Once and Again (14 page)

For Jake, coming back to Miami was like slipping on a pair of well-worn sneakers. He loved every inch of this city. The gridlock on Collins Avenue, the warm sand of the beach, the gentle sway of the palms, the hidden empanada shops tucked into Little Havana. Most of all, he loved the flash and glitz of South Beach.

Here, he was king. He’d bet everything on this town and won, gaining a huge fortune and a solid reputation in the process. Above all, despite the fact that it was business for him—always had been—in Miami, he could be himself. He fit, from his tattoos to his bright yellow Lamborghini.

No one knew where he came from. No one even cared. Just the way he liked it.

Evening had fallen when he pulled up outside The Atelier, his hotel and primary residence when he was in Miami. Junior, his front manager, came around to open his door. Like he did every time he got dropped off at the front door, he looked up at his masterpiece. The building’s façade was sleek, a smooth, dark mirror of glass and steel. During the daytime, it reflected the ocean and the palms. At night, it flickered with lights from the city.

Despite the fact that it wasn’t even remotely high season, a long line of sharply dressed men and women lined up outside between velvet ropes, hoping to get into Lux, The Atelier’s nightclub and lounge. Pulsing music emanated from within. Thursday night at one of Miami’s hottest clubs was just getting started.

“Welcome home, sir,” Junior said.

“Thanks, Junior. It’s good to be back.” The Atelier—workshop, in French—was just that. Forget the fancy foreign name—the one he’d chosen just to make it fit in South Beach—it was the heart and soul of his empire. The Atelier was the first place he’d built. The first place he’d ever called home that felt like home. And it also happened to be where he did his best work.

A porter quickly scurried up and removed Jake’s duffel from the passenger seat. As soon as he was done, a valet whisked the Lamborghini away to Jake’s private garage.

“What time shall I have your vehicle brought up in the morning, sir?” Junior asked.

“Eight, please.”

“Of course, sir. Any particular request?”

“The SUV, I think.” He’d already shipped most of his automobile collection to Eastbridge. The Mayhew house had come with a seven-car garage, one of its major selling points, at least for him. But he’d left three cars here, his Lamborghini, a Bentley, and a utilitarian SUV he used when he was headed on-site to a job. Classic cars. Classic Miami.

“Very good, sir.”

Rafael Ortiz, Jake’s chief of staff, greeted him right outside the front door, standing proud and straight, his cool gaze unwavering. He gave a short nod to Junior and then with the briefest wave of his hand, signaled for the porter to take Jake’s bag up to his rooms. Rafe was as he always was—composed, but with just enough edge to make people wonder what was thrumming underneath the surface.

“Glad you’re back, Jake,” Rafe said, the same thing he always did whether Jake had been gone two weeks or two hours.

“Always nice to hear, Rafe,” Jake said. “Things going well?”

“Extremely.” A small smile flickered at Rafe’s lips.

He expected nothing less from Rafe, a consummate perfectionist. It was why he’d hired him. As they walked through the lobby, a minimalist affair with dark lighting, low sofas, and one giant piece of sculpture in the corner—a Murakami Jake had picked up on a whim—he heard snatches of conversation.

Who’s that man? He owns this place. Jake Gaffney. So young.

Cutting through the stares and whispers, he and Rafe went to the private elevator—the one that shot directly to the penthouse. Once inside, Rafe removed a single key from his pocket and used it to get the elevator moving.

“How long will you be staying?” Rafe asked, his dark eyes trained on the console ticking up the floors.

“A week.”

Rafe nodded. “Good. There are a few items I need to go over with you.”

“We’ll make the time.”

At the thirty-ninth floor, Jake stepped out into his apartment—a nine-room, 2,500-square-foot space that took up the entire top two floors. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, a terrace complete with a hot tub, and a prime view of the Atlantic.

Jake walked to the window and stared out at the vast, dark water. Far off in the distance, he could see the lights from yachts owned by mega-billionaires. He wasn’t there. Not yet.
Someday.

