One Night in Boston (6 page)

*

“Dillon, will you make me one?” Her voice, too big for her tiny, ten-year old frame, bounced across the room to him.

“Nope. Go away.”

“Please. I won’t bother you again for the rest of the day. I promise.” In an instant, his kid sister Maggie was pulling a chair up next to him, leaning both elbows on the table and staring at his sandwich like she hadn’t eaten in a year.

“Yeah, right. In an hour you’ll be bugging me to let you play in the fort with me and Jimmy.” At thirteen, he knew he should pretend to be too old to talk to little girls or make them sandwiches. Still, down deep, he sort of liked Maggie. He liked the way she followed him around, the way she only let him apply her Band-Aids, the way she sat curled up next to him on the couch when they watched television at night. At least when Dad married this time, Dillon had gotten a sister out of the deal. That was pretty cool.

“Please, Dillon.” She refused to let her mother trim her bangs and crazy curls fell into her face. He laughed; he couldn’t help it. And when he put down his sandwich to take a long drink of milk, she snatched it from his plate and ran into the living room, giving it back only when he caught her and tickled her until she squealed.

*

Dillon’s eyes flew open as the telephone rang.
Jesus
, he thought,
where did that memory come from
? He ran a palm over his forehead and found it damp with perspiration.

“Good afternoon, Spectacular ‘Scapes, may I help you?” The words came out in one long, ragged sentence.

A woman cleared her throat and said, “Yes, hello. I’m interested in getting an estimate for a flagstone patio?”

“Sure, go ahead.” He grabbed a notepad and jotted down the woman’s address and phone number. At least the rain hadn’t chased away potential clients. He’d just have to find a way to work them all in.

“Could I ask you another favor?” the woman went on.

“Sure.”

“Well, I’m the vice-president of the Women’s Horticulture Club of Greater Boston. Would you be interested in donating any items to a charity auction we’re holding next month? You know, like a landscaping consultation, or a lawn treatment, or…”

“Ah, I’m not sure…” Dillon wasn’t very good at this part of the business, schmoozing to get his name splashed across the paper. J.J. usually handled publicity.

“It’s a tax write-off, of course, and all our proceeds go to the local shelter for battered women.”

Well, I’ll sound like a real schmuck if I say no to that
. “Could you let me talk to my partner and get back to you?”

“Of course,” she answered. “We’ll be putting together the list of donations through next weekend.” She paused. “Incidentally, I’ll be at the Deveau Ball this evening. Will you be attending? Maybe we can talk a little business while we’re there.”

Dillon cleared his throat. “Actually, I plan on it...” He’d almost forgotten.

“Wonderful. Well, I’ll make sure to find you while I’m there, then. Have a good afternoon.”

“You too,” Dillon mumbled as he replaced the receiver.

Rubbing one thumb against the nub of his ponytail, he closed his eyes. Against his will, his imagination replayed that morning’s conversation with Ellis Casterline’s daughter.
What was her name? Wilma? Willow, that was it. Might as well be Maggie Doyle, though
.

God, he didn’t want to think about his sister today, didn’t want to remember. But it was almost as if today, he couldn’t think of anything else.

*

Still a little stoned from the weed they’d smoked earlier that night, Dillon and his buddy huddled in the shadows by the mailbox. They shared the end of a butt and laughed. One glance at the light slipping through Maggie’s first-floor window told him his kid sister was the only one still up. Sam followed Dillon’s gaze and whistled under his breath.

“You sure got a cute sis.”

“Shut up.” Dillon elbowed his friend. “I‘ll kill you if you even think about it.”

Sam didn’t answer, just shrugged and grinned as he finished the cigarette and toed it out in the gravel of the driveway. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” He jerked his thumb toward the Murphy’s front door.

Dillon frowned. “Can’t you take a piss out here?” If his dad caught him sneaking anyone in after curfew again, he’d be grounded until graduation.

“It’s not pissing I gotta take care of.”

“Yeah, all right, whatever. Just make it fast and keep your mouth shut.” Dillon tiptoed around the shrubs, up the drive, and opened the door with a silent, practiced motion. Together they made their way through the dark foyer and past the kitchen, leaving all the lights off. Sam knew where the toilet was; he’d been to the house a half-dozen times. Dillon crept to the bottom of the staircase and listened. Nothing but his father’s snores so far. Good thing.

“Hurry up,” he hissed, following Sam toward the hallway that led to the downstairs bedrooms. He hooked his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, leaned against the wall, and kept one eye focused on the staircase.

Halfway down the hall Sam stopped

Maggie’s door opened a few inches, and her round, freckled face peeked out.

“Hey, Maggie.”

Dillon jabbed his friend in the back, but Sam ignored him.

Maggie’s eyes flicked back and forth from her stepbrother to Sam Knight, captain of the football team and president of the senior class. A flush rose in her cheeks and she opened her door all the way.

“What are you guys doing?” It was a whisper, a laugh, a biting of the bottom lip. Clad in an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of Dillon’s white tube socks, she leaned in the doorway and stared at Sam.

“Came by to say hello,” Sam said. He ran a hand over that buzz cut that all the girls at school seemed to drool over and edged his way closer.

That was enough for Dillon. Grabbing Sam by the arm, he hauled him into the kitchen. “Stay away from my sister. I mean it. You even look at her wrong, I’ll send your ass into next year.”

Sam shrugged, a good-natured grin still on his face. “Hey, I was just saying hi.” He raised both palms as if proclaiming his innocence and shuffled into the bathroom.

Dillon glanced over at Maggie, who still stood in her doorway. The smile had left her face, and she shot him a glance he could read as plain as day:
I’m fine, older brother. Stop worrying about me. Don’t hang around my room and play cop.

