Love Rebuilt

by Stewart, Delancey

  He smiled and shrugged. “You seem like you live life the way you want to, the kind of person who drives the train.”

  “I’ve never driven a train. Plus, I think trains pretty much go where the tracks lead.”

  “So maybe that’s not a good metaphor.”

  “Says the writer.”

  “I told you, I’m rusty.” He looked down for a second, like he was deciding whether to say something. “I want to ask you about something, but if I don’t get dinner started, we’ll never eat.” He stood up, looking down as he asked, “Will you keep me company while I cook?”

  The kitchen was open to the living room, so we could still have talked even if I didn’t accompany him. But he settled me on a stool across the counter and began pulling vegetables from the refrigerator.

  “You’ve got me curious,” I told him. It seemed we both had things to ask the other.

  “It’s about the house,” he said. “The property.”

  “You back in the market?”

  He shook his head and stopped moving around the kitchen for a minute, looking at me hard. “That property is part of your family, Maddie. Don’t sell it.”

  Easy for him to say. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “I’d like to offer you one.”

  “How?”

  “Let me make an investment in the house.”

  “I don’t understand.” What the hell was he proposing?

  “I’d like to help you develop the house. Get someone in to design something that works on the property and help you get it built before the snow comes.”

  My surprise certainly showed on my face and I put my stemless glass down without looking, causing it to tilt and spin on the counter, a little wine spilling. “Why would you do that?” What would be in it for him?

  “There are some tax benefits to investing in real estate,” he said simply, handing me a paper towel.

  “But wouldn’t you have to buy the property and lease me the house?”

  “No. I’d only own the house. You own the land. So you grant me the right to develop it, and I grant you the right to live there rent-free.” He looked uncertain.

  “I don’t see how that helps you much.”

  “It’d be a small deduction,” he said. “But every bit helps.”

  His unspoken words were “when you make as much as I do,” and I had the sudden realization that Connor Charles was a very wealthy man. He certainly didn’t behave like a very rich man, though Jack and his friends were the only real examples I had of how the rich conducted themselves.

  I couldn’t deny that it’d be a good deal for me—except for the part about not owning my own house. There was no way I’d want to be permanently tied to this man. Not now, not with so many questions lingering.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I…we don’t know each other very well, Connor. That seems like a lot to undertake.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I want to help you, Maddie. And I know you’re proud and capable and don’t need it…”

  “I probably do need it,” I said. “But that doesn’t make it easy to agree. I just…”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  I looked down, the uncertainty from the afternoon washing over me again. “Should I?”

  “Do you have any real reason not to?” He didn’t seem upset as he asked me this. He stood on the other side of the counter; his hands pausing as he chopped vegetables.

  “I don’t know.” I felt awful saying that, sitting in his kitchen and telling him I had doubts about him. “Let’s not talk about the house, though. That’s my problem. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I just wanted to throw it out there. Offer stands.” His hands moved quickly—he was good with a knife.

  I watched him move around the kitchen, both of us silent as the awkwardness of the conversation hung in the air between us. He moved like someone who’d been cooking for a long time, capable and sure, adding things to a pot on the stove without measuring anything. I found that I liked watching him, liked seeing the muscles bunch in his arms below the fabric of his shirt as he stirred, liked the way he seemed to smile down at the task. His hands were strong and capable, and his entire demeanor was reassuring. As Dave Matthews played in the background, I began to feel more comfortable.

  I needed to clear the air. “Connor, the police have been around, asking me some questions.”

  His hands were still and he turned his head to look at me, a half-smile on the full lips. He shrugged. “I figured they would come see you soon.”

  “They asked about Amanda. And about us.”

  “Right.” He stirred a little more furiously at whatever was in the pot.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” I said, wishing he’d stop stirring and look at me again.

  I got my wish. He put the spoon down next to the pot and turned to fix me in his blue-eyed stare. “Well?”

  “Well what?” His mood was still light, but I felt a hard edge beneath his words.

  “Ask me the questions, Maddie. Ask me the things you need to ask. Let’s get this done.” His voice was brisk, pointed.

  I swallowed. I didn’t want to make him angry. But it wasn’t because I thought an angry Connor would be frightening. It was more that I’d been beginning to enjoy myself, to see Connor less as a threat or a police suspect, and much more as a man. And interesting and intriguing man who happened to be ridiculously good looking and successful. And who could cook.

  I decided to ask the questions and then move on. “Okay. What happened with Amanda?”

