by Mary Campisi
“I heard you wanted to see me.” Tate settled his hands on the edges of the chair, waited. How would his father convey a message to him? Would it be a rapid movement of his eyelids? A collection of stutters that would produce a word or two? There’d be a scowl in there somewhere, provided he could move his lips.
“How…how are…you…son?”
Son? That was a first. Tate studied the man, tried to find the trick inside the words. His father had never inquired about his state of emotional or physical well-being because sickness in any form was considered a weakness, and Harrison Alexander did not tolerate weakness. Tate rubbed his jaw, considered his answer. He could brush off the inquiry with a casual, Great. Everything’s fine. It had been his standard line of delivery since the day his father told him to stop whining about fair and doing the right thing because nothing mattered but results, no matter how you had to get them.
Not exactly true. He recalled the time he and Rogan Donovan were vying for the number one quarterback position on the high school football team. Tate told his father he wanted to earn the job, not have it given to him, but his father said winning could be achieved in different ways. That’s when Tate knew he and his father would never have anything in common other than DNA. So, why did the man ask a question he’d never cared about before? Tate clutched the arms of the chair, erased the emotion from his voice, and said, “Business as usual.”
The old man’s eyes glistened with what might be tears—if he were capable of crying. “Proud,” he mouthed. “Proud of…you, son.”
What was going on? Why was his father asking about his welfare when he’d spent his entire life demeaning him and his siblings? Sure, the old man said it was to make them tough and resilient, but what parent used his kid as a mental punching bag?
“Wish…wish your brother…and sister were…here.”
Neal and Meredith, the son and daughter he’d once said he’d disown if they didn’t graduate college? “They couldn’t make it.” And if they were outside this room right now, they probably wouldn’t visit you.
“Busy.” His thin lips stretched and worked their way into what might be considered a distorted smile. “Busy,” he repeated.
“Right.” Tate checked his watch, realized Charlotte would be here in less than an hour. “I’ve got a meeting, so I’m going to have to get going.” He stood, brushed the wrinkles out of his slacks, checked his watch again. His father held out a shaky hand, and Tate leaned toward him, extended his own. The old man latched onto it, squeezed. “I’ve got to go, okay?”
Another squeeze before his father let go. This time, there was no mistaking the tears in his eyes. “Son.” A breath, then another, followed by “Thank you.”
Those words stayed with Tate as he changed clothes and dug into the salmon and zucchini dish Astrid had prepared. There hadn’t been enough time for a swim, but tomorrow, he was getting in that pool, no matter what. An indoor pool had a lot of value, especially in cold-weather climates. A few laps could suck the stress right out of a person, and the exercise was good for the heart, too. Tate did some of his best thinking in the pool—no one to interrupt his train of thought, nothing but the sound and feel of water as he sliced through it. But the swim would have to wait because his father had hijacked his calm with a request for a visit, and Charlotte would be here soon. He glanced at his watch, chewed faster.
“So, Mr. Tate, you have a visitor coming tonight?” Astrid Longhouse stood in the doorway, her plump face bursting with humor. “Is that why you asked me to prepare an apple crisp and make sure there was vanilla ice cream in the house?” A raised brow, a nod. “Even after you told me no sweets during the week?”
He’d had to quit the desserts unless he wanted the tailor to alter his pants. Bad enough he’d let a good dose of carbs back into his diet, and the white stuff, too, but he had to stop somewhere. Astrid had been pretty agreeable, even offered to whip up meals with greens, grains, and no red meat. The weekends were the cheat times, and that’s when she went crazy in the kitchen: homemade pizza, pasta marinara, peach pie. Heaven on a plate. Tate and Astrid had a routine, and it worked well for them—except for tonight. Charlotte loved her sweets, and somewhere in the back of his brain he remembered she loved warm apple crisp with vanilla ice cream. He’d have asked for chocolate lava cake, but that was a definite no. A guy didn’t offer a dessert he’d shared with a woman when they were both naked—unless they planned to get naked again or he wanted the dessert tossed at him. One step at a time. The chocolate lava cake in bed, minus the clothes, would come once she trusted him—he hoped.