“I took the liberty of ordering you some food,” Rafe said. “It should be here any minute.”

“Thanks, Rafe.”

“It really is good to have you back, Jake. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Rafe disappeared and Jake went into his bedroom, decorated entirely in shades of black and gray. A black silk duvet cover on the bed, black curtains on the windows, and the upholstered chair, a modern-looking thing, was covered in a dark gray fabric his stylist had picked out.

The place could not have looked less like Eastbridge. And that was a good thing. He’d needed to get away from New England and New York so badly when he’d left. Miami had been like a breath of fresh air. Still was.

He hung up his leather jacket and noted that his things had already been put away, his empty bag placed in the corner of the closet.

He drank a beer and ate his steak when room service brought it, and then settled on the couch to review the finances for the Portofino project for the umpteenth time and finalize his list of questions.

When he was finished, he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He soaped up, washing away the grime of the day. Warm water sluiced over his body, making him feel human again. Only then did he allow his thoughts to drift to Carolyn.

It had started out so innocently back then. A look. A glance. Holding hands in the gazebo. And then it got dirty, fast. Carolyn, asking to see him—to touch him. The wonder in her eyes when he made her come for the first time with only his mouth.

Groaning, he closed his eyes, but that only dredged up more memories, this time of that night on the beach. And,
God,
just remembering how she looked when she came—eyes closed, mouth open, hair everywhere—got him harder than a rock.

I wanted you to be my first.

Ah, to hell with it.

With infinite care, he wrapped his hand around his length and gave one easy stroke, gently, the way she would do, then flicked his thumb over the tip, imagining it was Carolyn’s mouth on his dick instead of his palm. His muscles tightened. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it—her hair spilling around his thighs as she worked him. He stroked again and pleasure lanced through his body. In his mind, she pushed her hair behind her ear and he caught a flash of a pearl earring, gleaming milky white.

It wouldn’t take long, this temporary exorcism, not with these vivid visions of her dancing in his brain. He’d touched her, tasted her,
been inside her.
Nothing could compare. He pulled harder the next time, and now he was encased in her heat, her long legs wrapped around his waist. She arched her back and he thrust into his own hand, flesh jerking against flesh faster and hotter and wetter until he came, spending himself against the shower wall in short, hard bursts.

Suddenly exhausted, he leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water spray down his back. He stood there for a few long moments, empty, still aching for her, before finally managing to stumble out of the shower and into bed, where he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For the next three days, Jake spent every daylight hour either on-site at Portofino with Chris or working out of his penthouse. By the time Press and Marc arrived late in the morning on Monday, Jake was ready to turn his mind to other things.

When their car dropped the two of them off, he greeted them at the door. Marcus had on a pair of dress slacks and a French-cuff shirt—normal attire for him, if a bit out of place in South Beach. But Press looked like a preppy gone wild, wearing a pair of loafers with no socks, a white polo shirt, a checkered cap, and some salmon-colored Bermuda shorts embroidered with tiny blue marlins. He couldn’t make this shit up if he tried.

“What the fuck, Press?” Jake said by way of greeting.

“This is my resort wear,” Press said, completely unapologetic.

“Jesus.”

Marcus just gave him a shrug. “I told him he looked like an asshole.” That was Marc. Blunt. Uncompromising.

“You’re dressed like a banker,” Press told Marcus. “And you look like you’re about to participate in the X Games,” he said to Jake. “So I’d have to say that your sartorial decisions are, shall we say, a bit
lacking.
”

“I know enough not to dress like an asshole,” Marcus muttered.

“And
I
know enough not to stand around in the lobby of my hotel talking about clothing,” Jake gritted out. “Come on.” He gestured for the two men to follow him. “I’ve booked you both rooms on the concierge floor. Great rooms, great beds, great views.”

“Are we starting work right away or are you going to feed us first?” Press asked. “I’m starving.”

“Food first,” Jake said, opening the door to the side patio. “Can’t talk on an empty stomach.”

