The Saint

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Savvy,” I sighed, “I promise I will try to get there for Christmas.”

  Even as the words came out of my mouth I knew it was impossible. With Vanessa back in the picture, there was no way I could go home, not with her trailing behind like a spiked tail.

  “Hey,” I said, unable to believe I was going to ask this question when I’d sworn to myself that I was going to stay out of the gem drama. “You guys haven’t found the ruby, have you?”

  “Tyler hunted all over the place last month when Dad was here. He says it’s nowhere to be found.”

  “What does Margot say?” I asked.

  “She says there’s no way it’s in The Manor. She’d know.”

  “Well, she sure as hell didn’t know about the diamond, did she?”

  “I guess not,” Savannah said. “She was as surprised as the rest of us when Tyler said he found it and Dad stole it from him.”

  “Is Margot there?” I asked.

  “She’s in West Palm Beach with her boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend? Is that the word she uses?” The Margot I remembered would not be so gauche.

  “Companion?”

  “Gentleman caller?”

  “Beau?”

  “Admirer.”

  “That sounds about right,” Savannah laughed.

  “Let’s pray she never changes.” I said, happy to have made my sister laugh. “Hey, has anything strange happened at The Manor lately?”

  “Not more than usual.”

  There, I thought, I’d satisfied the worry my mother had planted in my brain. I could go on with my life.

  “How is Katie?” I asked. It was easier in a way to stay apart from The Manor, Bonne Terre and my family, when I didn’t see them for months at a time. I couldn’t picture them at the breakfast table, going to school, getting ready for bed, couldn’t think of my niece, Katie, growing up and me not seeing it.

  I didn’t have to think about all the things I was missing.

  “If you really cared, Carter, you’d come see her.”

  It was a direct hit, and my body stung with shame that quickly fizzed and exploded to anger. My life wasn’t that simple. Had never been that simple. From the moment Savannah came into this world I’d been protecting her, watching over her, doing everything in my goddamned power to make sure that her life was that simple.

  I turned and hammered on Zoe’s door, using the side of my fist.

  “I’ll call you soon,” I said, and hammered again. What was taking Zoe so long? I wondered. She lived in like a one-room loft.

  “Think about Christmas,” Savannah said, subdued, as if she knew she’d pushed too hard.

  “I will,” I said, and heard the door behind me rattle, the chain lock being lifted. “Gotta run.”

  I felt the door give and I turned, dropping my phone in my pocket. “Good God, Zoe, it took you—”

  The world narrowed down to one color. One hot pink blast of color that seared my eyes, harpooned my brain. There was no other color like it. Ever. In my life.

  “—long enough,” I finished lamely. The color belonged to a dress, a short one and I couldn’t believe it, but Zoe the pregnant elf had legs that hit the ceiling and met the floor in a pair of heels that made my heart pound in my crotch.

  “Hi,” she said, and I jerked my eyes up to hers. They were smiling, the green depths aglow with a feminine confidence that zinged through my blood stream. She knew she looked good.

  The desire was a huge surprise. An unwelcome one, like being cut off at the knees.

  “Hello” I answered, trying to cool myself down, pull myself away from the magnetic allure of her.

  Of that damn dress.

  “Ah…” She blinked, her confidence crumpling slightly. “Give me one more second.” She swirled a finger around her face.

  I nodded and she trotted off to a dark corner of her loft, leaving me in the dimly lit doorway. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. She had lamps everywhere, some covered by scarves, casting a rosy glow over the wood floors and high white walls.

  She was a candle person, I just knew it.

  “So,” she yelled, “did you come in the back?”

  “Nope,” I answered, picking up a framed photograph of a young girl in a sequined dance costume, her smile revealing two missing front teeth.

  Zoe, I could tell by the eyes. The exuberance with which the girl smiled, like her whole body was required to do it right.

  “Were the photographers still there?” she asked, ducking her head out a doorway. She was using some kind of contraption on her eyelids, a cage or something.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They were gone when I came home tonight,” she said.

  “Because they were following me,” I said, having spent the day feeling like Britney Spears.

  She grimaced. “That’s no fun.”

  I nearly laughed at her understatement. Nothing about this was fun, except maybe looking at her legs.

  “All right,” she said, stepping into the hallway. She grabbed a tiny pea-green bag off a small table and emerged from the shadows. “I’m ready for steak.”

  She was lovely, more than lovely, really. She was like a rare creature. All eyes and legs and lips. Her black hair shone like an oil slick, and her skin glowed as if there were a candle burning inside her.

  If this were a real date, I’d say something now. Kiss her hand and breathe a compliment across her skin. Truthfully, if this were a real date I’d back her into those shadows and up against a wall and I’d explore the secrets of those endless legs. Thinking about it, my fingers twitched. My pulse hitched.

  But this wasn’t a date, and this woman was doing a number on my reputation and future political career.

  “Good,” I said, brusquely, holding open the door for her. “Bring a coat. It’s raining.”

  We went down the stairs and in the main hallway she turned left to head for the back door but I stopped her. “We’re going out the front.”

