by SUE FINEMAN
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Lance packed his new car, one he’d stolen from a parking lot in the Marina District. He’d swapped license plates with another car to make it harder to trace. Time to leave the city before the cops caught on. With his picture in the tabloids, everybody and his uncle would be onto him soon.
He ducked out the back that night without saying a word to Jane and Ian. Jane’s shrill nagging about money was starting to get to him. He didn’t need them anymore anyway.
Donatelli was back in Gig Harbor, so he’d go there and wait until Cara showed up. And she would. She was all moony-eyed over the dumb ox, although he couldn’t see why.
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Cara missed Nick so much it was tearing her apart. She had to keep busy or go crazy. A guard always accompanied her to the city, as Nick and Gerry insisted, but nobody had seen Lance in weeks. She wondered if he’d left the country. Sally had stayed out of sight, too. She’d given Gerry a signed deposition for the divorce proceedings and said she’d make herself available, but Cara had no idea where she was. For all she knew, Sally and Lance were together again.
Hutch was doing a fantastic job as Ron’s replacement. Cara went into the office three days a week to spend time with him and Bart, and with Mary Margaret, of course.
After a work session in the city, Mr. Pettibone met her at the door. “Miss Andrews, Mr. Merlino called.” His eyes twinkled. “Apparently Mr. Donatelli has been charged with destruction of property and threats of bodily harm. Mr. Merlino said he would take care of those charges before he returns to California.”
“Nick threatened someone? Who?”
“A tabloid photographer. Mr. Donatelli destroyed his camera and threatened to do the same to the man’s head if he didn’t leave him alone.”
Laughter burst from her mouth. “Good for him. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Mr. Pettibone.
“Would you have lunch sent to my suite, please. I’ll call Mr. Merlino.”
“Yes, of course.”
Cara walked upstairs and kicked off her shoes. She’d been awake most of the night and was tired to the point of exhaustion, but she had to call Gerry about Nick. She started the tub running, poured in some bubble bath, and made her call.
“I’m on my way out the door, Cara,” said Gerry. “I have to bail Nick out of jail.”
“Jail? Why is Nick in jail?”
“That photographer again. Apparently one time wasn’t enough. He went down on the beach this time, right by the boat, and took pictures through the boat windows. Nick threw the camera into the sound, punched the guy in the face, and threw him in the water.” Gerry chuckled. “Nick warned him the first time to stay away.”
Poor Nick. “Do you need bail money?”
“No, this one’s on me.”
“Gerry, do I own the beach along there, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then he was trespassing on private property. Get Nick out of jail and charge the photographer with trespassing or whatever.”
Cara sat in her hot bubble bath, smiling at the picture in her mind of Nick throwing that photographer into the sound. She would have been there with him, but Nick had made it very clear that he didn’t want her there. It was so hard to stay in California when her heart was with Nick in Gig Harbor.
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Nick was still angry when Gerry bailed him out of jail. The guy with the camera wouldn’t stay away. He came right up to the boat and pointed that damn camera through the window. All Nick had done was defend his right to privacy. For that the cops arrested him for assault. He should have taken the photographer out on the boat before dumping him in the water. That way the creep wouldn’t be able to charge anyone with anything. He would have drowned or died of hypothermia.
Gerry dropped him off at the beach road and Nick walked down the stairs toward the boat. His eyes avoided the scarred, blackened spot that used to be his house. His chest hurt every time he thought of all he’d lost in that fire. Everything he owned had been in his house, and the insurance company had still not paid the claim.
Tony and Angelo would be down to help tear out those old cabins tomorrow. He didn’t want anyone around today anyway. He needed time alone to work off his anger and frustration. Being away from Cara tore a hole in his gut, but he had something to prove to himself.
He’d always wanted his own company, and now he had one. It wasn’t a gift or a handout. Cara said he’d earned the equivalent of one month of Ron’s pay and one design fee and part of the contractor’s fee, and that’s the amount she’d put into Max and Company. And then there was the boat. But the boat was a different story.
Nick glanced down the row of what used to be five cabins on the beach—Mrs. Martin’s house, three vacation cabins, and the blackened scar of his own house. The dumpster sat on the beach in front of the cabin adjacent to the collapsed Martin cabin. Cara had bought the Martin cabin, too, but the rubble from the earthquake still sat untouched. That one would have to wait until they got a bobcat in here to push it down.
The deck had broken free on the cabin by the dumpster and the front corner of the cabin now rested on the ground. There were a few broken windows and one side of the foundation was damaged. It could probably be repaired, but it had to be torn out to make room for Cara’s new house. The middle cabin would be torn down, too. It was too badly damaged to save.
The last cabin over, the one next to Nick’s property, would be left alone, at least for now. The little cabin was only slightly damaged, and the fire at his house had blistered the paint on the side.
The cabin by the dumpster smelled musty and stale inside, so he removed the outside door. He tore the frames off three small windows, the only ones not broken. They could be salvaged. He removed them and stacked them on the living room floor. The previous owners had taken the furnishings out, but they’d left the woodstove and all the appliances. The woodstove looked almost new. That could be salvaged, too. The appliances and plumbing fixtures were beyond help, and the cabinets were battered and worn, like everything else in the cabin. It would all go on the burn pile or in the dumpster.