The two men followed Jake outside to the Surf Club, The Atelier’s outdoor restaurant, which overlooked the water. If he were in a bragging mood, he’d let them know that his chef, a man named Diego Torres, had just won the James Beard Award for Rising Star Chef of the Year on the strength of his Spanish-Mediterranean fare. Instead, he was content to let them soak up the atmosphere, while both Press and Marcus were poring over their menus like it was porn.

When they finally put in their orders, Marcus leaned forward in his seat.

“How’s Portofino going?”

“To hell in a handbasket.”

“No shit,” Marcus said, sounding surprised. “I thought you’d have the project in hand by now.”

Jake shook his head. “I wish. It seems like everything that can go wrong has.”

“Want to share?” Press asked.

Jake shrugged. “Why not? First, the city changes the building code on me—new regs thanks to a recent hurricane—so now instead of the first floor being five feet above sea level, it has to be ten.” He paused for emphasis. “And we’ve already poured the foundation.”

“No,” Press and Marc groaned in unison.

“So the building’s raised five feet. Expensive, but no big deal, right? Wrong. When the architect tells me we’re up five feet, I realize that our plans now violate the maximum height allowed for the structure under another section of the building code, so I have to apply for an area variance with the town planning and zoning board. Now on top of even more expense, I have public hearings to worry about, and you know as well as I do that approval isn’t guaranteed.”

“Shit,” Marcus said, sympathetically.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“You’re stuck,” Press said.

“Totally stuck,” Marcus echoed.

“So then we finally get to work, but guess what? My contractor tells me my architect’s estimates are way out of whack, to the tune of sixty percent.”

Press blinked. “Sixty?”

“Sixty,” Jake said. “And my budget—and the financing—only allowed for a ten percent contingency.”

“Fuuuuck,”
Marcus hissed.

“So now I’ve already burned a bundle, but I’m left with a partial foundation and only half the capital I need to get this thing off the ground. The revamped foundation work put us a year behind schedule, but I have no way to refinance because I’ve already stretched it thin, the bank’s not biting, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to the vulture hard-money lenders for cash. Oh, and did I mention that my bank loan is recourse, so they’ll be looking to me personally for interest and principal payments?”

“What are you going to do?” Press asked.

“I told them to keep going while I figure out the finances,” Jake said. “I mean, what the hell else am I supposed to do? And luckily, most of these guys have worked with me before, so they’re willing to work on trust, at least for a little while.”

Marcus and Press just sat there for a minute. And then Marc started laughing. Not a chuckle, but a huge, belly-busting laugh—something he’d never heard out of the man before in his life. He looked like a different person, this smiling, laughing Marcus Colby. People from other tables started to stare, but Marcus didn’t stop. Just laughed louder and louder.

“Y-you are s-so f-fucked,” Marcus finally got out in between gasps for breath.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Yeah.” And then he started to laugh, too. “I
am
so fucked.” He couldn’t help it—the laughter kept coming.

“It’s like the perfect shit storm,” Press agreed. Then he joined in, too, his laughter as urbane as the rest of him.

When they’d all finally calmed down, Jake took a drink from his glass of ice water.
God,
it felt good to laugh. Some of the tension that had been dogging him for weeks was gone. He felt lighter. Freer. And from the expressions on Marc’s and Press’s faces, so did they.

Marc took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his palms. “We have some time before the lawyers get here tomorrow. After we talk Briarwood, why don’t you show me the numbers for Portofino and I’ll try to help you sort something out?”

“Thanks,” Jake said. “I’d appreciate that.” He really would. He’d forgotten how good it was to have someone else to talk to, to bounce ideas off of. And he didn’t realize how much he’d wanted their advice—needed it, even—until they’d offered.

“I’m in, too,” Press said. “Marcus may be Mister Finance, but I’m the one who got the creative thinking award in Advanced Negotiation.”

Jake looked back and forth between the two men. At one time he’d been so tight with these guys, but over the past decade they’d drifted apart. Now they were back together, just when he needed it most. One thing was certain: no matter how Portofino turned out, he was going to return to Briarwood with two powerful new allies.