  “She asked me for help. She said she wanted to be a writer, wanted to interview me. We met a couple times, in public places. Literally, three times. Twice at the diner.”

  “And?”

  “And that was it. The next thing I knew—according to people in town and the always-reliable tabloid news, we’d had a full-blown relationship and she had dumped me.” He raised his eyebrows as if to emphasize how crazy this was. “According to those sources, I became upset about the breakup and took to stalking her. Now it seems I’ve kidnapped and killed her, and buried the body up on the ridge.” So he knew about that. He gazed at me across the counter, his face wide open.

  “Did the police come talk to you about that part? The ridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they tell you there was an eyewitness?”

  “They did. They told me there were photographs, too.” He looked tired, but he didn’t look angry.

  “I was hiking,” I told him, watching his face for signs of anger. “I had my camera, and I heard you digging. I followed the sound, and…”

  “And you saw me digging a hole off the trail, and figured I was disposing of some evidence.”

  I nodded, feeling guilty, but still in need of answers.

  He put down his glass and leaned forward, making sure to catch my eye. “It’s fine. I don’t blame you. I would have called the police too, Maddie. My timing wasn’t good.”

  “What were you doing up there?” My voice had become a whisper, and one hand strayed to feel my phone, to make sure it was there if I needed it quickly.

  Connor didn’t answer immediately, and then looked over at the pot he’d been stirring, reaching to turn down the heat. A sad smile crossed his lips. “I was actually burying someone. My sister.”

  I thought about the urn and waited, not sure how much further to press.

  He sighed and leaned back against the counter to the side of him, staring into the fire beyond us as he began talking. “This was supposed to be her house. I had it built for her. This was her favorite place in the world—the happiest place we spent time as kids. And I wanted to give that back to her. She…We…didn’t have a very joyful childhood.”

  He stopped talking to take a deep breath, and I sensed that he was preparing himself to say the next words. His face was etched with lines I hadn’t noticed before, the happy light gone from his deep blue eyes. The strong shoulders seemed to slump slightly, and e
verything about Connor that was vital and strong faded as he continued.

  “I brought her up here to show her the house for the first time, to tell her it was hers. That’s when she told me she was dying. Stage four ovarian cancer. She’d been diagnosed just before I started the house, and had kept it from me.”

  My heart squeezed as Connor spoke, his eyes filled with images of the sister I knew he was seeing as he stared at the flames dancing in the huge granite fireplace.

  “She told me she wanted to die up here. No doctors, no tubes or machines. So that’s what happened.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say, what to do. Any reaction I might offer felt small and insignificant in the face of his story. I tried to imagine watching Cam die, being unable to help—him being unwilling to accept any medical intervention. I didn’t know a lot about what that might be like, but I knew it had to be terrible. It was part of the reason Cam hadn’t spoken to me in so long. He’d endured my mother’s death while I kept my distance, thanks to Jack. I had little experience with loss close up.

  I reached tentatively across the counter and put my hand on Connor’s, wrapping my fingers around his and squeezing gently. “I’m so sorry.”

  He stared at my hand for a long second, and then ran the other over his face once and seemed to steel himself. “I had her cremated. That was what she wanted. And she told me to dig a hole and bury her up there on the ridge.”

  We were both silent for a minute, and I put my hand back on my lap, a lingering warmth on my palm from his skin.

  “But I couldn’t do it,” he said finally, looking up at me.

  “So you did it today.”

  “It was the anniversary. I went up there a year ago to do it, and I couldn’t. She was the only person I had in the world, and even having ashes here felt better than taking her out there and leaving her. For a year I let her sit here with me, keeping me company.” He shook his head. “I talked to her,” he said, looking sheepish. “And I didn’t want to give that up. I kept her here even though it wasn’t what she would have wanted. I kept her. Out of pure selfishness. Or weakness.”

  I shook my head. “No, I understand. I’m not sure I could have done it if it were my brother.”

  Connor’s face was pained, lines around his eyes shadowed by the dancing firelight. “Yesterday was one year. So I did it.” His voice broke a bit and he took a steadying breath. “I buried the urn.”

  I shook my head again. I thought about what he’d been doing, what he’d been in the middle of when I’d jumped to the conclusion that had sent the police sniffing around him again. “I’m sorry, Connor. For your loss, and for sending the police.”

  “I would have done the same,” he said simply, turning back to the stove.

