Undercover (11 page)

A bolt of lightening couldn’t have delivered a more jarring effect on her heart. She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat and tore her eyes free from the disturbing blue of his. Holy moly, from the look Jacob had just given her, one would think she was the devil herself caught in the act of snatching soul’s right from under his nose.

The priest stood, cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention, and then continued with the wedding mass.

Amanda let out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. “Thanks a lot,” she whispered to Tabitha and kissed her ruby little cheek.

“Oooh, necklace.” Tabitha’s round, tiny fingers touched the silver cross, then wrapped around the thin chain circling Amanda’s neck. With her niece distracted, Amanda’s eyes drifted back to Jacob.

He looked good. Tall and solid with his dress shirt pulled snug over the breadth of his squared shoulders. Working the land his entire life kept him fit and strong. At six-two, he was an impressive sight. His thick, almost black hair hadn’t lost its natural wave despite the close cut he maintained.

She closed her eyes and, for a moment, remembered his smile. The way his full lips tipped shyly at an angle, softening the hard angles of his face. How his eyes sparkled like the sun reflecting off water when his smile reached his eyes. She remembered the feel of his mouth against hers, the mix of soft and hard, the taste. Oh God, how she remembered the taste of him.

Her eyes flew open as she jerked back from the thoughts and memories. Her ex-brother-in-law wouldn’t appreciate her keen observation of his fine looks or the memory of his kiss. If anything, he’d find it offensive that the thoughts even entered her mind. After all, they sat in the house of the Lord, not to mention she’d been married to his younger brother.

Shame on me.

The Daughter

by Christina Wolfer

Coming January 2012

from Turquoise Morning Press

Abandoned at birth, social worker Katie Delynski believes love and relationships are learned. And she hasn’t learned anything good about either. She avoids both by focusing on her career and by getting prostitutes off the street. But then a man she’s never met commits suicide and in his Will claims her as his daughter, leaving her millions and a family full of uncles, aunts and cousins. They invite her into their lives, stirring a sense of belonging she is afraid to believe in.

When she buys an old building for a woman’s shelter, her newfound family puts her in touch with Conner Patterson, a family friend, to help rehab the building. As work progresses on the shelter, Katie finds herself falling in love with Conner, but fear will keep her from acting on her feelings. But he may be her only hope of survival when someone hurt by her father’s indiscretions is determined to make her pay for her father’s sins.

An excerpt from
The Daughter

With the cold weight of the gun in his hand, Keith O’Neil downed the third shot of bourbon. The liquid courage he needed to complete the task at hand. A cowards task for sure.

For a Catholic raised within the confines of a strict but loving family, suicide was the unthinkable sin. His parents raised him to believe suicide would give him eternal life in hell. The final act, he figured, of condemning his soul to the devil.

He sat in his office, on the top floor of one of the many high-rise buildings he owned. He loved the shapes and contrasts he’d created for his personal space, a home away from home. The black leather square furniture favored his masculine side and the dark wood of the wet bar stocked with the finest liquors catered to his love for the expensive. A private bathroom adjoined the room from the right and a massive picture window stood at his back overlooking the city of Philadelphia. He’d designed the building with his own hands, one of which was now wrapped around a small gun, ready to destroy rather than create.

He wondered if he’d have the balls to pull the trigger.

His status as a millionaire led people to believe he held the world in his hands. He’d thought so himself at one time, believing his money gave him power. He used people and pushed them aside when he finished with them. He’d ruined marriages, businesses’ and friendships, thinking all along he earned the right with each dollar he made.

He’d pissed off some important people along the way, people who wanted his money and to be rid of him. He wouldn’t give them the opportunity or satisfaction. They couldn’t touch him or his money once he was six feet under. He might be guilty of wrongdoing, but they weren’t pillars of the community either.

He spent his money how he saw fit and invested using insider information. His tastes ran toward expensive homes, cars, good booze and imported cigars. Oh, he gave to charity when giving served his purpose, but in the end, believed goodness and ‘doing good’ made one vulnerable and weak.

But things, life, his own body turned against him. How had he gotten to this place, when ending the pain seemed easier than facing life? It was surreal, like a terrible dream. Despite all the money, he’d been vulnerable and weak after all.

Cancer didn’t care about wealth or status.

Knowing death lurked around the corner made a person take stalk of his life. Regret rumbled at Keith like a freight train with no breaks, taking him by surprise and forcing him to face the bright light rather then jumping off the tracks before it slammed into him.

One for the road, he thought, reaching across the mahogany desk to grab a cigar. His eyes caught on the photograph sitting to the left of the cigar box. The frame matched his desk, his secretaries doing. She’d been the one to set the family portrait there, too, thinking he would appear more human to his clients.

The picture was of him, his parents and brothers and dated back five years, capturing a time when he thought he had forever to make things right. They, his family, chose the day after his fiftieth birthday to schedule the sitting. He’d shuffled his schedule around to be there and made sure his family knew the mess they’d made of his plans. Plans he now couldn’t even remember.

There had probably been other pictures since, and if that were true, they had not invited him. He didn’t blame them.

He hadn’t had forever to make things right. His parents passed away three years later, eight months apart and he missed them. His eyes welled with tears and he swiped the sleeve of his crisp blue shirt across his face in embarrassment.
God, what a pussy
. Shame followed him everywhere these days.

