Within Reach (5 page)

“No. I was about to start on the sauce. Which will be different from the other sauces we had during the week,” he said for Eva’s benefit.

She gave him a skeptical look, as well she might. There was only so much a man could do with tomatoes, onion and ground meat.

“If you want to take a break from the kitchen for the night, I could make us Mexican. I picked up a few groceries while we were out so I’ve got a taco kit and the makings for a salad in the car,” Angie said.

“Yes!”
Eva jumped up and down on the spot, hands in the air.

“Mexican it is, then,” Angie said.

The dinner prep passed quickly, punctuated with lots of laughter. The Mexican feast elicited loud approving noises from his children—a hint, in case he’d missed the earlier message, that he needed to add a little more variety to their weekly menu.

Charlie was rubbing his eyes by the time they had finished eating and Michael took a chance and settled him in his bed. Miraculously, Charlie’s eyes shut after only ten minutes of story.

When Michael returned to the kitchen, Angie was seated at the counter, her chin propped on her left hand as she sketched rapidly in a notebook.

“Guess who’s already asleep?”

She glanced up, her blue eyes unfocused for a few seconds as she dragged herself back from whatever creative space she’d been in.

“Really? He’s down already?”

“The magic of the park.”

“Wow. They should put that in a can. It would sell like hotcakes.”

“You want a coffee?”

“Sure.”

He glanced to the living area and saw that Eva had crashed out on the couch, too. Unusual for her, but maybe the shopping had worn her out. He pulled mugs from the cupboard and grabbed the French press. He turned to check if Angie wanted some chocolates with their coffee and saw that she was once again absorbed in her notebook, this time writing small, neat notes to herself in the margin.

She was so self-contained, one of the calmest people he knew. In fact, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen her really agitated or distressed. She approached everything with an interested, open-minded curiosity and an unfailing, quiet sense of humor. She was good company, good to spend time with.

All of which made her apparently perpetual single status baffling to him. It wasn’t as though she was hard on the eyes. She might not be conventionally beautiful, but her long, oval face and deep blue eyes were very appealing. She had a sleek, subtly curved body that was more athletic than va-voom, but there was no denying that she was an attractive woman. Very attractive.

He knew through Billie that Angie’s love life was hardly a barren desert—there were men, not too many, but enough—yet none of them seemed to stick. He also knew via his indiscreet wife that there had been one man years ago who Angie had been crazy about. Was she still holding a candle for him? Or was it simply a matter of her not being interested?

Behind him, the kettle clicked to announce it had boiled. He started to make the coffees as the doorbell rang through the house.

He frowned. It was nearly eight-thirty, and the days of people dropping in unannounced had gone with Billie.

“I’ll finish this. You get the door,” Angie said.

“Thanks.”

He made his way up the hall and opened the door to find the woman he’d run into in the park earlier on his doorstep, a piece of paper in hand.

“Michael. Hi. Remember me? Gerry.” She gave a self-conscious laugh.

“Of course,” he said, even though he’d forgotten her name the moment she’d reintroduced herself this afternoon. He simply didn’t have room for that sort of thing in his head right now.

“Sorry to show up on your doorstep like this, but I was thinking about Charlie this afternoon and I realized that you’ve probably been out of the loop a bit since we all used to contact Billie for things… Anyway, I thought you might be interested in this.”

Gerry thrust the piece of paper at him and he saw that it was a flyer advertising a sing-and-dance event at the local indoor play center.

“A bunch of us are going to make a day of it, take a picnic, that sort of thing.” Gerry smoothed a hand over her deep red hair.

“Thanks. I’ll see if we can make it. Charlie thinks he’s a rock star, so it’s all about singing and dancing for him.”

She laughed a little too loudly. “Oh, he’s adorable. And so is Eva. Such lovely kids.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that and not sound like a monstrous egotist, so he simply smiled politely. Gerry started talking about the next mothers’ group get-together and insisted on passing over another list with everyone’s phone numbers, indicating her own.

“Anything you need, babysitting, whatever, you call me,” she said. “I’d be happy to help out any way I can. I know how tough it is doing it all alone.”

They had been talking on the doorstep so long he suspected he probably should have invited her inside, but just when he was prodding himself to do so she palmed her car keys and took a step away.

“I’ll see you around, Michael.”

