Authors: Mary Campisi
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General, #Family & Relationships, #Death; Grief; Bereavement, #Parenting, #Single Parent, #Dating
The Way They Were (7 page)
Kate was still puzzling over the tub. “I’m sure I’d figure out a way to add a few flat screens.”
Abbie looked at her the way Rourke used to when he thought she was in over her head. “He’s got twelve of them. Sixty-one inchers.”
“I see.”
But Abbie was already poking around inside the dollhouse, touching couches, spindles, wallpaper. When she reached the fifth bedroom, she stopped. “You knew Rourke when he lived here, right?”
Kate forced the word out. “Yes.”
“Did he call you before he built his house, because this room is in
his
house.” She squinted and leaned closer, a frown creasing her pale face.
He’d built the house they talked about? “Lots of Victorian homes have turrets. It’s very common actually.”
“But are they all this purple color? I mean, this
exact
shade? And this fireplace in the bedroom? He has this.”
Julia leaned over too and peeked inside. “I can’t believe somebody actually built that.” She straightened and eyed Kate. “Is he an architect or something?”
Before Kate could answer, Abbie piped in. “No, he’s like a developer or something.”
“So maybe he and my mom talked about a house like this when he lived here.”
Abbie shrugged. “I guess.”
“I want to meet this guy,” Julia said, her voice pitched with excitement. “He sounds kind of cool.”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “He is so totally clueless.”
“Really? Why?”
“He has no idea what to do with a kid. He lets me stay up as late as I want, doesn’t care what I watch on T.V., and he even told me to go online and get stuff I needed. With his credit card.”
“So, what’d you get?” Julia whispered, her eyes wide with hero worship.
Abbie rattled off a list in a bored voice. “CD’s, an I-Home, an I-Pod, a Louis Vuitton purse, and a pair of BCBG shoes.”
“Wow.”
“It’s not so great though. We have to eat out almost every night because he doesn’t cook and he won’t let me answer the phone. Ever.”
“Why not?”
“He has all these women calling him and he has to screen everything.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, there’s like superstars calling him, too, and he acts like it’s no big deal.”
Julia had forgotten her mother was less than three feet away. “Do any of his girlfriends ever stay over?” she whispered.
“Not since I’ve been there, but I found a bunch of Victoria’s Secret kind of stuff in one of his drawers.”
“Really?”
“I know you’re not supposed to snoop, but you have no idea how boring it is to sit in this monster house all day with nobody to talk to except a German cleaning lady who speaks two words of English and the plant man, who never talks.”
“Your uncle has a plant man?”
“He has everything,” Abbie nodded with a glowing satisfaction. “Maybe your mom will let you come visit sometime. We could have a blast.”
Julia shot a look in Kate’s direction and turned scarlet. “Mom! Were you listening?”
“Of course not.”
Both girls flashed suspicious glances Kate’s way but when she turned to her workbench, they went right back to chattering, only this time their voices didn’t resonate past the perimeter of the model dollhouse.
Kate sank into her chair and reached for the stack of mail. Some envelopes were addressed to Kate Redmond, others to Kate Maden, still others to Kate Redmond Maden. She’d been all of those names at one time or another; she just wished she knew who she was now.
Clay had been gone less than five months and already his voice had started to fade, the loud belly laughter so characteristic of him, growing dim. She’d pulled out several pictures last week and placed them throughout the house. So she wouldn’t forget. Some voices stayed with a person forever, some smiles, some touches, lived just below the surface. She sliced through an envelope with the letter opener. Damn Rourke Flannigan. Why did he have to come back now?
There were three letters from attorneys informing her she could have a multi-million dollar negligence case in front of her. Before the week was out, she’d have six or seven more. Even after all these months, the letters continued. She’d meet with the lawyer from New York, listen to him, consider the options, and then make her decision whether to press forward or let the case rest. The enormity of the task made her head ache. If only she had an objective listener, someone who had nothing to gain from her decision but who would be able to consider the ramifications of her choice in a purely analytical manner. She thought of Rourke. Perhaps he could help.
Chapter 8
“
We’re going to have to finish this thing between us, you realize that don’t you?”—Rourke Flannigan
“I need you, Maxine.”
“Sir?”
Rourke scanned the stacks of papers and folders on his desk and wondered how he’d made such a mess in two short days. “I’ve got Higgins calling me from London looking for reports, Evans from Seattle wondering about the Caintrano projects we promised him, and Sedurilli in Boston demanding to know why I didn’t show for their annual meeting. Did you not inform him I wouldn’t be attending?”
“Yes, sir. Three weeks ago.”
“Well, he’s ticked. And I’ve been working on a proposal for the Grendall project which I promised to send in Thursday’s mail but I’ve misplaced it in this mess.”
“I’ll be on the next flight to Montpelier, Mr. Flannigan.”
Rourke closed his eyes and rubbed his right temple. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Prentiss left three messages this morning.”
Probably because he hadn’t answered his cell phone. “What did she want?”
“She’s looking for you, sir. Something about a charity ball at the Ritz.”
“Call her and tell her I can’t make it. Then send her flowers or something. You decide.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t tell her you spoke with me.” Janice was beautiful and witty, with the longest legs he’d ever seen, but damn she required effort. There wasn’t a congenial cell in her genetic makeup. Not like Kate.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Flannigan?”
Here goes.
“Actually, yes. I’m going to need you to do a little babysitting while you’re here.”
“Sir?”
He heard her sipping air. “Relax, it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Actually, it was, but Maxine could figure that out once she was here. “I need you to keep an eye on Abbie.”
“But, sir, I know nothing about children.”
