Anthony grinned. “Mary’s spending the weekend rearranging the house while I help with the festival.”
“Take your time. We’ll do the interview on Monday.” Clearly Hugh was stalling, even if Anthony couldn’t see it. “I’ll call you.”
“You’re sure it can wait?”
“Positive.”
Needing to prolong the conversation, Birdie asked, “What’s the Festival of Lights?” Once Anthony left, she’d be alone with Hugh and his painfully dead-on observations of her.
“It’s the Liberty holiday parade. You’re going, aren’t you? It’s this Sunday in the Square.”
“Maybe I’ll go with Delia.” She’d do anything to stay out of the apartment and away from Hugh.
The men talked for a few minutes then Anthony headed out. Birdie wavered in the foyer before following Hugh into the living room. They stared at each other in an uneasy silence.
When it seemed he’d had enough, he grabbed his coat off the couch. “I’m going out for a drink.”
“Then go.”
For a second he hesitated, a hint of apology on his face. She quashed it by starting back to the kitchen.
He walked out, leaving a sad little silence in his wake.
* * *
The dim lighting of Bongo’s on Route 6 offered a welcome anonymity. Grabbing a stool, Hugh motioned to the bartender. The redhead was about six months pregnant and appeared none too happy about it.
“Scotch on the rocks.” He reconsidered. “Make it a double.”
From the poolroom in back, the jukebox sent a whiny ballad through the walnut paneled room. At the other end of the counter, a balding security guard nursed his beer.
When the Scotch appeared, Hugh downed it. The scalding kick burned the back of his throat. A quick and fleeting relief followed. Not enough to dull his wits, but the alcohol did help him face the facts: he’d screwed himself completely when he came back to Liberty.
If he didn’t write about Anthony, he was out of a job. And if he didn’t get the hell away from Birdie, he’d be in thick with a woman who’d burn him, and good.
What she’d said—she was correct. People never changed. You came into the world battered and bruised and that’s how you stayed. Birdie had suffered more blows than most. Raised by grifters, she spent her life on the run. She was beautiful and sensitive but tough in ways he didn’t understand. He might pity her but he was a fool if he let himself love her.
Grimly, he stared into his glass. And therein lay the problem. He didn’t like her choice of career. He sure as hell didn’t care for the way she compartmentalized her emotions. But she knew how to be tender, and he was already starting to love her a little.
He flagged down the bartender. “I’d like another, please.”
Like many redheads, the woman sported freckles from her chin to her brow. “Maybe you should slow down,” she replied, the light ochre spots dancing. She settled her elbows on the bar. “The last guy in here drinking as fast as you? A State Trooper nailed him half a mile up the road. I’ve got coffee in back—”
“A double. Now.”
Muttering under her breath, she reached for the bottle and poured generously. “Suit yourself.” She slid the glass forward and stalked off.
The urge to get smashed was nearly overwhelming. Somehow, Hugh managed to sip the drink. He’d had a problem with booze for a long time even if he didn’t like to think of himself as an alcoholic. His thirties had been riddled with binges and periods of abstinence. The dry periods were now more frequent, and he’d even assured Bud that his days of hitting the bottle were over.
Most of the time it was true.
Finishing his drink, he stared at the empty glass with the need for more alcohol gnawing at his gut. When life flowed along it was easy to stay sober. If the currents were choppy it took every ounce of self-control to resist the mind-numbing habit begun fourteen years ago.
“Darling boy, have a drink.”
Hugh stiffened as the memory rolled toward him.
“Ms. Seavers—”
“How many times must I insist? Call me Cat. I despise formality.”
He stared, unseeing, as the memory pulled him under.
“Cat, I don’t drink.”
“Today you’ll start,” she said, lifting the crystal decanter. “We’re celebrating the rise and fall of a great philanthropist. I’m a bit of a monument, don’t you think? Soon I’ll be nothing more than an artifact.”
