The Burning Point (10 page)

God help her, did this mean she was supposed to go along with Sam's will? Or was fatigue making her see omens in what was mere coincidence?

Later. She'd think about all this
later
.

When she took off her jacket, crinkling paper reminded her of the letter from her father she'd stuffed into the pocket. She pulled out the envelope, wincing at the sight of her name scrawled in Sam's impatient handwriting. She was too tired to face a message from him tonight.

But curiosity won over fatigue. She ripped open the PDI envelope, then perched nervously on the edge of the bed and scanned the lines of the last message she would ever receive from her father.

My darling Kate,
it began.
I don't know when you'll read this, but it's a safe bet that you'll be mad as hell at me. Just as well that I'm dead.

Take it as given that I'm a meddling old fool, but I swear on Nonna Corsi's grave that I want only the best for you. I've always believed I was at least partly responsible for you and Donovan getting divorced. I knew how much you wanted to work for PDI, but he was the one I hired. I've never been sorry about that--a man couldn't ask for a finer employee, or friend, or son-in-law. Still, I should have brought you both into the firm, despite my reservations, because hiring him and not you had to have caused problems.

Well, I can't keep you out of PDI now. Nick's job is open, and you and Donovan would make a hell of a team--just like when you were married.

But I'm hoping for more than an office partnership, which is why I said you had to share the house with him. Living together, seeing each other over breakfast, is different from working together. Whenever your mom and I visited Donovan at Brandy Lane, I'd think how happy you two were when you refinished furniture together, or shared the kitchen to put on a terrific dinner, or just sat on the sofa holding hands when you had company. Maybe you can be that way again.

It probably looks like I'm trying to run your life from the grave, and with some justice, but even I have to admit that I can't force either of you into a relationship you don't want. What I can try to do is give you both a second chance. I know what it's like to be young and hotheaded and talk myself into a corner I couldn't get out of. You and Donovan probably said and did things that seemed unforgivable, but it was a lot of years ago. Maybe it's time to look at what you had, and decide whether it's worth getting back.

So when you get over being furious with me, carissima, maybe you'll forgive my heavy-handedness. After all, I'm Italian, I can't help it.

And I hope you'll remember how much I love you.

Always,

Dad

By the end, her eyes were so full of tears that she could barely read his signature. She wrapped her arms around a pillow and began to weep. If he hadn't died in that accident, she probably never would have seen the letter. Obviously he'd written it just after her cousin Nick's departure, when he was feeling abandoned and wanted more family around him. Eventually the will would have been changed, when she or Donovan remarried, but because of the terrible coincidence of her father's death so soon after he'd written that impulsive letter, there was a poignant immediacy to his words. She could hear the echo of his gruff voice in her head as she read.

Damn the man, why did he have to remind her how close she and Donovan had been? If he was here, she'd wring his neck.

Oh, God, if only Sam
were
here.

Clutching the damp pillow, she finally drifted into the sleep of utter exhaustion.

Chapter 8

∗ ∗ ∗

Kate cuddled the dog on her lap as Donovan turned his vehicle onto Bellona Avenue. She'd been insane to agree to visit the house they'd shared. The best and worse times of their marriage had taken place there, and the closer she got, the tenser she felt.

She gazed out the window at the wooded hills of Ruxton. Though the neighborhood lay within the Baltimore Beltway, the narrow winding roads and towering trees made it feel like deep country. This morning every tree and dormant shrub sparkled with brittle, crystalline snow. A perfect setting for a dead marriage.

Years in California had made her wary of icy roads, but she had confidence in Donovan and his Jeep Cherokee. His competence at just about everything had been part of his allure. At eighteen, she'd believed that this was a man she could trust for anything. Clear proof that instinct wasn't worth a damn.

Oscar raised his head and gave a bark of recognition as they turned into Brandy Lane, the twisty dead-end road that led to the house. The dog had often stayed with Donovan when Julia and Sam traveled, and had insisted on coming today.

After bracing herself for the first sight of her old home, Kate was relieved to see that the modest structure of her memories had changed almost beyond recognition. The site sloped away from the road and was heavily treed, which made it difficult to evaluate the extent of the alterations. At the very least a new wing had been added, with what looked like a three-car garage tucked underneath and entered from the side.

Donovan pulled up in front of the house, then cut the ignition and unbuckled his seat belt. "I thought you might like to use the formal entrance."

"Lay on, McDuff, and damn'd be him who first cries, Hold, enough!
"

"Is this really Shakespearean tragedy?"

"Actually, it's more like farce," she admitted.

He climbed out and circled the vehicle to open her door. Oscar leaped from her lap to the ground and dashed to the house, a fast fur ball in flight from the cold. He whizzed past the azaleas she'd planted by the entrance. She'd picked them specially because the blooms were a rare shade of magenta. They'd grown a lot in ten years.

Glad that Donovan knew better than to offer his hand to help her down, Kate stepped from the vehicle, gasping as a blast of icy wind knifed through her. "Good grief, has Baltimore moved closer to the North Pole since I left?"

"This January has been one of the coldest on record." He shut the passenger door and escorted her to the house. She felt brittle as glass as he unlocked the front door.

Inside, she felt relief again. The house had changed out of recognition. To her left, she saw that the small kitchen and dining room had been combined into a large, inviting country kitchen. It was an appealing space filled with sunshine and handsome oak cabinets, but it wasn't
her
kitchen.