“Will the chicken with roasted spring vegetables be adequate for this event, Carolyn?” Eric Lefoute tapped a paper in front of her on the small desk in his office and regarded her with his green eyes. “You are distracted,
non
?”

Carolyn blinked. She could hear the preparation for dinner service starting in the kitchen. Guilt washed over her, because Eric should really be there instead of here, and her mind being in a different place—namely on the fact that she still had no attorney—was just prolonging the agony. “I’m sorry, Eric. I wasn’t paying attention. Could you please repeat that?”

“I was talking about the dish for the luncheon next week. You know—run by the man with the bushy eyebrows whose name I can never remember?”

“
Which
man?”

Eric sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Ah,
merde,
Carolyn. I am just as distracted as you.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let us figure this out tomorrow, hmm?”

Carolyn shook her head. “I’m booked solid. That’s why I scheduled this meeting for today. And anyway, don’t you have to get home early tomorrow?”

Eric got quiet. “
Oui.
Yes. I do.”

“How is she doing?”
She
meaning Eric’s sister, who suffered from an advanced form of rheumatoid arthritis. It was the reason they’d moved to Connecticut—to be close to the drug trial that showed the most promise for people with her specific symptoms.

“Sylvie is…all right. It is the right thing for us to be doing, this trial, but it takes so much out of her. She is in terrible pain, and she can barely take care of herself. It is why I hired the aide to come help us at home, especially with my job…”

“Is your mother coming out to stay with you like she promised?” Eric’s family owned a vineyard in the Burgundy region of France, and although spring could be a busy time, he’d thought that she could be spared for a few weeks.

“
Non. Unfortunatement,
she is needed at home. My grandmother is also very ill.”

“Oh,” Carolyn said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Now you can understand why I have not been as focused lately.”

“You’re doing great, Eric,” she said. “Seriously. You’re taking care of Sylvie
and
working full time.”

A look of remorse flashed over his handsome face. It was an expression she knew all too well. “I only wish I could do more to help her,” he said, meeting her gaze. “She is my twin. Did I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t,” Carolyn murmured. She and Blair weren’t twins, but the bond they shared was intense, crossing continents and decades.

“She was a chef, too. A good one. Now, she cannot work. Cannot even hold a knife in her hands.” He shook his head. “Why she is afflicted and I am not, I will never understand.”

“Is rheumatoid arthritis hereditary?”

“Heredity is one factor. But it is more common in women than in men. Smoking is also a big risk factor, and Sylvie smoked. Then again, most people get RA after age forty, and Sylvie is only thirty-three.” He shrugged. “I do not know why things are the way they are. All I know is that she is suffering and I cannot help her and I do not know if this drug trial will help her, either. Maybe it is all for nothing.”

“No. It can’t be all for nothing. Something good must come of this.”

“I hope you are right.”

Carolyn reached out and took his hand in hers. “Eric, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Maybe organize the events around your schedule? If there are any blackout days or times you want, please let me know and I won’t schedule anything during those times.”

Eric’s eyes warmed. Then he squeezed her hand and pulled away. When he wasn’t screaming at anyone and turned on the charm, he was actually nice to be around. “I appreciate that, Carolyn. Since you have come here, you have been kind to me. I am not always the easiest person to deal with, and I appreciate what you are doing.
Tu comprends, oui
?”

“
Oui.
I understand.” It took a lot out of Eric for him to let down his guard, but she’d already seen firsthand what was underneath his façade. She’d heard from Susumo that he’d been laying off screaming at the kitchen staff—including Madison—since the incident in the kitchen about the under-seasoned fish without her even having to talk with him about it. Given all the stress he must be under, she really had to give him a serious amount of credit. Keeping his famously explosive temper in check must be a Herculean task. Carolyn offered him a smile. “Shall we try to finish so you can get back to the kitchen?”

He nodded and turned back to the papers, then paused. “She looks like her, you know.”

