by Mary Campisi
“Okay.” Click. The next few miles proved a struggle to negotiate the road she’d traveled for years. Had Edmund Dupree discovered proof which found Reese Construction at fault for Clay’s death? Rourke had been so adamant against this possibility she’d begun to think there would be no case. She couldn’t wait to hear what Mr. Dupree had to say so she could tell Rourke and get his opinion. Her insides warmed and she wondered if she’d see him tonight. She could invite him to dinner, fix linguine with clam sauce, and introduce him to Julia. Her brain froze. She wasn’t ready for Rourke to spend time with Julia. He might recognize the way she tilted her head just so when she was thinking or how the shape of her earlobes resembled his. No, it was definitely too soon to introduce him to Julia. Right now she had to concentrate on Edmund Dupree.
She had just enough time to get home and splash cold water on her face before the doorbell rang. Kate grabbed a hand towel and made her way to the front door where Edmund Dupree III stood in a seersucker suit and baby blue tie. “Hello, Mr. Dupree. Come in. What on earth has happened?”
A smile stretched over his face as he stepped inside. “I should have known. I don’t know how I could not have known. Talk about the proverbial fox in the hen house.” He shook his head once more and chuckled. “Clever. He’s very clever. I’d heard that about him.”
“What are you talking about? And whom?”
“Our mystery man. Do you remember when I told you Reese Construction was merely a holding company for a much larger conglomeration?”
“Yes. You thought we would file a case against both, once you determined the parent company.”
“Exactly. Well,” he rubbed his small hands together and slid onto the couch, “I’ve discovered it and my dear, it is a gold mine.”
Kate smiled, partly from the news but also because the couch swallowed Mr. Dupree’s fragile frame, giving him the appearance of a child in a time-out chair, a much different visual than Rourke had cast when he’d sat there a few days ago.
“The man behind the company is well-connected, well-known, and well-bred. He won’t want the publicity, at least not this kind. I must say, he is something of a celebrity in his own circles.” He sighed and added, “And quite a handsome, charismatic man.”
It was obvious Mr. Dupree was enamored with the mystery man. “Tell me more.”
“He’s unmarried, drives a Mercedes 550, lives in—”
“I mean business information.”
“Oh, yes, well, there is a good deal of that as well. He’s known among his peers as a fearless, tough negotiator. Not one to be crossed, but fair.”
“So how do we approach him?” Kate perched on the edge of the ottoman and clasped her knees. Social security and worker’s compensation were not enough to support Julia, even if they were extremely frugal for the next several years. But most importantly, no amount of money would bring Clay back. This big shot owner should take better care of his subcontractors and learn that money didn’t buy him a free pass.
“I’ve been working on a plan. It’s going to be fairly high profile, Kate, no way around that.”
“I don’t know.” She chewed on her bottom lip and wondered what Rourke would say. “I want to protect Julia and I don’t want Clay’s name splashed on some newspaper headlines.”
Edmund Dupree shrugged. “It’s the nature of this business. The bigger the buzz, the bigger the payout. It’s corporate America against Mrs. Everybody. We can’t get the public to care about you if they don’t know you.”
She was certain Rourke would disagree with this strategy. “I’ll have to think about it.” And consult with Rourke.
“Now’s not the time to go soft. You need to think of your daughter. This man and his company must share in the blame. We’ll capitalize on the fact that your husband left behind a wife and child.” His smile spread with confidence and anticipation. “That alone will net you an extra million.”
And you a hefty percent of that. “If this man is as powerful as you say, he’s going to fight me, isn’t he?”
“Of course he will. He’ll call in his lawyers and try to make a case for negligence against your husband. I’m sure he’ll spin it to the newspapers and maybe even a few tabloids. He’s quite the looker and not afraid to squash those who get in his way.”
She bet he wouldn’t squash Rourke. Maybe she’d go see him after Mr. Dupree left and get his opinion. “I have right on my side, Mr. Dupree. As long as I have that, I’m not afraid.”
“That’s a good attitude.” He nodded and rubbed his chin. “Keep it and we’ll do just fine. Now, give me a day or two to complete our strategy and then we’ll file the suit.”
“Okay.” She should be nervous but the thought of Rourke guiding her increased her resolve. “Let’s do this.”
Mr. Dupree stood and brushed his wide pin-striped slacks. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you. Mr. Dupree?”
“Yes?”
“This big bad wolf, what’s his name?” Maybe Rourke had heard of him.
“Flannigan. Rourke Flannigan.”
Chapter 17
“You killed my father.”—Julia Maden
Journal Entry—May 4, 2003
I saw a man in People Magazine who looked like you. I don’t read People unless I’m at the dentist’s which is only twice a year. There was a copy in the waiting room, eight months old. Go figure. You popped out on page 13, staring back at me in a black tux with those silver eyes. A beautiful woman clung to your arm. She wore a green sequin dress, low cut, and white-blond hair piled eight inches high. You were surrounded by Hollywood type people. I never pictured you in California, I guess because you loved the snow so much, but then I never thought you liked blondes either.