“Sure. And thanks for this, Gerry. I appreciate it.”

She waved a hand to indicate it wasn’t a big deal and then took off up the driveway, her high heels loud against the concrete. He shut the door and returned to the kitchen. Two mugs sat steaming on the counter. Angie had a small, wry smile on her face.

“One of Billie’s mothers’ group friends with a playdate thingy,” he explained, brandishing the flyer before using a magnet to fix it to the fridge. “I ran into her in the park today.”

“Was that what that was about?” Angie asked, eyebrows arched knowingly.

He stared at her blankly. “What else would it be?”

She gave a small laugh. “Michael, she was hitting on you.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Um, yeah, she was. Totally hitting on you. Who drops by with a playdate reminder at eight-thirty on a Sunday night?”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

She didn’t say anything, but her expression did.

“She’s married, Angie. She has kids.”

“She has kids, yes, but not all the women in that group were married, you know. Ever heard of single parenthood and divorce?”

He shrugged, sick of the subject. “Fine. Maybe she was hitting on me. If you say so.”

He grabbed his mug and took a mouthful of strong, hot coffee. Angie had made it exactly the way he liked it.

“She won’t be the last, you know.”

“I don’t care.”

She eyed him sympathetically, hands wrapped around her mug, elbows propped on the counter.

“You might eventually.”

He set his cup down so firmly it made a loud crack against the marble surface. “No, I won’t.”

Why was Angie pushing this? She, of all people, should understand that Billie couldn’t be replaced.

Afraid he’d say something he’d regret, he went to put his daughter to bed.

CHAPTER THREE

A
NGIE
WATCHED
M
ICHAEL
’
S
retreat, wishing back her impulsive words.

He’d been genuinely surprised and not a little uncomfortable when she’d pointed out that the woman had been flirting with him. She should have bitten her tongue then, when it was clear that the subject of him being a hot commodity in the singles market wasn’t something he was ready to consider.

Her gaze fell on the milk, abandoned on the counter. Grabbing it, she slid off her stool and returned it to the fridge. Michael had looked so grim when she’d hinted that other women might be interested in him. So sad and serious.

He’d loved Billie so deeply, so devotedly. Angie was an idiot for even raising the subject of him moving on.

She turned to find Michael standing barely a foot behind her.

“Sorry,” he said simply and sincerely. “I overreacted.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She fought the urge to take a step away. She didn’t want Michael to think he made her uncomfortable—he didn’t—but she was very aware of how close they were standing.

He smiled faintly. “Good old Angie, always letting me off the hook. Have I told you lately that you’ve been fantastic?”

“Um…no?” This close, she could see tiny flecks of amber in the depths of his gray-green eyes. She stared, fascinated.

“Thank you, Angie.” He reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin of her collarbone as he gave her a quick, light squeeze before moving away. “You want to watch a movie?”

She frowned, unsettled by the small contact and the fact that she could still feel the heat of his hand.

This was Michael, after all.

He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for her answer. The ring of a cell phone cut through the room.

“That’s mine,” Angie said, crossing to where she’d dumped her handbag at the far end of the dining table. She checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. “Angela Bartlett speaking.”

“Angie, it’s Tess.”

“Oh. Hey.” Angie frowned. Tess was a fellow tenant in the Stradbroke building, and while they were friends, it was unusual for her to call like this. “How are things?”

“I’ve got some bad news. There’s been a break-in at the Stradbroke. A whole bunch of studios have been trashed.”

“What?” Cold shock washed through her. “How bad is it?”

“I have no idea how bad yours is, but mine’s a wreck. They stole my computer, my iPod, even my freakin’ kettle, can you believe that? And they trashed all of my latest canvases.”

Angie could hear the quiver in Tess’s voice. She was a tough nut. If she was teary, things must be pretty bad. Angie closed her eyes. If they had somehow managed to get into her safe, she was completely screwed. She had two sets of rings in there waiting for delivery, and she’d recently received a shipment of gold. Not to mention the thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of gems.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said.

“I’ll be here. Surrounded by all this crap.”

Angie ended the call and scooped up her bag.

“What’s wrong?” Michael took a step toward her.

“There’s been a break-in at the studio. Mine and a bunch of others have been trashed.” She fumbled in her handbag for her keys. Her hands were shaking so much it took a couple of attempts to get a grip on them.

