by Mary Campisi
“Liar.”
Scores of women would barter their personal trainers to hear those words, but he’d had the horrible luck of falling for one who apparently didn’t believe them. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to get a confession out of me? Is that what you want?”
“That would be a good starting point.”
He cursed under his breath. “Okay, you want your confession? Here it is—I love you.”
Her swollen eyes stretched open and she slapped him across the face with her dirty glove.
Rourke fell back but recovered and grabbed her wrist as she prepared for a second strike. “Stop it!”
“Go to hell! I know all about you, Mr. Rourke Flannigan owner of Reese Construction.” She twisted in his grasp and tried to get away, but he grabbed her other wrist preventing her escape. “When were you going to tell me you owned the company that killed Clay? That you’d come here to broker a deal so I wouldn’t sue you?”
“Kate—”
“Tell me!”
“I had no idea it was you when I made the decision to visit the man’s widow.” Christ, right now, he wished he’d never come back. “And then I saw the file and heard he was from Montpelier and I asked myself how many demolition contractors were from a town the size of a grapefruit. I was going to tell you as soon as I got here,” his voice faltered as he pushed past the memory of seeing her again, “but once I saw you, I couldn’t tell you. Not right then. But I was going to, just as soon as—”
“As soon as I gave you my lawyer’s entire game plan. What a fool I was, asking for your advice on Clay’s case. You must have had a good laugh at that one. Advising me how not to sue you.”
“I didn’t find anything humorous about it.” This was past disastrous and getting worse. “I did give you my honest opinion on the case.”
“Honest? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I planned to tell you the truth, just as soon as we figured things out between us.”
“Really? Don’t you mean as soon as you got me into bed?” she hissed, trying to break free of his grasp.
Rourke gripped her wrists tighter until she cried out. “Stop fighting, damn you.”
“I can’t believe I was such an idiot.”
“Kate, listen to me—”
“You killed Clay. He’s dead and it’s your fault.” The accusation clung to the thick, night air. “Now you’re trying to cheat us out of what little solace we can gain from his tragic loss.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. You’re a businessman. It’s about bottom line, isn’t it? What’s one lowly demolition contractor when you own eight other companies?” She sneered at him. “Mr. Dupree prides himself on his investigative abilities, especially when big business is involved, and you’re big business.”
“Let’s go inside and discuss this. Calmly.”
“Fine. Let me go.”
He eyed her. “You won’t run?”
“No.”
As soon as Rourke released his grip, Kate tried to bolt toward the house. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her to the ground, smothering her with his weight. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Get off of me, you beast!”
“Funny, you weren’t complaining earlier.”
“Go to hell.”
God, she was beautiful when she was angry.
“I’m going to sue you.”
Her lips were soft and full under the half moon. “I know.” He lowered his head an inch closer.
“And I’m going to take millions of dollars from you.”
“No doubt.” He’d give her anything for one more chance.
“According to your financials, you’ve got lots of it.” Her eyes glistened with anger and something he refused to think of as hatred. “We were a real family, something you might not understand. We liked our Sunday afternoon barbecues and playing Frisbee in the backyard, and driving to Mel’s for a tastee freeze. We didn’t need glitz and newspaper reporters and ten thousand dollar gowns to tell us we were happy.” Her voice rose until it pinched his brain. “You stole it from us, you and your company that demanded work get done faster than humanly possible and Clay did it because he wanted us to have a better life.” Her voice cracked and she turned away, sobbing until her shoulders shook.
“I’m sorry.” The truth sliced him—she’d loved Clay. She might have given him her body these past few days, but it was out of need and loneliness. Clay Maden was her real love and Rourke had taken him from her. “I’m sorry,” he said again, stumbling to his feet.
“Go away. Please. Just go away.”
Whatever shred of hope he’d harbored for a future together, died with her words. She’d never forgive him. “Good-bye, Kate.” His gaze lingered on the gloss of hair touching her neck. A few hours ago he’d buried his face in its silkiness, kissed it, whispered words of love into it. Now it was all over.
Rourke turned and headed for the back steps. He’d scoop up Abbie and head back to Chicago as soon as possible. He was so busy trying to figure out a way to deflect his niece’s impending anger he didn’t notice the figure standing just inside the screen door. “Julia?”
“You killed my father.”
Chapter 18
“Well, are you really going to leave Mrs. Maden behind?”—Maxine Simmons
Journal Entry—May 4, 2004
I dreamed of you again last night. We were sitting on our deck and you’d grilled steaks for us. I’d made a coconut cream pie.
It was so relaxing, it felt like a meditation. Then I woke up.
Since I found that picture of you in People last year, I’ve been imagining us together. Before I saw that magazine photo, when I thought of us together you were always still eighteen. After the photo, I realized the truth in glossy print—you’re a powerful man who takes what he wants, though most people, especially women, probably never even make you ask. I hate writing that but I know it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?