Her eyes were puffy. Yet she laughed, a sparkling twitter of sound, and poured the honey colored liquid into the goblets. The noon sun, streaming in through the glass wall of the hotel suite, touched the crystal with hot fingers of light. Prisms of color tore across Hugh’s field of vision. He welcomed the momentary blindness.
“I should go,” he said.
“And leave me alone to brood? Why, haven’t you read the paper? As of today, I’m a bit of a tragedy.”
“I didn’t write the article to make your life difficult. I was simply… I was doing my job.”
Mortified, he realized beads of sweat were trickling down his back. He couldn’t find his internal balance. There’d been no time to prepare for the private appointment—she’d summoned him to the swanky hotel within hours of the Cleveland Post hitting the stands. Before the day was out, newspapers and television stations throughout Ohio would pick up the story.
The news might even go national, a coup for a young reporter. Yet Hugh had felt oddly saddened when he rode the elevator to top floor of the hotel. Reaching the suite, he’d been shocked to find the inimitable Cat Seavers dressed in a negligee as thin as dreams. Desperate for a sense of normalcy, he tried to remain aloof even as his attention strayed to her breasts.
Embarrassed, he pulled his gaze toward the fierce sunlight pouring through the windows. “You aren’t responsible for what your husband did. If you’ll give me a quote, I promise to include it in the follow-up article.”
She took a sip of her drink then placed the goblet on the bar. “A quote?” More laughter, and it was a lonely trill of sound.
“I want to help. You shouldn’t suffer.”
Cat drifted toward him. “Women always suffer, darling.”
He hadn’t meant to hurt her even though he’d thrown himself into this, his first big story. He’d dug deep and come up with enough evidence of impropriety at Trinity Investments to send Cat’s husband, Landon Williams, to prison. The story was sure to earn him a raise at the Post.
“If you give me something for the follow-up article… ” His voice broke, and he tried again. “People want to hear your side. You’ll have the chance to set the record straight.”
“Every word you wrote is true. Landon has a mistress. He’s kept her in high style with money from his company.” She pursed her lips. “I have no choice but to protect him—and my good name. Of course, I’ll hire the finest legal team in Ohio. Now, let’s have our drinks in peace.”
Beneath the negligee’s gauzy material, her breasts were large and surprisingly pert for a woman in middle age. Her golden hair was pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck and her eyes—large, dewy—were mesmerizing. How could a woman nearly twice his age be such a lure? With horror he felt the stirring of an erection and froze beneath her attentive gaze.
Cat pressed her hand against his throbbing flesh, sending him into freefall.
“You’re sorry you’ve hurt me, aren’t you?” She placed the goblet into his fist. Hugh took the glass, the silence broken by his sudden, horrible groan of pleasure when she stroked him. He didn’t want to succumb but her lips were red and her hands carried magic…
“Drink up, darling boy. Hurry. I’ve been wallowing in tears all morning. Make me feel good again.”
Repulsed by the memory, he dragged himself back to the present. At the other end of the bar, the security guard dropped a twenty and rose to his feet. Shutting his eyes tight, Hugh let the shame roll through his chest. You should have left the suite. He hadn’t, and the moment he w
as freed of the barrier of clothing, his veneer of civility dissolved.
The conservative life he’d led, the general hazing he’d been subjected to by the older journalists at the Cleveland Post, every battle he’d fought to achieve a better life—all of it drove his actions the moment Cat laid her hands on him. She represented everything he wanted in life. Her wealth and beauty were sirens calling him to a destruction he willingly met.
She was in so much pain.
The bartender approached, and Hugh tried to smile.
I destroyed a man’s career and slept with his wife within hours of her death. I could have saved her.
He’d spent the last fourteen years mired in guilt and remorse.
“I’ll take you up on the coffee,” he said.
The bartender tipped her head to the side. “I thought you’d come around. You look like a smart man.”
“I’m not.” He was damned by his actions. “I’m the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.”
The waitress chuckled. “I’ve seen worse.”
She hadn’t, but he didn’t argue. The potential for decency was there—his father had been respectable—but Hugh was a mere caricature of a man.