“Who looks like whom?”

“Madison Klein. She looks like Sylvie. Especially around the eyes. I sometimes…have trouble…”

Oh.
Oh.
Things just became a little clearer. All of Eric’s frustrations in dealing with Sylvie’s care were being transferred onto his frustrations in the kitchen, and since Maddy resembled his sister, it was a constant reminder of Eric’s strain and stress. “Just take it easy on her, okay, Eric? Everyone’s struggling with their own issues, including Maddy.”

“
Oui.
I will.”

They finally got back on track, and once they were, it didn’t take long for them to plow through the rest of the planning. Satisfied that she had what she needed for the next two weeks, Carolyn walked Eric back to the kitchen and left through the rear door. In the hallway, it was quiet, but even through the solid door she could hear the low-decibel din.

Just as she was about to head back to her office, a familiar voice called out her name. She turned and spied Jane Pringle hustling down the hallway with a bag slung over her shoulder.

“Jane!” she said. “Hi. Are you here for Susumo again?”

She nodded. “Believe it or not, he offered to let me apprentice with him. This is my first assignment as his student—a carved cake in the shape of—”

“An antique Rolls-Royce,” Carolyn finished. “For the Whittakers’ party. When I took that order, I wasn’t sure Susumo could do it alone, but when I checked with him, he told me not to worry.” She smiled. “Now I know why. He’s got your expertise, too!”

“I’m so nervous,” Jane said. “I don’t want to disappoint him and I really hope everything goes well, especially because Evelyn’s covering for me at the bakery.”

“It will. Otherwise, Susumo wouldn’t have asked you to work with him.”

“Ah! Now I’m freaking out! I’m going to be training with Susumo Norimoto!” She waved her hands, making her look even more like a little bird than usual. “Breathe, Jane! Calm!” She breathed in while Carolyn watched with a bemused smile. “Oh, before I forget, I talked to my lawyer—the one who helped me get custody of Andy. She doesn’t do white-collar civil work, but she’s going to ask around. You might get a phone call.”

She’d been right to entrust her confidence to Jane and Grace. Both were filled with suggestions, and it meant so much that Jane had called in a referral. “Thanks, Jane. I really appreciate it.”

“Pleasure!” she said, beaming. “All right, I’d better be going. Don’t want to be late for my appointment with the cake master!”

And she was gone, having popped through the kitchen door.

Carolyn took a deep breath and thought about how much everything had changed over the course of the last month. But it hadn’t been until this past week, the week Jake was gone, that she’d been doing some of the toughest work ever—rethinking her mindset on practically everything.

She couldn’t blame herself any longer for the past. All she could do was to make the best of what she had right in front of her and face the future with her chin held high.

She’d thought that having Jake around as a constant reminder of her failures wasn’t healthy, but that night they had it out in his office helped her come to the realization that it wasn’t him at all. It had never been him; it had always been her—her insecurities, her fears. Jake was just the symptom, but her sheltered mindset and her dependence on others was the real problem.

Case in point: she’d been operating on her own for months, making her own decisions—the best she could under the circumstances—and keeping everyone, including herself, afloat. And she’d been doing all right. She
was
stronger than she thought. She just hadn’t been able to see it until now.

She was down one lawyer, but that would hopefully soon be remedied. She had the things that mattered: a good job; a fine, albeit somewhat empty house; and the beginning of some real friendships.

It was strange how much of her tension had been wrapped up in not having anyone to talk to. Of course now that she’d opened up to Jane and Grace—even to Jake—she felt less alone. Coming home at night, her house seemed a little less empty, and even at work, she saw her relationships with her colleagues in a different light. She’d always been willing to lend an ear—or a hand—when necessary, but those relationships took on a new importance.

All thanks to a crazy chance she’d taken on a nonexistent book club at a bakery.

At first, Carolyn worried a little that her burgeoning friendships with Jane and Grace might be a bit one-sided, but she needn’t have. Though neither woman wallowed in self-pity, each was open with her own problems.