“Which is ten times more than I know. I’ve got real business to tend to here and I can’t have her running loose and driving me crazy. No wonder Cresten looks so old. How many daughters does he have?”
“Five, sir.”
“Give the man a raise. He’s earned it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Dress casual. You don’t need those tweed suits and plaid jackets. Jeans are fine.”
“Jeans, sir?”
“Yes, Maxine. Blue, black, gray. Jeans.”
“Yes, sir.” Pause. “Mr. Flannigan?”
Just once, he’d like her to call him Rourke. “Yes?”
“I really am not familiar with children, though I will endeavor to do my very best.”
“You’ll do fine.”
By noon Rourke had a two page list for Maxine and a ten-point strategy to bridge the fourteen year gap with Kate. He’d once been called a brilliant strategist by
Forbes
, and
Money
said he had the brains to lead the next industrial revolution. But this was Kate and suddenly, uncertainty plagued him. Kate, the woman, wasn’t as easily swayed by him as Kate, the girl, had been.
When the front door tinkled someone’s arrival, Rourke reached for his wallet. “How much do you need now, Abigail?”
“It’s Abbie, isn’t it?”
He jerked his head up. “Kate. Hello.” She wore jeans that molded her hips and a semi-fitted pink T-shirt. Years had passed, but he still remembered every inch of skin underneath those clothes.
“I met your niece this morning.” She moved toward him, a half smile skittering across her lips.
He’d tasted those lips. Full. Inviting. Rourke cleared his throat and stuffed his wallet in his back pocket. “She’s interesting, isn’t she?” For once he was grateful he could talk about his niece, the instant libido blaster. “Not that I understand a damn thing she says or does.”
“She’s a typical teenager.” Kate stood across the desk, less than two feet away, the scent of her perfume teasing his senses. At eighteen, it had been hyacinth. He’d never heard of the flower before but she’d shown him one in the neighbor’s garden. The next night, he’d picked every one and brought them to her. “Hyacinth?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your perfume. Hyacinth?”
She blushed. “Yes.”
They stared at one another a second too long and he knew she’d never forgotten him. It was in the blue of her eyes, the flush of her cheeks, the wetness of her parted lips. Did she realize they weren’t finished, that maybe they’d never be finished, no matter how much they fought it?
“Rourke?” It was a soft plea of uncertainty.
“Yes?”
“Don’t do this. Please.” Her eyes glittered with tears and a hint of fear.
“I can’t help it,” he said softly. “Neither can you.”
She stepped back and clutched her middle. “We can’t do this.”
“It’s too late, Kate.” He kept his voice gentle. “It’s always been too late. We’re going to have to finish this thing between us, you realize that don’t you?”
“Maybe if you just leave…”
He shook his head and stood. “It won’t work. You know that.”
“Clay—”
“You were never his.” He moved toward her. “Not since that night at the lake. I want to get to know you again.” He closed the distance between them, lifted a hand and traced her jaw with his fingers.
“We live in different worlds now. Perhaps we always did.” She blinked hard and leaned her face into his hand. “You’ve been all over the world. I’ve never even been to Disneyland.”
“I’ll take you there.”
“You know what I mean.”
He cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “All I know is that traveling the world can’t erase what we shared.” He lowered his mouth to hers and murmured, “It can’t even dim the memory.”
When their mouths met, she whimpered. Rourke eased his arms around her waist, careful not to frighten her, but it was Kate who urged his mouth open, Kate who plunged her tongue inside with desperate need. She was the one who thrust her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts and hips against him.
“Rourke,” she breathed into his mouth.
He wanted her with the ferocity of the young man he’d been at eighteen. Without reserve. Without a past. Without a dead husband between them. This was what he’d been waiting for all these years. He slid his hand along her spine. This—
The jingle of his office door slashed through the intimate moment. “Rourke?” Abbie’s voice drifted to them. “You here?”
Kate tried to jerk away but Rourke grabbed her wrist. “Nothing happened. Understand? Pull yourself together.” The pain of regret splashed across her face as she opened her mouth to speak. “Nothing,” he repeated under his breath. Then he released her and moved to the other side of the desk where he sank into a chair just as Abbie bounced in the doorway. “Hey! Hi, Mrs. Maden. What are you doing here?”
“I—”
“She had some documents she wanted me to look over,” Rourke interjected, flipping over a clipped pack of papers. Damn Kate, she wouldn’t even look at him.
Abbie scrunched her nose and glanced from one to the other. “Didn’t you two know each other in high school or something?”
“Yes, we did.”
Look at me, Kate.
“Long time ago, huh?” Abbie let out a squeak of laughter and added, “Very long time.”
“Funny.” He dug in his wallet and fished out a ten dollar bill. “Here. Go get lunch.”
Abbie snatched the bill and stuffed it in her shorts pocket. “Thanks.” She turned to Kate. “Julia said she had some chores to do, but do you think she could go to Subway with me?”
“If her work’s done, she’s welcome to go. I’ll walk with you.” Kate darted a glance in the direction of Rourke’s forehead. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for looking at the papers.”
“Right.” If Abbie hadn’t intruded he’d have been looking at a lot more than her papers. And he still would. Soon.
Chapter 9
“
You know that was a very bad time in my life, Katie and I would just as soon not dredge up the past.”—Georgeanne Redmond
“What is he doing here?” Georgeanne Redmond tried to hide the agitation in her voice but it clung to her like cigarette smoke.
Kate shrugged and placed a tuna on rye alongside a kosher spear and a scoop of German potato salad. “He said he’s here for his niece.” She handed her mother the plate and sat down.
“You spoke to him?” Oxygen seeped from the room in big gusts, rendering speech and thought nearly impossible.