Nick worked for hours, tearing off the old deck and piling the rotten boards on the beach. They’d get a permit from the fire department and burn what they could.
By the time he finished tearing out the deck and prying off some of the plywood siding, he’d worked off his anger at the photographer. In spite of the hour he’d spent in jail that morning, he’d done a full day’s work. He was tired and sweaty and hungry. His hands were sore and his back ached, but he felt better than he’d felt since he returned to Gig Harbor. It felt good to be doing the work himself for a change, instead of assigning work to others. Of course, he couldn’t do all the work himself. If he wanted to build the company, he’d have to work smarter, not harder. Getting RASH under control had taught him that much.
The photographer didn’t come back that day. He wasn’t there the next day, either, but Tony and Angelo were. They helped him tear the old cabin apart.
They worked together for several days, and then Nick had to take time off to go to court. The photographer who’d accused him of assault, the only witness against him, didn’t appear, so the case was dismissed. Anger warmed Nick’s face. He’d wasted his time to go to court and then hadn’t been given a chance to say his piece.
Nick had a long phone conversation with Cara before bed, as he did every night. He missed her so much, her sweet smile haunted his dreams. “It’s your wife, Maxine Donatelli,” she teased, as her red-gold curls blew gently around her face in the sunshine. He woke from his dream fully aroused. Midnight. He’d only slept an hour.
A shadow moved across the window. Instantly alert, Nick knew someone was out there between the boat and the light on the dock. Careful not to rock the boat and alert the prowler, he peeked out the window. There was no one on the dock now. Nick pulled on his pants and stepped out on the deck to see a man climbing the stairs to the road. Who in the hell was that?
Another photographer? When the man disappeared from sight, Nick went back inside. He had his gun loaded and ready, but he didn’t want to shoot the wrong man. There was no way to tell from this distance whether a man was a killer or another stupid tabloid photographer.
Nick put the gun on the bed by his side. If Lance came near the boat, he had a surprise coming.
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Cara continued to work with Mary Margaret, wading through the piles of letters and proposals requesting money. She also spent time with Hutch and Bart, reviewing the changes they wanted to make in her stock portfolio.
Hutch suggested selling her stock in a company that had been fined several times for spilling chemicals into a creek, killing the fish and every other living thing it touched. She agreed. Should she make an announcement to the press about what she was doing and why? Was this what Bill meant when he said, ‘Money is power’? She owned a big chunk of that company, enough to make an impact on the value of their stock if she sold it all at once.
She asked Hutch and Bart, “Why would Ron buy this stock in the first place? If he’d done any research at all, he would have known what they were doing.”
Hutch shook his head. “I don’t think Ron looked at anything but the bottom line.”
“Can we put them out of business, or at least stop them from poisoning the creek?”
He leaned back and rocked in the chair behind the desk. “You’re in a position to lose a lot of money, Cara.”
“How much?”
Hutch lifted his hand and dropped it. “Three million, give or take.”
“I don’t care as much about the money as I do what they’re doing. We could insist they clean up their act.”
“And when they don’t?”
“Sell the stock, put them out of business, and try to repair some of the damage.”
Leaning on the desk, he said, “Cara, that’s not your responsibility. It’s the company’s responsibility to clean up the mess they made.”
“Come on, Hutch. If they were willing to do that, they wouldn’t be dumping that poison in the creek to start with.”
“What would you do, make a public announcement?”
Bart had been listening quietly. Now he added something to the discussion. “It would send a strong message.”
Cara turned to Bart, “And that is?”
“Making money isn’t as important as the environment they’re ruining and the people they’re sickening.”
Bart understood. Hutch did, too, but he was trying to protect her from losing too much of her investment. “Bart, you can help me write a press release.”
“Not a speech?”
“I hate speaking in front of reporters. They always ask the most embarrassing questions, as if they had a right to delve into my personal life.”
The room grew quiet, then Bart said, “You’d get more publicity that way, but if it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll work on a press release.”
“Publicity?”
“Cara, every time your face is in the news, you have a chance to get a message across. You’re hot right now. You could take advantage of that.”
Bill’s words echoed in her mind. “Before he died, Bill told me, ‘Money is power.’ I wonder if this is what he meant.”
Hutch tapped his pen on the desk. “If protecting the environment and the health of people and other living things is important to you, use your celebrity. Money alone is powerful, but combined with celebrity, you have the power to send a strong message.”
Cara leaned back. “I could never figure out why anyone would want to see my picture or read about my life. There are a lot of wealthy people out there. Why me?”
“Because you’re young and intelligent and pretty,” said Hutch.
Bart grinned. “Awesome combination.”
Cara laughed. “You guys are too much.” Unlike Ron Holcomb, Bart and Hutch supported her. The two men were also becoming good friends.
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Nick saw Cara’s press conference on the news the next evening. She looked confident and professional in a dark green business suit. She smiled, but her eyes had lost their sparkle. He knew she was as lonesome as he was, but it couldn’t be helped.