  She leaned out of the corridor, looking at the small crowd of photographers visible through the safety glass door.

  “Really?” she asked, clearly hesitant.

  “It’s sort of the point.”

  “But—” she licked her lips, her fingers fluttering over her belly “—can’t we go slow or something?” she asked. “Ease into it?”

  I shook my head, but faced by her nerves and beauty I found myself weakening. I took her hand where it rested against the swell of her stomach. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help briefly noticing the taut warmth of that belly.

  A baby, I thought. There’s a baby in there.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said. “Just smile.”

  She didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. I realized she was really rattled. “You okay?” I asked, stroking the chilled skin of her wrist.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Anything. About yourself.”

  “What?”

  “You know everything about me. Well, not everything, but lots. Lots more than I know about you.”

  “Why does that matter?” I asked.

  “Because we’re supposed to be dating!” she cried. “And you’re holding my hand, and they’re going to take pictures of us, and we’re supposed to make it convincing. And I think maybe that convincing needs to start right now. With me. So spill, Carter. Give me something.”

  “I…ah…have a younger sister,” I said, not entirely sure why I was indulging her. “And a brother.”

  “You do?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Why is that such a surprise?”

  “I don’t know.” She smiled and shrugged one elegant shoulder. “You seem kind of like a lone wolf, you know. Not exactly the big brother type.”

  Oh, but I was. I was a big brother, all the way down to my core.

  And if that meant staying away from my family in order to keep my mother away from them, no matter how much it might hurt me—then so be it. I could handle it. Because I knew better than to take
something I wanted. I lived every minute of my life under sublimation of want. Compromise of need.

  Christmas was simply another day. Another day without my family.

  “Carter?” she asked. Her hand, no longer chilled, squeezed mine.

  “I miss them,” I said and felt as if I’d jumped off a cliff, nothing but air under my feet. I cleared my throat, wishing I could suck the words back into my mouth.

  But Zoe’s smile was wide and sincere and some of the confidence bloomed back into her eyes, making the green shine bright. Lovely, I thought, slightly spellbound. So lovely.

  “All right,” she said, and took a deep breath. “That’s good stuff to know. We can go now.”

  She grabbed my hand and tugged, pulling me down the narrow hallway to the front door where the flashbulbs and journalists waited like sharks in shallow water.

  We pushed through the front door and the flashes exploded. Zoe stumbled slightly and lifted a hand to cover her eyes.

  “Oh wow,” she whispered, sounding lost.

  It wasn’t totally an act when I put my arm around her, curling her toward me.

  “Mayor Pro Tem?” someone shouted. “Are you the father of the baby?”

  Zoe stiffened, a fire igniting in her eyes. It was ugly, the speculation about the baby, and I wished, oddly, that I could spare her some of that—despite the fact that she’d brought it on herself, however unwittingly. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to get us deeper into trouble, and I squeezed her arm.

  “The father of Zoe’s baby is no one’s business but Zoe’s,” I said.

  “How long have you two been dating?” another person shouted and I glanced down at Zoe.

  “Five minutes?” she whispered, and I laughed. Flashbulbs exploded again.

  “A few weeks,” I finally said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re going to get some dinner.”

  Questions were hurled after us, but I ignored them. Why I kept my arm around Zoe, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  ZOE

  * * *

  I’d never been to Bola, but what Phillip had told me didn’t do the place justice.

  Bola was gorgeous, if one liked art deco, red velvet and mahogany floors, and I did. The dark lighting made me want to purr and sashay across the floor, a mink trailing behind me. I could imagine Carter, his blond hair slicked back, his big shoulders tucked into one of those exquisite tuxes from the era.

  Oh, yes, I could imagine that very well. Perhaps a boutonniere, a white rose, pinned right onto that impressive chest of his. I’d pat that chest, trail one blood-red nail along his lapel—

  My stomach growled like a semi roaring to life, ruining the image.

  Embarrassed, I glanced over at Carter to see if he noticed. He stared at me, blank faced.

  “Was that you?” he asked as we followed the white-jacketed waiter to our table.

  “I’m hungry,” I protested.

  “Clearly,” he muttered, but his eyes twinkled, and Carter with twinkling eyes was a very fine sight.

  “Your table,” the waiter said, and as I slid past him, I whispered, “Is Phillip working tonight?”

  The waiter nodded and my baby did a worried backflip. “He is. Would you like me to send him over?”

  “Dear God, no,” I whispered vehemently and then smiled at the man’s slightly stunned expression. “Thanks, though.”

  He bowed and left.

  “So, should we just have them bring the cow?” Carter asked, glancing at the menu.

  And a vat of cream cheese, I thought.

  “Just part of it,” I managed to say with a smile. “You…ah…handled those reporters really well,” I said, searching for conversation now that we were here at the table with a dinner to get through. He’d been on the phone the whole car ride over, talking to someone named Amanda about retractions.

  “You get used to it in politics.”

  “Maybe you should give me some tips,” I said. “You know, so I don’t blow it.”