He’d brushed against fame in his youth. The experience had brought out his base nature. He slept with Cat mere hours before she summoned her daughter, Meade, to the dock and stepped into the skiff.
Meade contacted the police soon after, fearing her mother lost in the storm pummeling the dark waves of Lake Erie. For a week, the Coast Guard searched. Then the call to the newsroom and Hugh stumbled to his car with the sickly fear settling in his bones. The dusk moved in as he waited on shore with the police and the paramedics. Her body, heaved from the surf like so much driftwood, her sinewy frame bloated, her face little more than a shell.
The fish had been feeding on her for days.
Hugh struggled against his self-loathing. And the questions—always the questions, burning down to his soul. Would Cat still be the toast of Ohio if he’d shown compassion? If he’d squelched his physical desires, if he’d led her to a chair and simply listened while she cried, would she be alive today?
Yes.
Startled, he looked up. The bartender had returned with the coffee. He murmured his thanks.
Cradling the cup, he tucked the memories away. He’d meet with Anthony first thing Monday morning. He’d corner the guy with the facts, maybe even get a confession. Then he’d write the article, like he’d written the piece on Cat. It was sure to destroy what little good was left inside him.
His despair was nearly overwhelming but he managed to organize his thoughts. Go back to the apartment? He wasn’t sure he could face Birdie.
Not that either of them deserved a relationship worth its mettle. They were both damaged goods.
Darling boy.
Pulling off the barstool, he tossed a few bills on the counter. So they hadn’t slept together. Did it matter? He’d do anything to save his job and she was a thief—a professional thief who wouldn’t stick around long enough to let their relationship deepen.
Neither would he.
Chapter 16
Birdie stared bleakly at the crowd.
The townspeople were converging on Liberty Square for the Festival of Lights with the celebratory fervor of spectators at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The curb was a string of wool coats and striped scarves, and a gangly Santa Claus was shoving candy canes at the children in the crowd.
Easy marks.
Every eye was trained on the street, waiting for the parade to begin. The pickings were plentiful. Women carelessly dangled purses from their shoulders. Men’s coats flapped open in invitation. She could steal half of them blind and they’d never know what hit them.
Uncomfortable with her thoughts, she huddled against the harsh brick of the restaurant. This wasn’t an anonymous crowd in Atlanta or Los Angeles. Many of the people were regulars at The Second Chance. She knew them by name. Zip Dekins, a mechanic down on Third Street. Natasha Jones, the baker who ran a shop on the other side of the Square. Mrs. Samuels, Greg Surrey, Bo Waverly—she enjoyed sharing conversation with them in the restaurant, even knew the names of their kids.
She yanked up the collar of her coat. According to Hugh, she had the moral compass of a flea. All she cared about was snatching a few bills and living by her wits. But she was trying to change.
Even though she was pretty damn sure he was still at the library, she scanned the crowd for him. He was doing everything in his power to avoid the apartment.
To avoid her.
Landing on his shit list didn’t matter. Why waste so much energy feeling angry? Of course the hurt was far worse. The way he’d looked at her when they’d argued had inflicted a whole series of bruises on her heart. Worse still, he’d made her question herself.
At the curb, Natasha Jones elbowed her way through the crowd. Her family appeared behind her—first her husband, next her father, then the three kids. The boys were close in age, and Birdie guessed the oldest was eight. They were great diversions, all three of them, if she were planning a light day of work. Grandpa was an easy mark as he bent over the middle boy, his wallet peeking out of the back pocket of his trousers. Natasha, too. Her husband pressed his cheek to hers. Her purse swung free.
No. A gust of wind kicked by, nearly taking Birdie off her feet. They’re a nice family out to see the parade. Instinctively she fished around her pocket, winding her fingers around the ruby-studded key. It felt heavy and complete. Substantial. Unlike her dreams, which Hugh had cruelly pointed out were an illusion.