I ripped the page out of the magazine and folded it neatly, careful not to crease your face. I’ll bet the other people in the waiting room thought I was stealing a recipe for pot roast. I stuffed it in my jeans pocket and vowed I would only look at it once a year, when I wrote in my diary. I broke the promise two seconds after I left the doctor’s office. I carried your picture in my back pocket and I swear, pulled it out at least once an hour. That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
I memorized the smile, the eyes, the hair. Okay, I memorized everything about that picture and I hoped it was you because if it wasn’t, I’d become obsessed with a stranger. But you are a stranger, aren’t you?
Of course, you are, but there’s a tiny piece of me that says, NO, you are still the same person who said he loved me, who still loves me.
Angie caught me staring at the picture and made me rip it up—right in front of her. She was right, of course, but I still wish I had it. By the way, she said it WAS you.
***
Len Slewinski hopped out of his pickup and scurried up the front steps of Montpelier Manor as fast as his bum leg would carry him. Damn that son of a bitch and all the saints in hell, he’d pay if he hurt Katie again. Len spat out a slew of curses and yanked open the manor door. The place was dead quiet which wasn’t surprising, seeing as most visitors flooded Montpelier in the winter to witness what they called a wonderland. Len cursed again. He’d show that son of a devil what happened when an outsider took advantage of someone else’s wife.
He clambered up the first flight of stairs and looked around. The bastard was in one of these rooms. Len massaged his right hand and clenched it into a fist. Times like these, he wished he’d lived in the Wild West so he could draw a gun first and work out the details later. He thought he heard a noise behind the second door and tiptoed toward it. Sure enough, there was drawers closing, footsteps, and what the hell, humming? Len knocked and waited. When the door opened, he shook a fist at his target and snarled, “If shootin’ were legal, you’d be dead.”
Rourke Flannigan stared at him as though Len had just escaped from the Syracuse Mental institution. “Who are you?”
Most men cringed when Len gave them his evil-eye once over. Not this one. He stared back with his own silver devil glare. “Le
n Slewinski,” Len spat out, then added, “I worked with Clay. He was a good friend.”
The man tensed. “I’m sorry. Clay was a good man.”
There was something unnatural about his words, like they didn’t fit his expression. “Save it,” Len said. “You’re about as sorry as a bear caught in a honey pot and unless you want to read about this in tomorrow’s paper, you’ll let me inside to finish what I come to say.”
Rourke Flannigan didn’t budge. “I don’t know you and I’m not interested in what you have to say.” He started to shut the door but Len stuck his foot out to stop it.
“Not even if it has to do with Katie?” That comment stole the tan right off the man’s face.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
“I only need two.” Len entered the room and stuffed his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid like try to cold-cock him. “I remember you. Came here with your ma. Big city boy. You and Katie got thick fast. Poor Clay acted like a puppy with a bellyache, he was so heartbroken. Downright sad. Then the accident happened and before anybody could say wedding bells, you flew the coop. You hear me, boy? Clay was the one who stuck around.” Len paused and tried to get a bead on him but Rourke Flannigan was as unreadable as cement. “Now he’s dead and you come dancing back in your fancy car and your shiny shoes. You think you can pick up where you left off? I saw the two of you coming here this morning. How many other people you think saw?”
“I care about Kate. I’m not going to hurt her.”
“Hah. That’s what everybody says, right before they pull the trigger.” Len eyeballed Rourke Flannigan one last time. “Leave her alone. She’s a good girl and she don’t need to mess around with the likes of you.”
***
“Where have you been? I told Mrs. Peabody we’d send her a picture of the crown molding and it’s not even painted yet.”
Kate avoided Angie’s gaze. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have it ready.” She pulled out a can of Amber Mist and popped the lid off with the opener.
“Glynnis Peabody has already brought us three new customers. We can’t afford to alienate her.”
“I know.” Kate busied herself selecting a brush. “Sorry.”
“That’s it? You’re sorry?”
Kate stirred the paint, anxious to lose herself in Glynnis Peabody’s crown molding. “I was detained.”
“Hmmm.”
“Julia wasn’t feeling well.”
“Is that why she called looking for you twenty minutes ago?”
Kate’s head shot up. “She called here?”
Angie’s dark eyes burrowed into Kate. “She called from the Andersen’s, where she’d been babysitting since eight this morning.”
Kate looked away and slowly removed the paint stirrer, wiping the paint against the edge of the can. Amber Mist was such a fancy name for brown but it suited Glynnis Peabody. Who named paints, anyway?
“Kate? What’s going on?”
I trusted him and he did it to me again.
“Talk to me. I know this has to do with Rourke Flannigan, so just tell me.”
A tiny cry escaped Kate’s lips. She tried to hold it inside but the betrayal was too great. It wasn’t just his betrayal, she’d betrayed Clay. Her shoulders slumped forward and she let the ache slip out, “I can’t even say it.”
“You have to, Kate. It’s the only way I can help you. Remember how it was last time?”
Painfully, yes. Kate studied the paint on the tip of her brush and said, “I’m okay. Let me get this done so Mrs. Peabody doesn’t pull this project and all of her Martha’s Vineyard friends with it.”