  “Tell them some truth, but not all of it. Keep them wondering. That sort of thing. But you did great, tonight. Very charming,” he said, his smile brief but beautiful, revealing all that potent glamour he hid away.

  Phillip was going to lose his marbles.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “That’s what was so great.”

  Sticking out my tongue seemed like the right reaction, but I wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t the hormones.

  Carter’s pocket buzzed and he dug out a cell phone the size of a deck of cards. He glanced at the screen and winced. “I need to take this,” he said and left the booth without glancing back at me.

  I blinked, taken aback by his rudeness.

  If this relationship were real, the cell phone would be the first thing to go, I thought.

  “Can I get you something to drink while you wait to order?” the waiter asked when he approached our table, like a polite ghost ready to disappear at the shake of my head.

  “I’m ready to order,” I said. “We’ll both have the porterhouse. Bloody. And potatoes.”

  “Baked? Scalloped?”

  “Both,” I said. “And we probably need something green.” I patted the baby, who was clamoring for cream cheese.

  “Our vegetable today is asparagus.”

  “Perfect.”

  The waiter blinked and nodded. “Drinks?”

  “Water is fine,” I said, taking a sip to prove it. “But bring him something fruity. With an umbrella.”

  The sillier the better.

  The waiter smiled and vanished, only to reappear with a bread basket—bless him—and winked before vanishing once more.

  I caught a few interested looks and some very dark glances being thrown my way from other diners, but I just tried to appear Zen as I covered a roll with butter.

  Bola was busy and getting busier. Perhaps Phillip wouldn’t have a chance to take a break and come find me. He didn’t know I was here, after all. Would never in this life expect it.

  “This is a joke, right?”

  No such luck.

  “Hi, Phillip,” I sighed.

  5

  Phillip, gorgeous in his white jacket and some tasteful guyliner, stood beside my table, using tongs to replenish my still-full bread basket.

  “I’ve been trying to call you all day long,” he said.

  “I’ve been avoiding you.”

  “Obviously. Are you actually dating Deputy Deadbeat Daddy?” he asked, his voice climbing above the muted din that filled the restaurant. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  I glanced behind him for a sign of Carter, but he was nowhere to be found.

  “I know, I should have answered—”

  “Damn right you should have answered.” He radiated anger and my bread basket was about to overflow but Phillip wasn’t about to walk away. He managed to place one more rye knot on top of my leaning tower of carbohydrates.

  “Is this…relationship between you and Carter O’Neill for real?” he asked, dropping his outrage. Now he was just Phillip, my best friend since dance class in the fifth grade.

  “Carter and I are just…friends,” I said, the lie falling awkwardly from my mouth like a big fat rock.

  He stared at me askance, and I tried to keep my face as composed as possible, like in those books when people are trying to stop psychics from reading their minds by thinking of beaches or something. That was me, trying not to let on that the whole situation was out of my control and freaking me out.

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “I’m not buying that for a minute, sugar. Is he—” Phillip glanced behind him, but still no Carter, and leaned down “—the father?”

  “No!” I practically shrieked. “Good God, no.”

  Phillip stared at me for a long time, his black eyes acute and concerned. “I know you’re convinced you’re not lying when you won’t tell anyone who the father is, but it feels like I’m being lied to.”

  Sadness pinged through me, ricocheting off shame and embarrassment.
This baby wasn’t even born and was already so scandalous.

  “Carter is not the father,” I said, refusing to let the guilt budge me from me decision to keep my baby’s father a secret. I had a plan, damn it, and I was sticking to it.

  “Then tell me, honey, what is going on?”

  I couldn’t tell him. Shouldn’t.

  Phillip traded his bucket of fancy bread for a silver pitcher of water from another passing waiter. “This isn’t another one of your follow-your-heart moments, is it? Because last time you dated one of these suit guys he wanted to change you—”

  Mute, I watched Phillip fill my glass with water.

  The problem with best friends, I thought, is that they know too much.

  “Carter doesn’t want to change me,” I whispered. He doesn’t even know me. Or like me.

  It was killing me not to tell him, and I realized that Phillip wasn’t going to go run off to USA Today and spill our secret. Phillip wasn’t like that. He was my friend, and frankly, I needed a friend right now. “Listen, I shouldn’t tell you this, but—”

  “Zoe.”

  Carter was back, standing right behind Phillip, making my friend’s own spectacular glamour seem somehow childish. That was the thing about Carter—all other men seemed like boys around him.

  “Enjoy your bread,” Phillip said, glaring at Carter as he walked away.

  Carter sat, folding his napkin into his lap with precision. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Phillip,” I said, feeling as though I’d been caught doing something wrong. “My friend.”

  “You were going to tell him?” he asked.

  “It’s not like he’s a reporter,” I said. “He doesn’t even know any reporters.”

  “Trust me, by tomorrow, he’ll know a bunch of them.” He reached out his hand, touching my fingertips with his own and then retreating, leaving my skin tingling.

  I was annoyed by and attracted to the man—a gross combination.

  “Is this the hand-holding part of the evening?” I asked, feeling miserable.

  His smile was so surprising, it disarmed me right out of my misery. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Why don’t we order?”