Had he foretold the future? Finding the rubies and believing she’d go legal wasn’t the same as doing it. Wandering from city to city and praying for her luck to hold were habits ground deep under her skin. It was all she’d ever learned. It was how her parents lived. Not much comfort to a man doing a long stretch in Arizona. And her mother? The Feds were determined to take down Wish. Their pursuit had probably driven her deep into Mexico by now. How normal people lived, people like Natasha, with her arm linked through her husband’s and the boys darting around like fireflies—it was incomprehensible and unfair.
Despair swamped her. Why pretend she was anything more than a two-bit thief? She carried Tanek’s blood in her veins. If she dared to look in a mirror she glimpsed a replica of her mother, a younger version of Wish with too-long hair and a hard certainty around her mouth.
Natasha swung around to peer at the courthouse, her red leather purse bobbing like a ripe cherry. On instinct, Birdie shot forward.
Bumping into the woman, she worked fast. It was a ballet really, her practiced apology and Natasha’s honeyed eyes sparkling, and the way the boys laughed at Birdie’s deceptively clumsy moves. They didn’t see the lightning in her fingertips. They missed the joggle of their mother’s purse and the flash of green. It was over in seconds.
Returning to her perch in front of the restaurant, Birdie stuffed the bills into her pocket. The usual, self-congratulatory high didn’t surface. Holiday music burst from the center green, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She listened in numb confusion. The crowd heaved forward even though the street was still empty. Unable to get a fix on her emotions, she watched them with the detachment of an observer on the moon.
“Birdie, wipe that sour expression off your face. It’s the holiday season.”
The scrape of Theodora’s voice snapped her to attention. The fringe on the old woman’s cowhide jacket whipped through the air like rust-colored snakes. Beneath a cowboy hat trimmed with red and green lights she screwed up her face with palpable displeasure.
One of the hat’s green lights stuttered out. Birdie tapped it and the bright flashing resumed. “Where’s your tinsel?” Tipping her head, she took in Theodora’s brown and white leather boots. Obviously the pint-sized retiree was itching for a cowboy Christmas. “Nice. If we find you a mask, you can hand out presents dressed like the Lone Ranger.”
“Are you casting aspersions on my clothes?”
“Or start it off with a bang.” Theodora stuck out her chin. “Why are you hiding over here by yourself?” She bounced a thumb at Finney, creating all sorts of mayhem further down the street. “Why aren’t you helping her?”
Evidently the volunteer fire department was trying to raise money. Their members flanked a bent Christmas tree with cheery smiles. They’d stuffed the trunk of the tree inside a garbage can and dotted a few branches with tinsel. Finney stood in the center of the men, clanging a bell in front of a red lacquer bucket. Whenever someone approached, she charged with her bell singing and her face tilted at a bullish angle.
“She doesn’t need my help.” What Finney did need was a sedative.
Furtively, Birdie’s gaze drifted back to Natasha. Taking the baker’s money wasn’t merely stupid. It was mean. Cruel. What had she been thinking? Natasha’s coat looked ten years old. True, her purse had been polished to a nice luster but there were spidery cracks in the fake leather.
Theodora poked her in the stomach. “Pay attention!” Then she barked at Delia, who was flirting with a biker. The girl trotted over and she added, “If you lazy asses don’t have anything better to do, come and help with the parade.”
Delia’s nose crinkled. “Oh, man. What’s wrong this time?”
This time? Birdie looked at them with confusion. “Are you talking about the floats for the parade?” Surely they were ready to go.
Delia chortled. “This is a small town, Birdie. We rig up vans and trucks for the Festival of Lights. There aren’t any floats. We have enough problems convincing the farmers not to dress up their chickens and add them to the convoy.”
“And how’s that my problem?”
Theodora thwacked her arm. “You’re in a beastly mood. Now, get moving. The trucks are behind the courthouse. There aren’t enough folks getting them fancied up. Where’s Hugh?”
Delia popped a stick of gum into her mouth. “He’s laid claim to one of the tables at the library. He’s got a homemade ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”
Treasure Me Page 16