“What, Mr. Tate? No explanation?” She tsk-tsked. “You don’t fool me.” Another tsk-tsk. “What time is she coming?”
There was no use pretending they didn’t both know whom Astrid was talking about. She had a nose for sniffing out things about him most people couldn’t see, especially his feelings for the one woman he shouldn’t care about. “She’ll be here around 7:00 p.m.” He forked a piece of salmon. “But she’s never been known for her punctuality.”
Astrid chuckled. “And here you are, always fifteen minutes early.” She shook her head and let out a sigh. “You must really care about the girl, Mr. Tate, if you’re willing to ignore your watch.”
He tried for a scowl, but it slipped into a grin. “No idea what you’re talking about.” Then he laughed and checked his watch. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes.” He pushed back his chair, stood, and placed his napkin on the table. “I’ve got a few things to do before she comes. When she arrives, would you show her into the living room?”
“Of course. And Mr. Tate?” When he met her gaze, the teasing was gone, replaced with a serious expression and a gentle tone. “Don’t be afraid. Once Miss Charlotte sees the goodness in your heart, she’ll admit what she’s been hiding all this time.”
Astrid had a lot of ideas, and he couldn’t resist asking about this one. “What would that be?”
“You two are meant for each other.”
“Not sure everybody would agree with that one.” Pause. “Especially her brother.”
Tsk-tsk. “That boy has stars in his eyes and love in his heart. He’s going to be too preoccupied to notice.”
That made him laugh. Rogan Donovan was like a hound dog on the hunt. The man didn’t miss anything and would no doubt make good on his vow to break Tate’s nose if he gave him reason to…and dating Charlotte would definitely be reason. In fact, the guy probably wouldn’t stop at a broken nose, but might go for the jaw, too. “You underestimate Rogan Donovan, Astrid.”
The cook, who’d been a second mother to him, crossed her arms over her round middle and huffed. “No, I think Rogan Donovan underestimates you.”
Chapter 7
What on earth had possessed her to agree to come here tonight? Charlotte sat on the edge of the fancy couch, fingers pressed against the coarse fabric. There was no softness, no give to the material, kind of like Harrison Alexander. The room reminded her of an advertisement in a high-end “home” magazine; the baby grand piano in the corner, the heavy draperies, the scrollwork on the table legs, the dark cherry furniture that begged a person to run her hands along it and feel the smoothness. Charlotte wanted to, oh, yes, she did. She clamped her hands in her lap before she did something silly, like touched something. What would Tate say if he caught her holding one of the gigantic vases next to the fireplace? Those things hadn’t come from the local home furnishing store. They were no doubt imported, or maybe they were originals, just like the rugs covering the polished dark wood floors.
How did a person live here? No wonder Tate had a difficult time being a normal person who showed his emotions. How did a person show any emotion in a mausoleum like this? She bet Harrison Alexander would never have permitted his children to push aside the furniture and use this room as a dance floor. No way. A tiny spurt of sympathy shot through her as she thought of Tate and his siblings sitting on the scratchy couch in their Sunday-best outfits, mouths closed, hands tucked in t
heir laps.
How could a person be a child in a place filled with such formal decor and rigidity? Where was the feeling? Charlotte studied the paintings on the wall: bridges, lakes, estates. Where were the people? Where was the emotion? She thought of the time she met Tate in the park right after his mother died. That’s when she’d seen the real Tate Alexander, the one filled with hurt and despair—the one she wanted to comfort and heal. Of course, he’d covered up those feelings so fast, she almost thought she’d imagined them.
But they’d been real, and somewhere buried deep beneath the easy smile and casual manner, was the real Tate Alexander, the one he didn’t want anyone to see.