If he had the balls to go through with this, Debbie, his secretary of seventeen years, would find him in the morning. Would she be sorry he was gone? Would she miss him? It wasn't likely. He’d done nothing to earn her respect. She’d stayed on with the firm after ending their affair because he paid well, not because she cared about him.

She would be surprised to realize how much he cared about her, though. No, he didn’t love her, not the way he had Rachel, but he did want her to be happy. He’d been glad when she chose to stay with her husband and not tell him about the affair. One marriage he hadn’t ruined.

Everything was set. He’d spoken to his lawyer last week and made a few changes to his Trust. With his death he would make things right. Those affected by the truth might not understand at first, but in time, they would see the wisdom of his actions. His only wished was that he'd put this in motion years ago.

He should have paid closer attention. He’d hurt the people he loved simply by being absent from their lives. He’d done very little for his family, but hoped what he left behind would make up for what he’d been unable to give while alive.

No question he would leave his mark on the world. Large, beautiful buildings scraped the skies of every major city in the United States and in foreign countries. They would live on long after his death. He’d hobnobbed with presidents, kings and dignitaries, all for his own glory and satisfaction. But his death would mean nothing to the world. No one would miss him, not his brothers, who he hadn’t seen in two years or the daughter, who he knew only from a distance.

His biggest regret, the thing he felt the most shame over, was letting his little girl go through life without a dad, without his family. He had letters and pictures from the girl’s maternal grandparents, the ones who had raised her, but he could have had more, done more. Lord knows he couldn’t have raised her, and neither could her crack infested, whore of a mother. But the child, now a twenty-nine year old woman, never knew she belonged to him.

She would soon enough. She’d at least know his name.

He downed his fourth shot of bourbon and warmth comforted him. His hand stopped shaking as he put the cold barrel of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

****

Katie, no doubt, was still in shock over the events of the past week. She’d watched with little interest when the news broke of multi-millionaire architect, Keith O’Neil, taking his own life, in his own office at the top of his own building.

The tabloids and respected newspapers alike, plastered his life across their pages. Television reporters wouldn’t stop talking about the man’s death. It meant little, to nothing to her, but the press fed on the story for two weeks, millions of viewers thriving on the misfortunes of others.

But Katie didn’t consider Keith O’Neil one of the misfortunate.

A millionaire, at the top of his game, or so the headlines hollered. Yeah, right, Katie knew people didn’t take their own life when they reached the top of their game. They ended it when they found themselves at the bottom, at their lowest, at their most desperate.

As a social worker in the heart of Philadelphia, she’d seen it all – death and suicide – often enough to recognize the desperation. It reeked like the rotting of ones soul.

She’d pulled her crack-addicted mother out of the pit enough times to know the smell, to know what hopelessness looked like. And she’d watched her, like many others she worked with, climb back into the pit every chance they got.

Would Katie have done the same for this man if she’d known? Would she have tried to pull Keith O’Neil from the pit? The answer was simple for her – yes. For that reason, she now found herself taking an elevator to a lawyer’s office with goose bumps on her arms and legs. Her ancient sweater and thin trousers did little to abate the chill.

She didn’t belong here. She knew it the minute she stepped off the elevator on the third floor of The Masson Center, which housed the law offices of Pratt, Whyte and Lawson. Marble flooring and expensive wood furniture wasn’t something you would find five blocks over at Social Services. Bright colored paintings of popular landmarks throughout the city hung on ivory walls. And she’d bet a weeks salary the thick frames holding those paintings weren’t bought on sale.

The friendly, but stiff receptionist showed her down a winding hall to a set of double doors with brass handles, which swung open to a large conference room. The lemony fresh smell of furniture polish that greeted her didn’t set well with her already queasy stomach.

“Have a seat Ms. Delynski. The others should be here soon.” The doors thumped closed behind her as she stared in awe at the large room. Katie felt alone and very small.

Having never gotten the concept of fashionably late, she wasn’t surprised that she was the first to arrive. She poured herself a glass of water from the heavy glass pitcher set on a black rubber coaster near the head of the dark cherry table. Five matching glasses placed with precision around its base. Minus one now and not so perfect, she thought, taking a sip of the cold liquid.  

Bookshelves lined the back wall and framed in a door she assumed led to the lawyer’s office. Blue and white ornamental vases, along with a dreadful statue of a horse, found a place among the books. She stepped closer and got a whiff of leather from the older covers, their spines cracked. She ran a finger along the faded titles, intrigued by the eclectic taste of the reader, pausing on a book of poems by Robert Burns. Were they well used books or just for looks, she wondered? 

She started to touch a vase then thought better of it. With her luck, she’d break the urn and she was certain her annual salary wouldn’t cover the cost. Instead, she took a seat at the long rectangular conference table set up to accommodate ten people in plush high backed leather chairs. The shiny material squeaked when she sat. 

When the three men where ushered in she knew who they were. She’d done her homework but they seemed a bit taken aback by her presence. They introduced themselves and then sat in awkward silence, waiting for the lawyer.

Carl, Mike and Joe were Keith O’Neil’s brothers. Carl was the oldest, then Keith, followed by Mike and Joe.

And Keith O’Neil was her father.

She squelched the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Shock, she assured herself, kept her rooted in her seat. When she’d received the phone call last week, she’d laughed, hanging up after explaining to the man on the other end that he had the wrong number. She’d laughed up to the point of telling her grandparents about the call. Then the world shifted beneath her feet when they had gotten the ‘there’s something we need to tell you’ look on their faces. They confirmed Keith as her father, but would say little else. They wanted her to speak with the lawyer first.