Worth the Trouble (St. James #2) (8 page)

Today he planned to finish the accent table he’d designed for David and Vivi’s wedding gift.

“What do you think?” he asked while deciding it needed a final coat of penetrating resin.

“I like how the three curved legs of the pedestal base gather at both ends. Not too feminine or masculine.” Jenny tipped her head sideways. “Perfect size for a lamp, too.”

Hank passionately enjoyed every aspect of the furniture design and building process. Even measuring each cut to one-tenth of a millimeter tolerance wasn’t a nuisance. Whenever he had a little extra money, he’d purchase rosewood and other rare woods to incorporate into his projects.

“Thanks.” He smiled, pleased by her approval.

“So, not to rush you or anything, but can I have your keys now, please?”

Hank tossed her the keys and followed her out to the driveway.

She trotted to the truck with her backpack banging against her thigh. “I won’t be home for dinner. See you around eight o’clock.”

Jenny looked as ridiculous sitting behind the wheel of his gigantic pickup today as she had when he’d taught her to drive, but he knew she’d be safe in the old tank. He waved good-bye and returned to his shop.

Grabbing steel wool, he gently smoothed out the rough patches created by the prior application of resin. Once he’d finished, he wiped the entire piece clean with a tack cloth. Using a clean brush, he applied another liberal coat of resin, working slowly and deliberately in small sections then gradually wiping off the excess with a clean cloth. Occasionally he checked on his mother via the monitor.

During this quiet time, his mind wandered. He recalled images of Cat in her hotel room, flirting with him in her underwear, testing his self-discipline. Was it possible she regretted blowing him off last year? Had she, like him, wasted more than one night since then wondering what might’ve happened if she’d given him a chance?

But then reality crashed into his daydreams like a wrecking ball. He couldn’t picture her being happy with burgers and beer in his backyard any more than he could see himself hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Frankly, that part of her life didn’t appeal to him much. Perhaps she
had
done him a favor, but he might’ve preferred a chance to find out on his own.

He stepped back to double-check the application and admire his work. After wiping his hands, he shut off the lights, and locked the doors.

For the time being, his dream of going into business for himself would remain just that—a dream.

Hank washed his hands in the kitchen sink before collapsing on the sofa to watch the Yankees game. He’d dozed off until his mother tottered through the room with her walker. She stopped and stared at the television, blinking in confusion.

The light from the television screen backlit her thin silhouette, so feeble a whisper could blow her over. Hank rarely noticed the changes
in her physical appearance on a day-to-day basis. However, being away,
even for thirty-six hours, called attention to those differences.

Although only in her late fifties, she looked at least seventy. Her cheeks hung from her slack jaw. Green eyes that once danced with laughter and flashed with ire now seemed vacant and lost. Her platinum blond hair had thinned and morphed into a silvery-white color.

In a few short years, she’d utterly changed. Even her skin tone had grayed, probably as a result of her daily medication.

He spoke in hushed tones to avoid startling her.

“Hey, Mom. I’m home.” Hank rose from the sofa, hands outstretched and open, and calmly approached her. “Come sit.”

She looked suspicious, but took his hand, allowing him to lead her to the couch. Once he settled her, he sat on the coffee table and clasped her hand in his.

“Are you hungry?” He continued speaking softly. “Can I fix you something to eat?”

“Rick?” she asked.

Rick was his father’s name—a man who’d been dead for nearly thirteen years. The misnomer stung, even though Hank knew she had no idea what she was saying.

He couldn’t help it. Not being recognized by his own mother knocked him off balance each and every time. She’d been the person who’d loved him the most throughout his life. How could she not know him anymore?

“He’s not here, Mom.” He held her gaze but could tell she wasn’t
computing. “Let me make you a cup of tea, okay? You wait right here.”

Hank hustled to the kitchen and microwaved two cups of decaffeinated Earl Grey. While it cooled, he set Spotify to Fleetwood Mac—her old favorite—and hummed along to the tune of “Dreams” while adding sugar and cream to the teacups. Returning to the living room, he seated himself on the coffee table once more and handed her a cup.

His mother held it with one hand, sniffing it before sticking her pointer finger into her beverage. She pulled it out and sucked on it then repeated the gesture. Hank stopped her third attempt and then lifted his cup to his lips and drank, modeling the motion twice before she mimicked him.