Are you still with the blonde from the picture? Was she your girlfriend then? Your friend? Maybe not even that?
I wish you could see the model dollhouse I built. It is so perfect and has everything we wanted for our own home, down to the ceiling-to-floor stone fireplace in the master bedroom and the turret washed in lavender. You would love it.
I think.
I wonder sometimes if I could see you again, say you were standing in the next room and all I had to do was open the door and step over that threshold, knowing once I did nothing would be the same, would I do it?
I promised myself and God that you’d be relegated to once a year reminisces in a red, velvet journal. And I’ve been so good, but that picture has tormented me. I almost did an internet search the other day, just to see what might come up. Thank God Julia came in the room before I typed your name.
Where are you?
Why can’t I stop loving you?
***
“Mr. Flannigan, I’ve booked our flight for Saturday at twelve fifty.”
Rourke glanced up from the page he’d been reading, or rather, the paragraph. Eight sentences in ten minutes.
“Mr. Flannigan?”
“That’s the first available?”
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing else.”
Was that sympathy peeking at him from behind those cat-eye glasses? That was the last thing he wanted. “Fine. We’ll have to make due.”
“Yes, sir.”
Today was only Thursday. He’d been in hiding since the grand blowout Tuesday night. He hadn’t ventured near her house or her shop. Hell, he hadn’t even been to Sophie’s for a cup of coffee. But in two and a half days, he’d emerge and never have to worry about running into Kate again, except maybe in a courtroom.
His stomach knotted at the thought. She’d been decibel-deafening clear that she had no desire or intention of establishing any sort of relationship with him, other than as a means to make him pay for her husband’s death, the husban
d she’d loved with such intensity. She hadn’t added that last bit, but it had been sitting between her words like a soggy piece of bad intention.
“Mr. Flannigan?” Maxine cleared her throat and asked, “Would you like me to see to Abbie’s lunch?”
Rourke glanced at his watch. “Lunch. Right. Seeing as she hasn’t spoken to me in two days, I doubt she’ll want to have lunch with me. Besides, she might try to put something in my hamburger.” He pulled out his wallet and said, “Do you know where she is?”
“Julia Maden’s.”
“Ah, of course.” Apparently Abbie was outside the circle of exclusion they’d placed him in. He could care less.
“Abbie and Julia really are quite fond of one another.”
Rourke turned back to his computer. “Hmmm.”
“They’ve been inseparable these last few days.”
“Hmmm.”
“I imagine they’ve found common ground in the loss of their parents.”
He scrolled through the reports on the screen and jotted down a few notes.
“That can be very important. Especially now.” She cleared her throat and continued, “Critical, actually.”
Rourke tossed his pen on the desk and swung around. “Is that Maxine Simmons, doctor of psychology speaking, or Maxine Simmons, mother of ten?”
A brilliant red stained her cheeks but she didn’t turn away. “I know I’m neither, Mr. Flannigan, but those girls need one another right now.”
“I’m sorry about Julia’s father and I’m sorry for the company’s part in it, no matter how accidental. I’m even sorry that my screwed-up sister couldn’t pull out enough maternal instinct to parent her own daughter and got herself killed. But sorry doesn’t matter, because we’re leaving Saturday.”
“Yes sir.”
“All three of us, Maxine.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and murmured. “I’ll let Abbie know, Mr. Flannigan.”
“You do that.” So, his little niece had enlisted Maxine to buy her extra time here. Not very likely.
“Pardon my asking, sir, I know it’s not my business,” Maxine squeezed her hands so tight he thought she’d burst a blood vessel. “Well, are you really going to leave Mrs. Maden behind?”
She must have seen the answer on his face because she jumped from the chair, snatched her purse, and raced out the door mumbling something about lunch.
***
Georgeanne Redmond followed the second hand on the clock above the bookcase. The instant it hit twelve she lifted her glass and sipped. The smoothness of the vodka warmed her blood. One more sip, small enough to drag out eight minutes. Such a long time. In her day, she’d have gulped ten times that amount and wanted more.
The wanting never stopped, though she could pretend for Kate, and the minister, and the town. There were times when she teetered on the brink of crashing headlong into her former life in all of its alcohol-imbued glory. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She took another sip, longer this time, and licked the Smirnoff from her lips. Rourke Flannigan would finally get his comeuppance at the hands of Katie, and she, Georgeanne Elizabeth Redmond, would be in the front row of the courtroom, cheering her daughter on. People tried to hide behind money and power but right found a way around them every time and Katie had right on her side.
Did that man really think he could waltz into town and treat them like they were trailer trash? Toss a pittance their way and never question the why? Ha! He’d soon see how resilient her daughter was, how she could strip him of his good will and take what belonged to her. What belonged to all of them.
Finally, Georgeanne would be vindicated. She lifted her glass and drained the last two tablespoons of vodka. It had only been six minutes. Breathe. She inhaled through her nose and blew out a long breath through her mouth. She’d kept her secret fourteen years. A lifetime. But it had all been worth it. She closed her eyes and remembered the moment her life changed.