Angie clutched Kate’s wrist and eased the brush from her fingers. “It can wait,” she said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Besides, the crown molding called for Ambient Mist, not Amber.”
“I knew better, Angie.” Her voice slipped. “But I couldn’t help myself.”
“Tell me what that bastard did now.”
Tears slipped down Kate’s cheeks and onto her chin. “He’s Reese Construction. That’s why he came to Montpelier.”
“What?”
It hurt to say the truth out loud. “Reese Construction is Rourke’s holding company. He came here because of Clay.” Everything out of his mouth had been a lie.
“How did you find out?”
“Mr. Dupree called this afternoon and said he’d made a huge discovery and had to see me right away.” She waited for Angie’s rage and disappointment, but neither came, which was actually worse. “Just say it. Tell me what a screw up I am, how I dishonored my husband and my marriage. Tell me how I should have kicked Rourke Flannigan out the second he walked through this door.”
“Why should I? You already know that.”
“I slept with him.”
“I know.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
Angie shrugged and clutched Kate’s hand. “You love him and that gives him the power, because he doesn’t feel that way about you.” Her voice turned brittle. “Oh, he’ll tell you he does and right when he’s got you believing it, he’ll use you, just like he did last time.”
The truth in Angie’s words sliced through Kate’s pain. “I can’t let him do this again.”
“Oh? How do you plan to stop him?”
“I’m going to sue him.”
“He’s not going to play nice.”
“Neither am I.”
***
“Is your mother here?” Maybe he should have called first, but he hadn’t wanted to risk Kate telling him it wasn’t a good idea, because of Julia, or the town, or who knew what. He needed to see her tonight, needed to push Len Slewinski’s words out of his head.
“She’s out back in the garden.” Julia peeked behind him and frowned. “Where’s Abbie?”
“Watching re-runs of Bewitched with Maxine.”
She wrinkled her nose and made a face. “Abbie likes those?”
Rourke shrugged. “No, but I didn’t give her a choice.”
“Oh.” Her face brightened. “Can she come over?”
He glanced at his watch and said, “If she can get here in the next ten minutes and not change clothes fifteen times, then yes. It’s going to be dark soon and I don’t want her out on the streets.” Good God, he sounded like a father.
“Thanks! Go through the kitchen.” She pointed behind her and took off up the stairs.
“Thanks.” Rourke glanced around the living room, a cozy, suburban family nest, and nothing like his house in Chicago with twelve-foot vaulted ceilings and surround sound. Given the right occupants, his place could house a family and that’s what he’d come here to work on.
When he reached the kitchen, he took in the tiny windows over the sink and wall-to-wall appliances—gas range, refrigerator, dishwasher, built-in microwave, all by Kenmore. The entire kitchen would fit in his pantry. What would Kate say to an imported stove from Italy and a sub-zero refrigerator? The thought of her in his life again made him restless. He’d never been one to sit back and let things happen in due course. That strategy belonged to laggers and losers, and he was neither. Rourke believed in action but he didn’t want to scare her, so for now, he’d wait and hope nature would move quickly and Kate would realize just how much she wanted him in her life. He glanced out the back door and spotted her mounding dirt at the base of a rosebush. He had his hand on the knob when she grabbed a pair of red-handled trimmers and hacked at the bush with sharp, uncontrolled whacks, chopping until nothing was left but a stump with jagged clusters of green. When she finished, she heaved the trimmers across the lawn and slumped forward.
What the hell? Rourke yanked open the kitchen door and ran across the lawn. “Kate?” He wanted to scoop her in his arms and comfort her but Julia was too close to chance it. “Kate? What’s wrong?”
Slowly, she lifted her head but made no effort to turn toward him. He could tell she was crying by the way her breath quivered when she inhaled. Obviously, she didn’t want him to see
her crying. Didn’t she know she didn’t need to hide from him? That the sooner they both owned up to their feelings the better for all of them, even Julia?
“Look at me, Kate.” When she didn’t turn, he walked around to face her. In the pinkish light of passing dusk, she formed the perfect backdrop of beauty and pain, her face splattered with tears, her lips and eyes swollen, a streak of dirt smearing her cheek. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Rourke knelt beside her and smoothed a piece of hair from her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Why did you come back here?”
“I told you, Abbie needed a place to—”
“Stop. You’re lying.”
What had gotten into her? “I’m not lying. Abbie needed a place to re-group and get away from the city.”
Her swollen eyes narrowed to puffy slits. “That’s all? No other possible reason?”
He didn’t like the accusation in her voice. “What are you getting at?”
“Abbie wasn’t the only reason you came back here.”
This wasn’t quite the way he’d planned it. He’d hoped for dinner and flowers, maybe a candle or two, not hunks of soggy earth clinging to his shoes and half the neighborhood within eavesdropping distance. “Okay. You’re right. Abbie wasn’t my only reason for coming to Montpelier.” The faint gleam in her eyes unsettled him but he plowed forward. “I came to see you.” His voice dipped but when he leaned forward to touch her cheek, she lurched away. “I needed to see you again,” he continued, “needed to find out if the magic was still there all these years later.” She stared at him. He forced out the next words. “And you know what? It is.” There. He’d said it. Finally.