This could be the end of her business.

“Has someone called the police? How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. I need to go….” She started to leave, her thoughts racing ahead of her.

“Angie.”

Michael’s hand caught her arm as she was opening the front door. “Drive carefully, okay? Any damage has already been done, so you speeding there isn’t going to change anything.” His voice was calm and steady. Grounding.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Keep us in the loop, okay?”

“I will.” She gave him a small, grateful smile before exiting the house.

The moment she was in the car all her worries rose to the surface again but she resisted the impulse to floor it, Michael’s words still echoing in her mind. There was no point adding a speeding fine—or worse—to tonight’s woes. Whatever they might be.

She found a parking spot around the corner from the building and ran the half block to the entrance. Her footsteps sounded loud in the stairwell as she climbed to the fifth floor. She could see evidence of the break-in as she climbed—graffiti and broken glass—and there was more when she arrived on her floor. Glass glinted on the tiles in the corridor, and every door along this side hung open drunkenly, regardless of the security measures the individual tenants had in place. A couple of police officers stood at the far end of the corridor, talking. One of them started walking toward her the moment they saw her.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, miss. This is a crime scene.”

“I’m a tenant—studio twenty-three. My neighbor told me my space has been broken into.”

The policeman consulted his notebook. “Number twenty-three. That makes you Angela Bartlett.”

“That’s right.”

“You can go in to assess the damage and tell us what’s missing, but I need you to not touch anything until our crime-scene people have finished collecting evidence.”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever you want, I just need to see my studio.”

She was aware of the anxious pounding of her heart as she followed him around the corner. She could see her door hanging open.

“They hit every studio?” she asked, her gaze darting left and right as she inspected the damage to her neighbors’ spaces as they passed. What she saw only increased the anxiety tightening her chest—smashed furniture, toppled bookcases.

“On this level, yeah. Downstairs they were a bit more discriminating.” The cop halted. “Okay, here we are. Remember, no touching anything until the team’s been through.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the doorway. She sent up a prayer to the universe.

Please let them have not broken into the safe.

She stepped over the threshold.

The first thing she registered was the black paint sprayed across the wall, a huge, furious four-letter word six feet high. Paint had dribbled down to the floor, which was covered with broken glass from the framed artwork they had torn off the walls. The mid-century sideboard that had housed her books and keepsakes had been tipped over, spilling its contents, and her table and chairs had been smashed.

Her gaze zeroed in on the safe. Relief pounded through her as she saw that while the dull gray metal was scarred and pitted around the locking mechanism and it had been dragged a few feet from its position in the corner, the door remained closed.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, closing her eyes for a brief second.

That was one disaster averted, at least. She turned to inspect the rest of her space and sucked in a dismayed breath when she saw her workbench. The intruders had sprayed black paint over all her tools—the leather hammer she’d used for more than ten years, her vernier caliper, her flexi-drive drill, all the drill bits and mops and burrs… Again, she reached out but caught herself in time.

Angry tears burned at the back of her eyes. She didn’t understand why anyone would be so destructive. She was a stranger to the intruders, yet they had made a concerted effort to maliciously destroy her creative space.

Her phone rang. She pulled it from her bag. Michael’s number showed on the screen.

“Everything okay?” he asked the moment she took the call.

“Yes and no. They didn’t get into my safe, which would have pretty much been the end of my business. But they’ve absolutely trashed everything else they could get their hands on. Including my tools.”

“Shit. I’m really sorry, Angie.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Stupid assholes.”

“I take it you’re insured?”

“Yeah, but I think it’s mostly going to be cleaning up, not replacing stuff. Apart from what’s in the safe, most of the things I had here have value only for me, you know. They’re hardly worth claiming on insurance.”

“Anything I can do?”

Despite the situation, his offer warmed her. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so alone or overwhelmed.

“Thanks, but there’s nothing anyone can do at this stage. The police won’t let me touch anything until their fingerprint people have—” Her roaming gaze fell on a spray of dirt on the floor near the window.

The burn of tears intensified as she saw that her Japanese maple bonsai tree had been thrown to the floor and stomped on. The pottery base was shattered, and half the tree’s roots were exposed and broken.

“Angie? Are you okay?”

She sank to her knees and reached for the fragile tangle of leaves and tiny branches.

“They smashed my bonsai.”