She, Grace, and Jane had decided they’d meet again this coming weekend at a nature preserve to take a long hike, just to see if what they had begun could develop into something real. She couldn’t wait.

Carolyn was walking back to her office when her cellphone rang.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hello, is this Carolyn Rivington?” The woman’s voice on the other end was low and young-sounding.

“This is she. Who’s calling, please?”

“My name is Rebecca Teller. I hear you’re in need of an attorney.”

Wow.
Jane and her lawyer worked fast. “Yes,” Carolyn said. “Thank you so much for phoning. May I ask if you are fully aware of my family’s situation?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending I don’t know who your father is and his alleged role in the Worring scandal,” she said.

Good.
At least no one could say she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. “I take it you do this kind of work?”

“I’ve done both prosecution and defense, but my practice is exclusively in the white-collar arena.”

“Where are you located?”

“My office is in New Haven, but I work out of my home in Eastbridge whenever I can.”

Convenient.
Carolyn glanced at her watch. “I have to be in a meeting in a few moments, but I’d like to speak further. When might be a good time?” She was stretching the truth a little—her meeting wasn’t for another half hour—but she wanted time to do some research on Rebecca Teller.

“Of course. Whenever you have the time. Why don’t I give you my office number? It forwards to my cell whenever I’m out of the office.”

“That would be great.” She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from a silver bowl on a side table. “I’m ready.”

Rebecca spelled her name out and rattled off her number. Carolyn jotted it all down, then tucked the piece of paper into her suit pocket.

“Thank you for calling,” Carolyn told her. “I really appreciate your time.”

“Not at all,” Rebecca said. “I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

As soon as Carolyn’s client meeting was over, she opened her laptop and did an Internet search for Rebecca Teller. Within moments, she had Rebecca’s life story, and the woman seemed to be the real deal: a bright, up-and-coming young attorney who’d worked for a prestigious law firm before breaking out on her own. Great credentials and a whole host of cases under her belt sealed the deal.

Instinctively, Carolyn reached into her suit pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper with Rebecca’s number on it. Then she called. After a few rings, the answering machine picked up.

“You have reached the law offices of Rebecca Teller. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Hello, Ms. Teller? It’s Carolyn Rivington. I—”

There was a clicking sound on the other end of the line as the answering machine shut off. “Well, that was fast,” Rebecca said. “Did you have a chance to Google me?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, laughing at being called out. “I don’t know what people did before the Internet.”

“Me neither. So I’m assuming you’re calling because you want to come in for a chat?”

“That would be great.”

“All right.” Carolyn heard some papers being shuffled. “I’ll be working from home tomorrow morning and Friday afternoon. What might work for you?”

After agreeing on an eight-thirty meeting the next morning and getting Rebecca’s address, Carolyn hung up the phone, feeling more optimistic than she had in months. She pushed herself hard until seven, and once she was home, she spent the rest of the night gathering the documents she’d need to bring to her meeting the next day.

It was a very productive evening.

The next morning, bright and early, Carolyn pulled up the gravel driveway of a small cottage on the outskirts of Eastbridge. This area of town was kind of a no-man’s land, with cottages and mansions scattered throughout the dense woods. You’d never guess you were only a ten-minute drive from I-95. Carolyn parked, and after ensuring she looked as presentable as possible, knocked on the door.

A young-looking woman dressed in a flowy peasant top and a pair of skinny jeans answered. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and wildly curly auburn hair framed her face in a halo that extended to her shoulders. Brown eyes twinkled with warmth and humor. Her feet were bare, and a giant calico cat wound its way around her ankles.

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Carolyn Rivington.”

“Yes. And you’re—”

“Rebecca Teller,” she said. “But please, call me Bex. Everyone does.”

“Carolyn.”

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, why don’t you come in,” Rebecca said. “I hope you don’t mind the informality of meeting me in my home.”

“No,” Carolyn said, following Rebecca down a hallway lined floor to ceiling with books. “I don’t mind.”