The sticky July night clung to her as she drove the Plymouth into the inky darkness of Indian Road. Damn, why couldn’t the city put a street lamp or two up? Last week, Shep Greely nearly ran over a slew of geese. The week before that Harriett Carlson hit a skunk that stunk all the way to Tops.
She clutched the steering wheel and squinted into the night. Katie would be in an uproar if she got home and found Georgeanne gone. Then the lectures would start. Since when did children think they could give their two cents to their elders, especially a mother? No matter, there should be enough time for a few quick ones before Katie got home. That girl barely made midnight curfew these days, ever since she hooked up with that Flannigan boy. Hmph. Something about him didn’t sit well. Too damn good looking for one. Those silver-gray eyes and that big white smile, just ready to break a girl’s heart. Well, it wasn’t going to be Katie’s. He couldn’t head to college fast enough.
And if he thought for one minute—
Something lunged in front of the car and Georgeanne hit it head on with a thump. She slammed her foot on the brake so hard the car spun around, then swerved to a stop. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” What on earth had she hit? Too big for a dog. Too small for a deer. She eased the door open and made her way to the front of the car. The Plymouth’s headlights illuminated the lump on the ground. Georgeanne inched closer. Squinted. Screamed.
The lump moved. Groaned. “Please…”
Georgeanne knelt and peered at the body’s face. It was Rourke Flannigan’s mother. The woman’s legs were twisted at odd angles, her arms limp at her sides, her forehead smeared with blood. “I’m sorry. I swear I never saw you.”
Barbara Flannigan moved her lips and a whisper of sound fell out.
“What?” Georgeanne leaned closer.
The woman opened her mouth again and said, “I…jumped…in front of… you.”
“Why?” Was she hallucinating? One drink wouldn’t make Georgeanne hear voices. They didn’t start until half a fifth was gone. When the woman didn’t answer, Georgeanne touched her hand. “We have to get help.” She scanned the blood—so much of it. “You need a doctor.”
“No.” A surge of strength filled that word. Barbara Flannigan’s eyes fluttered open. “Leave me.” And then, “Please.”
The woman was in shock. She had to be. “You hold on, okay?” Georgeanne scanned the black road. No one came down this way which was why she’d decided to take this route to The East End Grille.
“Georgeanne, please. I can’t go on without him.” Pause. “Tell Rourke the truth.”
Crazy talk. Shock stripped people of logic and made them act in bizarre ways. Once she had an IV and some pain meds, she’d see things differently. “It’ll be all right.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Tell Rourke.”
“Tell Rourke what?”
And then Barbara Flannigan whispered a truth that startled Georgeanne as much as it filled her with compassion. The second accident happened after she left Rourke’s mother. She just wanted to get home, back to the quiet of before—without blood, without a twisted body in the middle of Indian Road, without a dying woman’s secret resting heavy on her soul. Georgeanne pressed the gas pedal hard. She missed the curve, jumped the embankment and crashed into the guardrail, ramming her leg against the steering column. Pain tore through her as she threw the Plymouth in reverse and crept home. She hid the car in the garage, dragged her body inside, downed two Valiums, and fell on the bed with Barbara Flannigan’s bloody face imprinted on her brain.
She would honor a dying woman’s last wish. God and the law might not see it as right, but in Georgeanne Redmond’s paltry life, she’d always shunned right for easy.
This time would be different.
***
“Georgeanne? You in there?”
Georgeanne jerked awake and shoved the glass beneath the stash of newspapers. Len Slewinski. He’d said he wanted to talk to her the other day when she ran into him at Tops and she’d gone and told him to come around when he had a minute. The man made h
er uncomfortable with those beady eyes and a conscience that would turn in a jaywalker. She reached for the peppermint tic tacs she kept on the end table and popped three in her mouth. Just in case.
“Georgeanne?”
“Come on in, Len.” What on earth could he want? Hopefully, not to reminisce about Clay again. The poor boy was dead and going on and on about him wouldn’t bring him back, even though Georgeanne suspected it eased Len’s conscience since he was the one who left Clay alone in the building.
“Howdy, Georgeanne. Day treating you well?” He tugged off his ball cap and tried to smooth tufts of gray hair.
“It’s another day. Can’t complain and it won’t do much good if I do anyway, will it?”
“Guess not. Mind if I sit?”
“Certainly.” Why was he looking at her that way? Could he smell the vodka?
“I was hoping we weren’t going to have to have this conversation, but it looks like it’ll be necessary.”
Damn, Sally Rinsel told him she’d bought Georgeanne a fifth. “There’s a perfectly logical explanation, Len.”
He cocked a brow and scratched the back of his head. “Sad enough, that’s true. Just wish it didn’t have to come from me.”
Oh damn his self-righteous soul. “Len, just say it.”