There was a small silence. She knew Michael understood the significance of the loss. Billie had given her the tiny tree as a gift to brighten her workspace, even though Angie had what could only be described as a black thumb. At the time, Angie had given Billie her word that she’d keep it alive, and so far the bonsai had survived almost three years of benign neglect.

She lifted the tree gently. It was crushed, the main trunk almost completely severed. Utterly beyond saving.

“If you want, I can be there in half an hour. I’m sure Mrs. Linton could look after the kids for a few hours.”

She sniffed back her tears. “I’m okay. Just angry. It’s so destructive. And completely pointless.”

“You sure you don’t want some company?”

“I’ll be all right. But thanks for the offer.”

It wasn’t until they ended the call that it struck her that ten months ago, Billie would have been the one on the phone, insisting on helping. It was hard facing a crisis without her best support and cheerleader, but it was also nice to know that Michael cared enough to have made the call.

Of course he cares. He’s your friend
.
Just as you’re his friend.

She heard footsteps in the corridor and the policeman stopped in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our team is here now. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Okay.”

She took one last look around her devastated studio. As she’d said to Michael, there was nothing she could do here till tomorrow.

Shoulders straight, she headed for home.

* * *

M
ICHAEL
WORRIED
ABOUT
Angie all night until he went to bed and then started again first thing when he woke the next morning. She’d done so much for him and the kids and he hated the thought of her having to deal with the invasion of her creative space all on her own.

After he’d dropped Eva at school, he drove into the city. Charlie was asleep in his car seat by the time Michael found a parking spot. He unstrapped him and carried him the block to Angie’s building. Charlie began to wriggle in his arms as he approached the entrance and he set his son on his feet and took his hand.

“You happy now?”

Charlie nodded.

“Shall we go visit Angie, then?”

“Angie?” Charlie’s face was a study in delight.

The directory in the foyer told him A. Bartlett was in studio twenty-three on the fifth floor. He eyed the ancient cage elevator suspiciously before deciding to take the stairs. After the first flight, Charlie allowed himself to be carried again, a capitulation which shortened their upward trek by several minutes.

Glass crunched underfoot, and when they arrived at the fifth floor more piles of broken glass were stationed periodically along the corridor, clearly waiting to be collected and disposed of. Michael winced when he saw the damage to some of the studios he passed.

“Down. Down!” Charlie commanded as they neared Angie’s.

Michael set him on his feet but kept a tight grip on his son’s hand as he searched for number twenty-three. Belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should have called first—for all he knew, Angie might be out arranging repairs or talking to clients. Then he saw that the door to what he assumed was her studio was open and lifted a hand to knock on the doorframe to announce himself. His hand froze inches from the wood as he registered that Angie was inside and that she wasn’t alone.

Not by a long shot.

Instead, she was in what looked like a fervent embrace with a tall, muscular man with long dark hair. The other man’s hands were splayed possessively over the small of her back, his face nuzzled into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her arms banded around him, the muscles in her arms flexing as she held him close. Michael couldn’t see her face, but it was blindingly obvious that he was about to step into what was clearly a very private moment.

He would come back later. Maybe take Charlie for a walk around the block, then pop in again. Give Angie time to do…whatever with her friend. Or whoever the guy was.

He took a step backward, already pivoting on his heel.

Charlie resisted, straining against his grip. “Angie.” He pointed at the object of his affection.

Angie’s head came up, eyes wide.

“Charlie.” She stepped out of the other man’s arms as her gaze shifted to Michael. “Michael. What are you guys doing here?”

She looked and sounded so surprised he suddenly felt a little self-conscious. “We, um, wanted to make sure you’re okay. But we can come back later.” He tugged on Charlie’s arm again. “Come on, matey. You want to go get some chocolate?”

“Don’t be silly. You weren’t interrupting anything,” Angie said.

Long-haired guy frowned, not liking the sound of that.

“I can’t believe you came all the way into the city just to see me. How lucky am I?” Angie bent to scoop Charlie into her arms.

His son happily sat on her hip, despite the fact that he’d squirmed his way out of Michael’s arms barely minutes before.

“Angie,” Charlie said, reaching out to touch the sparkling earring dangling from her lobe.

“I thought we could help you clean up, sort things out,” Michael said.

Angie’s expression was soft with gratitude. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you.”