On the far side, a broad arch led into a new formal dining room. It appeared pristine and seldom used. Not surprising; if she lived here alone, she'd always eat in that friendly kitchen. She unbuttoned her raincoat and handed it to Donovan.

He hung it with his parka in a closet that hadn't existed nine years before. "Coffee? Cappuccino?"

She walked into the kitchen. "Cappuccino in Baltimore, the city where trends come to die?"

"Clear proof that cappuccino has become mainstream. Would you like some?"

"Regular coffee would be nice."

While she admired the handmade ceramic tiles on the backsplash, Donovan pulled a bag of hazelnut coffee beans from the refrigerator. He'd always been a good cook. Preparing meals together had been such fun, negotiating for the cutting board, dodging each other, not always successfully....

She bit her lip, blocking the image that had been stirred by her father's letter. Sharing a kitchen amiably did not a marriage make.

As he measured beans into a grinder, he said, "Why not explore on your own? There's nothing off-limits."

Relieved to tour the house alone, she opened the door leading to what had been a dismal basement, despite her best efforts with paint and lighting. The area had been completely transformed, more than doubling in size when the wing was added.

The south wall was now mostly windows that looked into the woods, and the space had been transformed into a spacious family room, a full bath, a large, well-organized workshop, and a sizable room containing exercise equipment. The home gym would be convenient if she came here. A big "if."

She returned upstairs and checked out the small laundry room that had been tucked between the kitchen and the door to the garage. As a female architect, she approved. It was convenient to be able to keep an eye on the laundry while cooking.

Professional curiosity engaged, she crossed the entry hall and entered the old living room. Now it was a den and TV room. None of the casual furniture was familiar, for which she was grateful.

She lingered to study the bookshelves. An eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction, including a copy of the
Blasters' Handbook
. And, damnation, here was the beautiful coffee table edition of the
Book of Kells
that she had given him one Christmas. They'd both loved the ancient Celtic manuscript illuminations.

She turned away from the books, preferring to admire the first-rate sound system. Donovan had probably wired the house so that music would play into every room.

A new door opened from the den into a much larger room. Oscar Wilde was padding in that direction, so she followed him down the three steps. Then she halted, stunned. Dear God, it was
her house
! No wonder the other areas had seemed so right.

Her gaze swept over the magnificent, cathedral-ceilinged living room, the fieldstone fireplace flanked by narrow stained glass panels. Sunshine poured in through skylights, and tall windows afforded sweeping views of the surrounding woodlands. It was all exactly as she had visualized when drawing up the plans.

Hearing a footstep behind her, she whirled to find Donovan coming through the kitchen door, a mug of coffee in each hand. Voice choked, she exclaimed, "You used the plans I drew up when I was studying at Maryland!"

"It seemed silly to reinvent the wheel when your ideas were so good," he said as he handed her a steaming mug. "I made some minor changes, but basically it's the house you designed as your first big residential project."

Her hand was shaking so badly that scalding coffee slopped over her fingers. The original structure was so small and nondescript that Kate had felt no compunctions about making major changes. She'd wanted to create a home filled with sunlight, and incorporating some of the wonderful architectural elements salvaged from PDI jobs, like the carved oak mantelpiece and the stained glass panels beside the fireplace.

She'd drawn a blizzard of sketches, selling her ideas to her husband as if he were a paying client. Discovering her design brought to vivid life in wood and stone was more upsetting than the original house would have been. She'd put so much of herself and her dreams for the future into her plans. Seeing her house was like--like finding out that she'd had a child she didn't know about.

She sipped at her coffee. Milk only, just the way she liked it. Damn Donovan!

Wrapping her hands around the mug for warmth, she paced the length of the room. As in the rest of the house, the furnishings were comfortable but sparse. The empty spaces cried out pictures and plants, woven hangings and tapestry pillows....

She cut her spiraling imagination off. This was
not
her house. Not anymore. But there were haunting similarities to her home in San Francisco. She and Donovan had similar tastes in Persian rugs and softly neutral overstuffed furniture, creating ghostly echoes between her house and his.

Trying to take refuge in professional detachment, she said, "Very nice. When did you have this built?"

"I did most of the work myself. The living room was the last major project. I finished it a year or so ago."

His shuttered expression made her wonder what he had felt while working from the drawings and floor plans she'd labored over for months. Had he thought about her, or done his best not to? "You used your spare time for building as a counterbalance to wrecking things for a living?"

"Something like that."

Stopping by the glass doors, she gazed over the deck into the trees. One end of the deck was screened in, with a door that led into the kitchen. A great place to eat and hang out in the summer. Donovan's idea--her design hadn't addressed the exterior.

Blocking out memories of the walks she and Donovan had taken through the woods--and the times they'd come back smudged with leaves or grass stains--she turned away from the window. "I've always wondered where you got the money to buy out my share of the house. I couldn't have afforded to go to Berkeley if you hadn't done that. Did Sam give you a loan?"

"Not Sam--Julia. Your father was so furious about the divorce that he wasn't about to do anything that would make it easier for you to stay away. Julia was more practical. She said she didn't want her daughter to have to drop out of school and become a topless dancer or worse."

Kate smiled involuntarily. That sounded just like her mother. "I assumed that once the dust settled from the divorce, you'd sell this place."

"I was tempted. But this was my home. I didn't want to have to find another."