by Mary Campisi
Mrs. Maden:
Please accept our condolences regarding the loss of your husband. While no amount of financial recompense can begin to assuage your loss, RF Renovations, Ltd., offers the enclosed check to you with deepest sympathy. Acceptance of this check will negate all rights to bring future suit against the aforementioned company or its owner, Mr. Rourke Connor Flannigan.
With deepest sympathy,
Miles M. Gregory, Legal Counsel for RF Renovations, Ltd.
She glanced at the check lying face down on the carpet. Was this another of Rourke’s ploys? Pay a fraction of what Mr. Dupree asked to avoid the chance of a lawsuit? Kate scooped up the check and flipped it over. She squinted, counting the zeroes three times. Four million dollars. Two million more than Mr. Dupree said they’d settle for.
Why, Rourke? Why did you do this? Her gaze slipped to the signature on the check. Rourke C. Flannigan, stared back at her, a bold reminder that she really didn’t know him at all.
Chapter 32
“Can you imagine loving someone so much you can’t think of anything else, even while you’re telling yourself it would never work?”—Abbie Flannigan
“Maxine, we’ve got to do something.” Abbie buried a french fry in a mound of ketchup. Mervin’s Burgers was not Sophie’s Diner but then Chicago was not Montpelier. “Those two are worse than Andie and Blane.”
Maxine blinked. “Who?”
“Andie and Blane,” Abbie repeated with great patience. “You know, the Romeo and Juliet from Pretty in Pink.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“We’ll add it to your must see list. Anyway, Rourke and Mrs. Maden are made for each other. We just have to help them realize that.”
“Mr. Flannigan would not like us discussing his private affairs.”
“We’re all they’ve got, Maxine. Me, you, and Julia.” Why couldn’t she see that? The woman might hide behind her perfect grammar and stick-straight posture, but underneath it all, she was about as tough as mashed potatoes and getting softer every day. Abbie grabbed three more fries and plunked them in ketchup. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you just call him Rourke for once?”
Maxine cleared her throat and dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. She looked almost pretty in her baby blue sweater and pearls. Maybe it was the loose curls brushing her neck or the way her dark eyes softened when she spoke. Something had changed these last few weeks but darned if Abbie could tell what. “Maxine?”
“Mr. Flannigan—Rourke—is a very private man despite his enormous social presence. He trusts me, Abbie, a gift he doesn’t grant many. I will not betray him.”
Abbie should have figured Maxine would go all self-righteous on her. She hadn’t even heard what Abbie wanted her to do yet. Adults were so afraid to take a chance, even when they knew a gamble could change someone’s life. Maxine had probably never gambled in her fifty-some years on this earth, not even at something as lame as Bingo.
“What were you going to ask me to do?”
Abbie shrugged and studied the ketchup smears on her plate. “Don’t worry about it. Julia and I will take care of it.”
“Oh.” And then, “I don’t think I quite like the sound of that.”
“Not your problem. Forget about it.” Abbie sipped her milkshake and swiped a hand across her mouth. “This place is good, but it’s not Sophie’s.”
“I admit, Sophie’s had a certain appeal. I did love their malts.”
“Right.” Here was her chance. “The whole town had a certain appeal, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it did.”
“The people, too. They were special.”
“Indeed.” Her voice drifted to an indistinguishable sigh.
Keep pushing. “Kind of a nostalgic place, what with Sophie’s and the Manor.”
“Hmmmmm.”
She looked dreamy. Dreamy? Maxine? Abbie pushed a bit more. “Kind of a fairy tale feel about it.”
“Exactly.”
“Makes a person believe in happy ever after.”
“Hmmmm.”
Bingo. “Which is why Rourke and Mrs. Maden belong together.”
Maxine’s mouth shot open but Abbie spoke first. “I want you to invite Mrs. Maden to Rourke’s birthday party.”
“She’d never come.”
“If it looks like it’s from Rourke she might.”
Maxine shook her head and murmured, “She’d never accept an invitation from him.”
“Darn it, Maxine, we have to think of something. I am tired of watching Discovery Channel with him every night or listening to him talk about bonds and futures. I’ve even started reading Money so I can get him in a conversation. He’s killing me here. You have to save us both.”
“What would I do? I have no way of controlling what Mr. Flannigan does.”
Maxine had more power than she knew. “Let me ask you this—does he love her?”
“You mean Mr. Flannigan and Mrs. Maden?”
“Stop stalling, you know who I mean.”
“Yes,” she said, “I believe he does.”
“And she loves him?”
Maxine nodded.
“Can you imagine loving someone so much you can’t think of anything else, even while you’re telling yourself it would never work? So, you make up excuses and give reasons to fill your days?”
“Hmmm.” Maxine’s eyes were closed, the paper napkin held to her mouth in a crumpled ball.
“Weeks go by, and then months and years.”
“Hmmm.” She bowed her head and sniffed.
Abbie leaned over the wooden table and whispered, “And before you know it, you’re all alone. Forever. With nothing but a pile of stale memories.”