While she drank, he shared the events of his weekend. He talked about Vivi and David, described the red-roofed hotel’s cupola and its ocean views, and told her about the pretty girls.

She listened out of habit more than anything else. Hank couldn’t be sure how much she understood, or if she even recognized him as her son at any point during the conversation. He merely hoped talking to her as if things were normal helped keep her a little bit connected.

As he sat with his own thoughts about the weekend, he laughed to himself. Time spent considering a relationship with Amy, Cat, or any woman, was a pointless waste of energy. He had neither the free time nor the money to date anyone, least of all someone like Cat. He didn’t even have any privacy.

Between his mother and Jenny, it would be years before he’d enjoy his first real taste of freedom.

His mother’s choked cough snapped him from his musings. He looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat from shame for even daydreaming about the small measure of relief he’d experience at the expense of his mother’s life.

Hell
.

Mom,

Menopausal at twenty-eight. Even you had a few more years before it struck, not to mention three kids.

I keep telling myself it could be worse—it isn’t fatal. But it feels like a fatal flaw. Hiding all of my imperfections is tiring, but what choice do I have? Image is everything in my business.

Without my image, I’m no one at all.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

C
at removed her earphones, tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, and poured herself a tall glass of water. God, she hated running, especially on a muggy summer morning in the city. Unfortunately, at her age, she had to work twice as hard if she intended to compete.

Of course, after her recent reproductive endocrinology appointment confirming her premature ovarian failure, she resented keeping her so-called “perfect body” fit.

Absent significant intervention, donor eggs, and extremely good luck, her taut abs would never distend in pregnancy—her skin would not be riddled with stretch marks.

Don’t dwell
.

She’d allowed herself a full day of crying about her unhappy fate: increased risk of osteoporosis and heart disease; potential for hair and tooth loss; the decisions to be made regarding the pros and cons of hormone therapy; not to mention the hot flashes, dryness, and other symptoms she’d probably experience sooner than later.

Of course, she still needed time to grieve the pregnancy she’d never experience, and the kids she’d never bear. Time to let go of
that
expectation of motherhood. Time to investigate and understand the other options like adoption and surrogacy. Only then would she be able to share this diagnosis with her family and handle whatever rejection she might confront from men. Until then, she’d cope. And until she could think about it
and
cope at the same time, she’d shove it aside.

Flopping onto a counter stool, she guzzled her drink while sorting through bills, junk mail, and magazines. Any distraction would do. While flipping through
Elle
, she studied what would likely be her last Estée Lauder ad.

She rubbed her index finger over the crease in her forehead to rub out the frown lines just as her phone rang. Her agent’s number appeared on the screen. Maybe Lauder offered her another contract after all.

“Hey Elise, please tell me you have good news.”

“Unfortunately, no. Lauder went with Kendall Jenner.” After a brief pause, she continued. “As we’ve discussed, the landscape for models is changing. You still have your couture work to keep you busy for a while, but you might need to start thinking in new directions before you age out of the print game.”

Twenty-eight and considered old. Of course, her body was aging out early, too. The soon-to-come symptoms wouldn’t help, either. After all, thinning hair, dry skin, and perspiration never photograph well.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Cat sucked down more water.

“Well, given Kendall’s recent coup, perhaps you should consider reality TV. Our agency’s been contacted about casting a host for a new fashion contest show. Or what about participating in the
Bachelorette
franchise? That show would probably pay well for a celebrity bachelorette.”

“Oh, no!” Cat’s career needed a life vest, but the absolute loss of privacy, not to mention the editing hatchet jobs she’d seen, made reality TV a nonstarter. The risks of them discovering and publicizing her medical condition were not worth any amount of fame or fortune. And a part of Cat—a new, growing part—wanted out of the limelight. Wanted a life and reputation built on something other than her beauty.

“Television would really bump your profile and relevance. A brief stint could help you secure another cosmetics deal or other TV guest appearances.”

“That merely delays the inevitable.” She decided to simply lead Elise in new directions without giving her the reasons. Swamped with a sense of urgency, she said, “I think it’s time to consider something lasting and stable, something new and challenging. I’m tired of always chasing contracts.”