He sighed and ignored her. She didn’t get it. Somehow, over the last year, Maggie had turned from an annoying little kid with a head of crazy hair into this slender thing with curls falling down her back and a figure that filled out every damn thing she put on. Shit, she had no idea how the guys at school reacted to that.

I should warn her,
Dillon thought.
I’ve got to tell her to be careful, let her know what guys say, the way they think. I can’t always be around to watch out for her. Tomorrow
, he told himself.
I’ll drive Mags to school and give her a heads-up.

Two minutes later, the toilet flushed, and a bleary-eyed Sam emerged. “See ya later,” he whispered.

Dillon nodded and turned toward his own room, down the hall from Maggie’s. Sam knew enough to lock the door behind him. He knew to let the screen door ease shut rather than squeal with a jolt. Dillon didn’t watch his friend disappear into the night shadows. He didn’t wait to hear Sam’s jalopy start up for the two-mile drive home. Instead, dozy from the weed and the late hour, he slipped off to bed. His eyes closed before he reached the pillow.

Not once did I think anything would happen.

Not once did I think I should have stayed and played chaperone.

It wasn’t my fault. Sam was gone. The door was locked.

It was only the next morning that Dillon found out the truth.

*

On his way back from lunch, Jack stopped at the huge mahogany desk outside his office.

“Suzie, what’s my calendar look like for next Wednesday?”

The ample-bosomed woman in her early forties fluttered her lashes at him. No secret around the office that the CEO’s secretary had a schoolgirl’s crush on her boss. In her tight sweaters and heavy make-up, she preened and posed each time he walked by.

“Let me see.” Swiveling her chair to the computer behind her, she typed a few keys and hummed. Frosted blonde hair bobbed as she did so.

“Conference call with Les Axeman at noon. Other than that, nothing scheduled.”

“Okay. Leave the rest of the day free, if you can. I might have to make a trip down to Rhode Island.” He hated to think about wrapping up the purchase himself, but sometimes Carl turned soft when he had to make cutthroat deals face to face. Jack would save mid-week for the mop-up just in case.

Suzie nodded and her artificial nails clicked against the keys. “No problem.”

Jack knocked a thank-you on her desk and moved away.

“Goin’ to the ball tonight?” Her voice followed him.

His neck tightened. For almost an hour, he’d forgotten. “Oh. Yes.”

“Well, have a marvelous time, and tell that beautiful fiancée of yours to relax and enjoy herself for once. If she don’t, some other woman might just swoop in and steal you away.” She winked. “You know what I mean.”

Jack thought he heard the assistant on the other side of the room bite back a chuckle. He smiled. Some other woman steal him away? He couldn’t imagine that happening. What Paige wanted, Paige got. Raising a hand behind him, he disappeared into his office, leaving a giggling Suzie behind him.

Behind the closed door, Jack took a moment to stretch, trying to will away the knots in his neck. He ignored the pile of messages on his desk, the prospectus that needed perusal, the blinking inbox icon on his computer. Turning his back on it all, he stared out at the Boston skyline. Steel spirals pierced the graying sky, mixed with stout, brick historic buildings that had witnessed modern growth around them. A few blocks to the left stretched Faneuil Hall, with its fantastic blend of eateries and shops. Farther off, invisible to his eye but not his heart, lay Boston’s beloved Fenway Park. This year’s Red Sox team looked about the same as in years past: scruffy, scrambling, falling behind in the standings and fighting to work their way back up. You could almost set your calendar by the ebb and flow of their season.

God, he loved this place.

Jack sank into his deep leather chair. Back to work.
He had a good three hours ahead of him, at least.
Opening his emails, he scanned them quickly. He fished a pen from the top drawer and jotted down some notes for his four o‘clock meeting. He wondered how late that one would run. He’d told Stefan five-thirty at Cecil’s Pub, but that had been a long shot, and his college buddy knew it. If Jack made it there by six, he’d be lucky.

His private line rang.

Christ, not again.
He waited a beat before picking up. Hadn’t Paige told him at lunch that she’d be busy all afternoon? He couldn’t imagine she had a free minute to call him for the third time that day.

“Hello, sweetheart. Is everything alright?”

“Well, no, not, even close,” she began. He could tell by the tightness in her words that she was in classic Paige work-mode, shooting orders to everyone in her office and drinking nonfat lattes by the gallon.

He chose his response carefully “Is there anything I can do?” Offering help sometimes soothed her.

“No, no, of course not.” She shouted something in the background. “But I’m going to be late tonight, probably nine or ten at least.”

“That’s fine.”
Then I can have a couple more beers with Stefan. Perfect.

“That’s not what I needed to tell you.” Breathless, she rushed on. “I told Marty and Ginny you’d be there by seven.”

“What?”

“Cocktails are at seven and dinner at eight.”

But I’m going to be having my own cocktails, across town,
Jack wanted to say.
I don’t need to drop ten bucks on a martini when Stefan and I can get two-for-one drafts and play a game of darts.

“…plus Nina and Drake from the office downstairs are going, and I mentioned you’d meet them there.”

Jack tightened his grip on the pen and watched the silver squares on his desk clock slip into place: solid, heavy, like the noose he felt around his neck sometimes. He let out a long breath before responding. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.” Paige’s voice lost its edge and sounded relaxed for a fraction of a second. “And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to fax over three of the packets from the bands I’m interviewing next week. For our reception. Silverado is the most expensive, but I’m not sure their selection is exactly what we’re looking for.”

What
are
we looking for?
Jack wondered.
Good dance music? Big band tunes to make the parents happy? Love songs from the eighties?
“I’ll have Suzie watch for them.”