Another sniff. Maxine swiped at her cheeks with the paper napkin and straightened her glasses. Abbie pretended not to notice the tears rimming her eyes.
“We’re the only ones who can help them. Me, you, and Julia. Will you do it, Maxine? Will you find a way to bring them together?”
Maxine yanked off her cat-eye glasses and swiped a hand across both eyes. “Yes. I’ll do it for them and for all the unrequited loves roaming this earth.”
Something in the way she said it made Abbie wonder if Maxine might be talking about herself.
***
Rourke sipped his bourbon and stared out over the expansive lawn that Chicago Life called ‘stunning and glamorous.’ He’d never planted a single bulb or trimmed a tree branch. All he’d done was point at pictures he liked and write a check. What did that say about him? Beauty could be bought? He was a visionary who didn’t waste time on day-to-day decisions?
Tomorrow was his thirty-third birthday. Abbie had insisted on a party. God, the kid could be persistent. She wanted balloons and streamers and all that other nonsense. He’d spotted her list under the T.V. Guide. That alone spelled disaster, but coupled with the fact that Julia was arriving shortly to help, made the probability of a successful outcome less than one percent. What the hell. Maxine had provided a birthday list and Miles Gregory’s name was first on the list.
He reached for the red velvet notebook that had cursed him since the day he first opened it. If Pandora’s Box proved tragic, this journal was equally fatal. He leafed through the handwritten sections until he located the first blank page. Then he pulled out a pen and began to write.
***
Angie grabbed the phone on the second ring. Kate would be on her way back from the airport and if this month’s drop-off were like last month’s, Angie would have to scoop her off the floor. Damn Rourke Flannigan to hell. “Dream Houses by Kate, may I help you?”
“May I speak with Kate Maden, please?”
The woman’s voice was cool, concise, and unfamiliar. “She’s not here. Is there a message?”
“This is Maxine Simmons. Rourke Flannigan’s secretary.” Pause. “It’s imperative I reach Mrs. Maden as soon as possible.”
Right. So you can act as minion to that beast? Not likely. “I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
“Has she taken Julia to the airport yet?”
“Possibly.” Damn if I’ll tell you.
“Ms. Sorrento—Angie, this is extremely important.”
“To Whom?” Rourke Flannigan, who else?
His secretary remained unperturbed. “To all parties concerned.”
“I don’t know about all parties, and I could care less other than where Kate and Julia are concerned.”
“Understandably, which is why I’m trying to reach Mrs. Maden.”
Was that sincerity beneath the woman’s aloofness? It certainly sounded like it. Nevertheless, Angie was not about to hand over vital information that would get to Rourke Flannigan, the ultimate manipulator. “I’m not telling you anything until I know what this is about.”
There was a long pause followed by a stifled sigh. “I’d like to fax something for Mrs. Maden. Once she’s read it maybe she’ll change her mind about Mr. Flannigan. Maybe you will, too.”
“Doubtful.”
“Please see that she gets this as soon as possible.”
“Fine.” Angie relayed the fax number and hung up. Witch. Within minutes the first paper inched through the fax machine. Angie snatched it up and began to read.
***
Kate stepped out of the car and made her way toward the shop. Her heart ached as it did every time she said good-bye to Julia and it would continue to ache until her daughter returned home four days from now. She opened the shop door, devising ways not to think about Julia, when Angie swooped on her in a rush of agitation. “Thank God. I thought you’d never get here.”
“What’s wrong?”
Angie thrust a handful of papers at her. “There’s something you need to see.”
“Not the Gillent’s bathroom sample again. I know it’s the wrong color but Precisely Plum is a tenth of a shade away from Perfectly Plum. If Mrs. Gillent wants that, she’ll have to wait two more weeks for the special order.”
“This is not about Mrs. Gillent’s bathroom.”
“Good.”
“It’s about Rourke.”
“Rourke?” Kate’s gaze fell to the papers in Angie’s hand. “What about him?”
Angie held out the papers and said in a soft voice, “I think you should read this.”
There were eight of them. Locations. Times. Dates. Brands of coffee. Shoe choices. Kate read each account carefully, trying to recall the occasion. The detective was good, she’d give him that because she’d never noticed anyone watching her and he’d been doing it for eight years.
The last two pages of the fax looked as though they’d been copied from a book. They were handwritten and the penmanship was unmistakably Rourke’s.
I miss you. It’s been twenty-seven days since you left. Twenty-seven days of wandering through life like a sleepwalker, knowing nothing but the truth I should have admitted years ago. There will never be another woman like you, and the greater, more painful yet peaceful truth—I’ll never stop loving you.
I’ve spent eight years telling myself the reason I employed August Graves to investigate your comings and goings was to make sure you lived the life you deserved for marrying someone else. A life of wanting. That might have been the reason in the beginning, but after the first report, I only cared about you and re-creating you in my mind so I could subconsciously place myself in the master bed on Laurel Street, next to you. I visualized myself lying beside you on the blanket at Huntington Lake, drinking coffee at Starbuck’s, picking out watermelons with you at Tops. It was the life I wanted. With you. Instead, I let wealth and power seduce me with their desires which in the end, turned up shallow and empty.