“What about a licensing deal?”

Huh
. That could be interesting. “How does that work?”

“Well, there still is some chasing involved, but you’d typically get a lump-sum payment up front, plus annual domestic and international royalties off the affiliated products.”

“Sounds intriguing. I’d need to give some thought to what products interest me.”

“Clothing and cosmetics would be natural fits. You’d have a built-in fan base to sell to.”

“Too common. And I’d still be competing against all the other models, actresses, and reality celebrities hawking those types of products.” Products that didn’t capture her interest—the thought of continuing to promote beauty as a virtue tasted sour. “I’d rather do something completely unexpected and different, like Kathy Ireland’s furniture empire.”

“She started with socks.”

Cat scowled. Socks didn’t sound appealing. “Be that as it may, I’d want to partner with something unique, upscale, and not easy to copy. That way there’s less competition right out of the gate.”

Elise chuckled. “God love you, Cat. You always shoot for the moon.”

“You’ll never get there if you don’t even try.” Cat shrugged, as if Elise could see her. “Maybe something along the lines of lifestyle or travel products.”

“Really? It’s important that you don’t dilute your brand or take on something too risky. The
worst
thing you could do is affiliate with something that fails. If that happens, then your name and image lose credibility and value in the marketplace.”

“I’m nothing if not discerning.” Her agent’s lack of faith in her decision-making ability reinforced all her self-doubts. Not that she’d let it show. Just like her father’s dismissiveness had pushed her to succeed before, her agent’s lack of faith made Cat vow to reach the moon, at least metaphorically.

If she couldn’t make babies, she’d damn well find another way to leave a legacy. And proving everyone wrong would only make the win that much better.

“Let me do some digging,” Elise said. “I’ll see who’s looking for talent.”

“Okay, talk to you soon.” Cat set down the phone, determined to come up with some of her own ideas, too.

Feeling a bit optimistic about new possibilities, she flung the
Elle
magazine aside and continued sifting through her remaining mail.

She frowned upon discovering a handwritten, ivory-colored envelope with no return address. It looked similar to one she’d received here last month, except the postmark came from SoHo instead of Chelsea.

Biting her lip, she tore it open and scanned the notecard, which featured neatly handwritten block print.

Catalina,

Not a day goes by that I don’t dream of you. For now, I’ll settle for endless fantasies, but someday you’ll realize I’m the only one for you.

While not exactly threatening, the letter disturbed her nonetheless. Being propositioned via Twitter and Instagram, and occasionally accosted at restaurants, seemed relatively innocuous. But this nameless, faceless, eerily personal contact caused concern.

Her first instinct was to suspect Justin. Then again, the wording didn’t sound like him, and she doubted he’d settle for such a passive approach. If he were going to break the restraining order, he’d just show up to prove no one could control him.

But if not Justin, then who? She’d bought her condominium via a straw party for privacy. Maybe it was Justin. He had the money and contacts to find her.

She reread the note, searching for clues. The handwriting revealed nothing, but the expensive card stock indicated the person had money and taste . . . like Justin. She sniffed the page, but it held no discernible scent.

Prior experience with creepy fans proved the police wouldn’t do anything absent a real threat. No use bothering the cops. Love letters
weren’t threats. And suspecting Justin was a far cry from offering proof.

Sighing, she placed the letter and envelope in a desk drawer on top
of the one she’d received last month. For some reason, she’d decided to keep them as evidence. Evidence of what, she wasn’t quite sure.

Her phone rang, pulling her thoughts away from her unsettling admirer. She smiled when Vivi’s photo appeared on the screen.

“Welcome home, Vivi. How was your honeymoon?”

“Utterly amazing.” Vivi’s sigh spoke volumes.

“When did you get back?”

“Yesterday afternoon, but I’m so totally mixed up time wise.”

“I’m well acquainted with jet lag.” Not so much lately, but still. “So, tell me all about it. Wait—skip the intimate details. I don’t want to hear about my brother’s sex life.” Cat heard Vivi’s gentle laugh through the phone.

“Can you come over?” Vivi asked. “David ran to the office to get a jump on things before Monday, so I’m alone and bored.”

