years when he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

“You wore Mina down every time you refused
her attempts to contact you, every time you returned Lisette’s and
Geneviève’s invitations unopened, every time you defamed me to
anyone who’d listen. You haven’t spoken to any one of us in
twenty-five years, and now you show up...why? To insult me? To
trick my son and get him all wound up for...what? Why are you
here?”

Shane’s chin jutted out, but he refused to
look at Mitch. “I’ve been hearing things. About you. Bad things. I
came hoping to find out they were wrong, but I’m not even going to
bother asking. Obviously you’ve pulled the wool over everyone’s
eyes—your stake president and your own leadership—even if everybody
else knows what you’re about.”

“Care to share?”

“That you’re carrying on with some poor
married woman in your ward, leading her on, doing—
things
.
Spending so much time with a teenage girl, putting ideas in her
head—rebellious ideas—encouraging her to run away and such.” Mitch
let his father-in-law rant while he made a note to talk to
Hayleigh. “It shouldn’t surprise me, though. Wilhemina was
Hayleigh’s age when you pounced on her.”

Mitch threw down his pen and laughed. “Do
you really believe that or are you saying that because it fits how
you’d like things to be?”

“No, I believe it, you and that low-class
Guerrero girl all wrapped up in each other not a minute after you
got home from France. Don’t think I didn’t see you two going at it,
hot and heavy.”