You think there are other women, yet all I see is you. All I’ve ever seen is you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll never stop loving you.
Chapter 33
“It’s taken three vodkas to dial this number. Don’t let Katie think it was in vain.”—Georgeanne Redmond
The phone call came at 3:05 p.m. Maxine didn’t bother to knock, just poked her head in and mouthed, “Georgeanne Redmond is holding on line two.”
Rourke wouldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him the Pope was on the line. What could the woman want with him? He considered ignoring the call, but of course he couldn’t, because it might have to do with Kate. Georgeanne Redmond was responsible for igniting the spark that burst into a wildfire and destroyed life as he knew it fourteen years ago, life as he thought it would be. He pressed line two and said, “Rourke Flannigan.”
“Hello, Rourke.”
She sounded like Kate, but more mellow, with echoes of pain pulsing in the beats of her voice. “Georgeanne.”
She attempted a laugh. It failed. “You must be wondering why I’m calling.”
“You could say that.”
Pause. “Just let me get this out now, before I lose my nerve.” Another laugh. “It’s taken three vodkas to dial this number. Don’t let Katie think it was in vain. I have two things to tell you. First, Clay wasn’t wearing a harness the day of the accident. It was put on after.”
“After he fell? By whom?” Did she realize what she was saying?
“Doesn’t matter. The person who did it was only trying to protect Clay’s memory so he wouldn’t look like a reckless fool. Nobody was trying to get money from you and Katie didn’t know about it until a few days ago.” Pause. “She told me about the check, too. She’s sending it back.”
Rourke couldn’t get past the fact that Clay hadn’t worn a safety harness. “Why in the hell didn’t he have a harness on?”
Georgeanne didn’t answer right away and when she did, sadness coated her words. “Probably in a hurry, trying to get his hours in so he could buy Katie something else he thought would make her happy. He never stopped trying and he never stopped competing with you.”
“Me? Kate married him. He won the prize.”
“But he never won her heart. That’s all I’m going to say about that other than if you ever cared about my daughter, you’ll take your money back and leave this alone. Now, the second thing I have to say is about the night of the accident…the one with your mother.”
“I’m really not interested.” He had enough to think about without adding Georgeanne’s mess on top of it.
“Please.”
He sighed. “Dredging up that night serves no purpose. It’s done.”
“Just listen. Please. Three minutes, that’s all I ask.”
Rourke rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you two.”
“I swear on my granddaughter’s life I was not drunk that night. One drink, that’s all I had before I got in the car. When I turned on Indian Road it was pitch black. Your mother jumped out at me. At first I thought it was a big dog or a deer. I got out to see…”
“I know the rest,” he said, because whether he did or didn’t was not the point. Stopping pain and memories, that was the point.
“But you don’t know, Rourke,” she rasped. “You don’t know at all. There was so much blood, I thought your mother was dead. Then she moved and murmured something. I had to kneel down to hear her.” Her voice faded then grew stronger. “She told me to leave her. She said she couldn’t go on, said she didn’t want to.”
He couldn’t have heard her right. “What are you saying?”
“She begged me to leave her there.” Her sobs stretched through the line and grabbed him. “I swear on my granddaughter’s life, I’m telling you the truth. I did it for your mother—for the pain on her face and the misery in her words.”
He knew his mother was depressed, but suicidal? “Why didn’t you come forward that night and tell the police? You could have cleared yourself right there. Instead you got charged with a hit and run.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”
“Couldn’t. I was so shaken up all I wanted to do was get home. I was driving too fast and smashed into a guardrail. That’s when I messed up my leg. I waited several hours but the pain was
horrible and I finally called 9-1-1. When I woke up from surgery it was already too late.” And then she proceeded to tell him why.
***
Len Slewinski stared at the phone number, written in his chicken scratch on the back of a gas receipt. He’d memorized the dang number which wasn’t saying much since he’d been gawking at it for near an hour straight. There was no way around it. He had to make things right and take the consequence, even if it meant jail time.
How could a good intention end up in a pile of manure? He’d only been trying to rescue Clay’s good name so the boy would be remembered with pride and Katie wouldn’t be subjected to snide comments about the reckless foolishness that made her a widow. But then that danged lawyer started snooping around and next thing Len knew, they were talking trial which meant he’d have to testify. He’d eaten a pack of Rolaids a day since he heard that news.
But the crap hit the fan when he ran into Katie in the produce section of Tops and it came back to smack him square in the head. He’d almost dropped the Yukon Golds when he realized she didn’t know about the harness. When she told him Rourke Flannigan owned the company Clay was working for when he died, well, that almost gave Len a coronary. Things had to end now, one way or the other. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. There was nothing left to do but own up to what he’d done. Mr. Self-Important would decide the rest.
“Mr. Flannigan’s office.”
Len closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. “I need to speak with him.”