“Give me thirty minutes to shower and dress.”

“Perfect.”

When Cat finished drying off, she wrapped her plush towel around her body, trod to her closet, and scowled. Despite her best efforts, she still hadn’t managed to organize all of her clothing and accessories. She’d stacked boxes of out-of-season clothes and shoes in the spare room. Even so, pieces of her wardrobe practically fell on top of her whenever she opened any closet door.

She thumbed through her summer tops. Not knowing where her day might lead, she selected a turquoise, tie-dyed Donna Karan scarf top and paired it with white linen shorts. Vivi and David lived two blocks away on East 76th, so she opted for high-heeled, white sandals. If they decided to go elsewhere, they’d have to take a cab.

An hour later, Cat sat at David and Vivi’s kitchen bar finishing her diet soda while viewing the last batch of honeymoon photos on Vivi’s laptop.

“I’m not kidding, V, your photography keeps getting better. Some of these pictures are incredible.” Cat stared at the red roofs of Florence a moment longer.

“I’m no Peter Lik,” Vivi said.

“You always undersell your talent. Seriously! You should consider
ing starting a photography business on the side, or at least during the summer.” Cat slid the laptop away and turned to Vivi. “How about
portraits? People pay big bucks for portrait photography, especially new
parents. And then there’s endless head shot work around Manhattan.”

“Maybe someday.” Vivi shrugged. “Right now I’m happy with my hobby. I’m too busy during the school year to take on extra work, and I’d rather spend my free time with David.”

Cat lifted a single brow. “Sometimes I still find it bizarre you and he actually ended up together. But it’s all worked out better than I ever imagined.”

“It’s better than
I
imagined too, which is really unbelievable!” Vivi laughed and shut the laptop. “So what about you? Ready to start dating again?”

“Not at all, so
stop
!” Cat considered sharing her diagnosis now that the wedding was behind Vivi. But her friend still basked in the afterglow of her honeymoon. Cat’s news could wait another week . . . or longer.

“Why not?” Vivi took a giant bite of her chocolate-filled croissant, completely ignoring Cat’s request.

“You mean aside from my terrible taste in men?” Cat winced at how she’d overlooked the warning signs with Justin—at what accepting his verbal abuse for so long said about her self-esteem. “I’ve got a demanding career.”

“Now
you
stop.” Vivi eyed the remaining pastries. “You’re not the only woman in the world who’s fallen for a bad guy. Justin was good-looking, and he pursued you all around the world. I can see how that possessiveness might’ve swept you away at first. But it’s been nearly a year since it ended. Don’t give up on love, or pretend you can’t have both a career and love. That’s just silly.”

“Let’s be brutally honest, V. I’m not good at relationships.” Cat tilted her head. She’d become cynical with age. In her world, most people only looked out for themselves. Somewhere along the way, it seemed smarter to accept and live by those rules. “Outside of my family, you’re the longest relationship in my life. Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me.”

“What are you talking about . . .
how I put up with you
?
”

“Come on, I’m not warm like you. I can be prickly and aloof.” Cat puzzled at Vivi’s incredulous expression. Perhaps her friend clung to the Cat of yesteryear without noticing the way she’d hardened. “Admit it. I’m spoiled.”

“You’re not spoiled.” Vivi twisted her lips. “Well, you’re a little spoiled, but you aren’t self-centered. You stood by me for years when others bullied me. You offered me friendship and a place to call home. You’ve shared your secrets with me since childhood—I know you don’t trust easily, so I’m honored to have earned it, Cat.

“And you’re generous to a fault. Don’t think I don’t notice how overboard you go on birthdays, Christmas, and any other occasion you can invent.”

“You always give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but I’ll take what I can get.” Cat let out a short breath and grinned. Choosing Vivi as a friend was one of the best decisions Cat had ever made, and thankfully the feeling was mutual. “Still, I really do suck at relationships, especially with men.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Vivi scrunched her features.

“Am not. Before Justin, every guy I dated was more interested in my VIP passes than in getting to know me. It’s degrading, actually. And pointless. In my current situation, I’m better off alone.” Then, worried she’d accidentally revealed too much, she wiped her expression clean. Fortunately, Vivi missed the subtle gaffe.