What did she care? After their night in Chicago, he’d never tried to contact her, as though she were no more than another meaningless hookup. Anger and hurt told her maybe that was all she’d been, that the sizzle of connection they’d shared had more to do with lust and less to do with real emotion. But she’d seen the truth in his eyes that night—he cared about her—and no matter how hard she tried to erase that truth, it wouldn’t go away.
So, what was she supposed to do with that? He sounded like he regretted not calling her, and he sure seemed to want another chance to get it right, but what if he got it wrong again? She couldn’t survive another rejection from him, and that’s why she’d created a boyfriend named Jason.
But how long could Jason serve as a wall between them? Charlotte gnawed on her bottom lip. If Tate kept up the nice-guy routine, she might be the one breaking down the fake-boyfriend wall to get to him. Ugh. She had to stay strong until she knew if she could trust him.
And that was going to be a real challenge.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”
Tate Alexander, the man who lived in her brain, moved toward her, tanned, lean, and oh so perfect. Charlotte forced herself not to fidget. “Nice place.”
His smile faded, followed by a shrug. “It’s home.”
Home? More like mansion or a small palace. “Yeah, I can see that.” She ran a hand along the quilted couch fabric. “Real dump, huh?”
Another shrug, and then, “It’s big and it’s empty, except for Astrid and the rest of the staff.” His tone lightened. “If she ever leaves, I’m going with her.”
He was talking about the woman who greeted her at the door. Round-faced, pleasant, with an inquisitive eye and a fondness for Tate. Such a generous soul, she’d said. And so handsome. Any woman would be lucky to snap him up. She’d proceeded to snap her fingers, added, Just like that. And then she’d studied Charlotte with a hint of a smile, swept a hand toward the living room and said, But I don’t have to tell you that because you can see so for yourself. “She does seem to have a great allegiance toward you. Very loyal.” His cheeks turned red beneath his tan as though he could guess what that allegiance and loyalty sounded like.
“Astrid’s known me since I was a boy, so she’s a little prejudiced.”
Charlotte nodded, thought of Astrid’s comment about how lucky a woman would be to have him as a husband. He’ll make a great father. She’d paused, said in a sad voice, He’s seen all the ways not to be a good father, and that’s often life’s best lesson. “She’s definitely a Tate Alexander fan.”
The blush spread from his cheeks to the rest of his face. He cleared his throat, said, “You can’t listen to everything Astrid says. So, are you ready to raid Meredith’s closet?”
“Sure.” She grabbed her handbag, stood. “You’re sure she’ll be okay with this?”
“Trust me, you’re doing her a favor. Come on, I’ll show you her room and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Charlotte followed him up the winding staircase, her hand on the polished railing. How many times had she imagined herself inside this house with him, sitting at the dinner table, cuddling on the couch in front of the fire? Fixing breakfast in the kitchen? Sharing his bed? She’d had no idea what the inside of the house looked like, but in her imagination, it hadn’t mattered because all she could see was Tate Alexander—larger than life—consuming her every breath.
He made his way down a long hallway, stopped at the third door on the left, flipped on the light. “Okay, this is it; enough clothes to open up a boutique.” He let out a laugh and headed toward the gigantic closet covering an entire wall. “Here you go.”
But she wasn’t interested in the contents of the closet because the most magical bed she’d ever seen stood before her…
“Charlotte?”
It was the stuff of princesses and fairytales. A four-poster bed sitting high enough to require two steps to reach it was covered with lavender and cream eyelet and matching pillows in the shape of hearts and circles. Sheer panels in the palest lavender draped an overhead frame, provided a cocoon of privacy for any girl lucky enough to call the bed her own. Certainly, nothing like the twin bed with the tiger-paw comforter and pink corduroy reading pillow she’d had in high school. Charlotte fingered the sleeve of her sweater. Cotton and rayon. Why would Tate ever want to—
“Hey.” Tate stood beside her, said in a gentle voice, “It’s only a room.”
Easy for him to say. “The wall color is the same lavender as the comforter…which is the same as the draperies.” She narrowed her gaze on the wall plates and the dresser knobs. “Every accessory has been coordinated.”