Cara spoke of the damage that Morgan Mining had been doing to the environment and to the communities downstream. “I spoke with Mr. Morgan, the president of Morgan Mining, this morning. As a stockholder, I insisted that the company stop fouling the stream. It’s not just irresponsible, it’s criminal. Mr. Morgan said he’d make some adjustments in their controls, the same thing he promises the EPA every time they fine the company. If the water quality isn’t significantly improved in the next EPA test, I want to see the company shut down. I want them to clean up that stream and repair the damage they’ve caused.”
“Why did you purchase their stock, Miss Andrews?” a reporter asked.
“It was in my portfolio when I inherited the estate in April. I sold all my shares this morning, after I spoke with Mr. Morgan. Based on their past history alone, I want no part of that business.”
Cara introduced Hutch and Bart, who stood by her side. “We are working together to eliminate irresponsible companies like Morgan Mining from my portfolio. I refuse to own shares in companies that focus too much on profits and too little on the health and safety of the environment, their neighbors, their employees, or the intended users of their products. I encourage everyone who owns stock to stop supporting businesses that cause harm. There are plenty of good, solid, responsible companies out there. Invest in them.”
“Morgan Mining makes a lot of money,” said one reporter.
“Yes, they do, but at what price? The cigarette companies make good profits, too, but in my opinion, they’re irresponsible. Instead of using some of their profits to help the smokers they’ve harmed over the years, they use it to pay high-priced lawyers to fight those claims. I don’t care how great their profits are. I refuse to support that kind of social irresponsibility. I refuse to own their stock.”
Nick whispered, “Go get ’em, Maxine.”
A reporter yelled, “Miss Andrews, what is your relationship with Nick Donatelli? Why did he leave your home?”
Nick groaned. “Jeez, not that again.”
“Mr. Donatelli is a good friend. He recuperated from his gunshot wound, helped me with my business, and then returned to his life in Gig Harbor.”
As other reporters shouted questions about her marriage or about Nick, Cara shook her head. “No more questions.”
A commercial came on. Nick stared at the screen for several minutes, still seeing Cara’s face, still hearing her voice. He flipped it off and went out on the dock. He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked along the beach. There was a three-quarter moon in the clear sky that night, enough light to see the blackened scar where his house once stood. He walked down that way, remembering the last time he’d been in the house he’d built for himself, the first time he’d made love to Cara. The day he nearly died.
He sat just above the beach, on the bottom step from his house, the only one not touched by the fire. He looked at the boat, the Maxine, and knew Cara had bought it for him. He wouldn’t take her money, so she bought him a boat. And now she’d given him a company of his own. She didn’t have to give him anything. He’d work for her for nothing, just for the pleasure of being around her.
Max and Company was a nothing little business, but he’d build it up and turn it into a success. He knew he could do it. Seeing how those jerks in San Francisco did business, looking at the mistakes they made, he knew he could do a helluva lot better, and he’d do it honestly, without cheating or stealing from anyone.
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Cara was eating lunch in the sun room when Mr. Pettibone said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Sally McCullough is on the phone. She insists on speaking with you.”
Cara grabbed the phone. “Sally, this is Cara.”
“I know I promised not to speak with Michael, but—”
“It’s all right, Sally. It doe
sn’t matter now. Where is he?”
“He was in San Francisco.”
“Yes, I know. I saw him.”
“He said he was just trying to scare you when he shot at the boat, but I don’t believe him. He wants you dead before you can divorce him. He doesn’t want half your money, he wants it all.”
“I know, but Gerry has already filed the papers and I changed my will. No matter what Lance does to me now, he’s not getting a penny of my estate.”
“He’ll kill you anyway. He hates it when someone makes him look like a fool.”
“Is he still in San Francisco?”
“No, that’s why I called. He was staying with my aunt and uncle. My uncle told him you were going to build a house in Gig Harbor, and I’m afraid—”
“Oh, God. Not again.”
Cara tried to call Nick to warn him, but he didn’t answer his phone. She yelled, “Mr. Pettibone, I need you.”
He came on the run.
“Have someone pack a few things for me, casual clothes for three or four days in Washington, and then notify the pilot to get the plane ready.”
“Miss Andrews, has something happened?”
“Lance was hiding with my guardians in San Francisco and Sally thinks he’s on his way to Gig Harbor.” She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid he’ll go after Nick.”
“Oh, my heavens.”
“Hiding a fugitive is a crime. Would you have Mr. Hilton notify the San Francisco Police? My driver knows the address. Tell him it’s the blue house on the side of the hill. He’ll know.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Pettibone. “Perhaps we should also notify the police in Gig Harbor?”
“Yes, of course.” Why didn’t she think of that?
Thirty minutes later, Cara boarded the plane with Bruce, one of her security guards. As soon as they were in the air, she tried to reach Nick again, but there was still no answer. Of course not. Nick wouldn’t be there in the middle of a work day. Lance wouldn’t bother him with Nick’s cousins there, and they were working together on those damaged cabins. He was all right. For now.