“My mother had a flare for decorating,” he said, his voice filled with something that sounded a lot like pain. “It kept her busy, helped pass the time, especially when we left for college.”
“She did all of this after you were gone?”
He looked away, stared at the photo of his sister and mother on the nightstand. “It was a way for her to feel close to us.” Pause. “And it filled her days. Once we understood why she was doing it, we were okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t you have been okay with it?” Was he kidding? If somebody wanted to dump a huge four-poster bed accessorized with lavender and cream eyelet in her life, she would not have stopped them.
“We just wanted to feel normal. That’s all we ever wanted. Just to feel normal.”
There was no mistaking the sadness in those words. “I’m sorry. I guess a person never really knows what’s going on in someone else’s life. You see the big cars and fancy clothes and you assume life is one big party.”
“Yeah, not exactly.” His gaze slid to hers. “The best thing about moving to Chicago was that nobody cared if I was an Alexander. They treated me like a regular guy.”
Money or not, there was nothing regular about the man, and any breathing woman could vouch for that. Still, she knew what he meant, and it was the knowing that tore at her heart. “You really liked Chicago, didn’t you?”
Those eyes lit up like lightning flashing across a black sky. “I did, but like your brother, I had responsibilities here that I couldn’t ignore.”
Like running his father’s business after the man had a stroke. No different from Rogan giving up his life in California to try and fix the mess a swindler left them in when he lied and stole. Tate and Rogan had made choices that took the load from their siblings, and shifted it to them. Just because they were the oldest did not mean they should not have had help. Charlotte hadn’t cared about fair or right back then. She’d been too overwhelmed with the tragedy that had been her parents’ lives and had bolted town mere days after Rogan returned home. “Will you stay?”
“That depends.”
He stared at her so long and hard, she had to look away so she wouldn’t do something stupid like place a hand on his cheek or run a finger along his jaw. No. No! She cleared her throat, forced her brain to focus on the massive closet in front of her. “So, about Meredith’s clothes…”
“Help yourself,” he said, his voice all business as he moved toward the closet and slid open both doors. “Any color you want.”
“Wow.” She inched toward Meredith Alexander’s designer clothes, fascinated by the color coding that reminded her of a prism chart. Pink, red, fuchsia, violet, baby blue, cerulean
, indigo, black, gray-black, silver-black… Charlotte touched a silk blouse, examined the seed pearls. “I don’t know…” She darted a glance at Tate, admitted a snippet of truth in a hushed voice, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
He rifled through the first section, chose a long-sleeved navy dress with silver buttons running up the side, and a floral scarf. “The scarf is a nice complement,” he said, handing it to her. He pulled out a few more items: a taupe suit with navy piping along the collar, a cream silk blouse, a pair of black slacks…more scarves, a few belts… Charlotte’s arms were full of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, but Tate showed no signs of slowing down. “I think this dress—”
“Stop!” She laughed when he turned to her. “I’ll never be able to wear all of these, and I only needed a few things.”
“I’ve never known a woman to only need a few things.” He raised a brow and tossed a red dress with a black belt on top of the pile she held. “We haven’t even gotten to the dressy clothes yet. Don’t you want to try on an evening gown or two?” His smile pulled a dimple out on his cheek. “You’ve got to try on at least one gown.”
This was like playing dress-up only so much better because the clothes were real—and so was the man. She shut down that last thought. Focus on the clothes, not the man. But it was hard to do that with a larger-than-life Tate Alexander standing so close. “One gown,” she said, her voice stern.
“Deal.” He eased a red full-length gown from the rack, held it up.
“I’ve never seen so many sequins.” Spaghetti straps, V-neck, a true hip hugger with tiny sequins smothering the entire dress. It was perfect. “Beautiful,” she whispered.
“I agree.” He wasn’t looking at the dress but had his eyes on her. When he caught her watching him, he cleared his throat and gathered the clothes from her. “I’ll put these on Meredith’s bed and leave you to it. If you need anything, I’ll be in the study across the hall.”