  “So a year ago, when you tried…that must have been when John Trench saw you?”

  He nodded. “Turns out that spot isn’t as secluded as I thought,” he said, managing a sad smile. “But when he found me, I was falling apart. I…Catherine was my whole family. My whole world.” He stared at me for a second. “I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I should have known that she was sick. Like maybe I could have done something if I’d known early enough.”

  I shook my head, remembering Mom. “No, you couldn’t have.”

  He didn’t answer, just leaned down and peeked into the oven.

  “Why don’t people around here know about this?” I asked. It would certainly cut down on all the crazy speculation if they did. “Wasn’t there an obituary? Or a notice or something? Didn’t her friends come up?”

  He looked at me for a second, and then back down at the floor. “She and I…we weren’t good at connecting with people, I guess. She had a few friends. I called them, but there wasn’t a lot to do once she was gone. I was about all she had, too.”

  “Wasn’t there anything in the papers about you, though? You’re kind of a celebrity.”

  “Connor Charles is.”

  I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t born Connor Charles. It’s a pen name.”

  I knew that. I just wanted to hear him explain it. The lives of celebrities who needed to use alter egos was slightly beyond my normal realm of existence.

  “My real name is Christopher Connors. And he’s not famous at all. So no one cared. No one ever did care much about either of us.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. I had a fleeting image of what he might have looked like, been like as a little boy. The image flew quickly through my head, but it was complete and concrete—fully formed. Almost like a photograph instead of an idea. “So the thing with Amanda…” I wasn’t sure I should press, but he didn’t react to the prelude in any negative way so I forged ahead. “Was there anything more to it? More than just…tutoring, or whatever?”

  “There wasn’t much ‘whatever’ at all. She asked a lot of questions. She was a bright girl.” His expression changed—his eyes darkening as his mouth formed a thin line and he swallowed hard. “She IS a bright girl.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

  “So the stuff about the relationship?”

  “Out of the blue.” His voice was quiet. He squinted and looked up at me, the hand still on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry…this is a hard topic. I’m just…I’m worried about her. And I’m not allowed to be.”

  “You’re not allowed?”

  “Because I’m a suspect.” He dropped his hand, bracing himself on the counter. “Because I’m not supposed to care. Because I’m supposed to be a sociopathic maniac who’s holding her in some secret underground cell here at my house of horrors.”

  I heard myself inhale. Too quickly.

  “Sorry.”

  “No.” I shook my head. Would an actual kidnapper or murderer be talking about this? Would he look so sad while he did? “No, it’s fine.”

  I wanted to help him. To save the evening. To save him in some way. “I think the deal on offer here tonight was supposed to be dinner.”

  “You’re right.” He smiled and took a sip of his wine, and then resumed bustling around the kitchen.

  “Can I help?”

  He looked at me sideways, like it was printed across my forehead that I didn’t cook. “There’s not much to do, really.”

  “Or you think I can’t cook.”

  “Make no mistake. I’m doing the cooking here tonight.” He grinned, and my heart rushed into a quicker beat.

  “And I’m just here to watch?”

  “And to eat,” he said. “And for decoration.” He ducked his head as he said this, an embarrassed smile overtaking the confident grin.

  “Decoration, huh?” I hadn’t been flattered in a long time—Jack had long since gotten past the compliment phase of our relationship, and having someone say something about my appearance, even in a half joking way, was nice.

  Connor winked at me, a half-grin pulling one corner of his mouth up as he removed a pan from the oven and set it on the opposite counter. I couldn’t see what was in it, but I could smell something that made my mouth water.

  The atmosphere had changed since his revelations. The mood had deepened somehow, but it was more comfortable. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was that I now understood something more about him, something that explained my fears away. I watched him cook, turning the wine glass between my palms. Connor was gorgeous, and every word out of his mouth tonight, every emotion passing through his eyes, told me that he wasn’t capable of the things people suspected him of. And if he wasn’t capable of any of that? How painful must it be for him to bear these accusations? The looks and the talk in town… My heart sank with the realization of what he’d borne through these last few weeks, and how he’d had to bear it totally alone.

  And the ways in which I’d contributed to it.

  Connor turned back to me, not quite meeting my eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to make it a joke,” he said, picking up the conversation as his compliment still floated between us. “You�
�re beautiful, Maddie. I’m sure you know that.”

  There was no proper answer to that, so I just smiled as a warm embarrassed blush scaled my cheeks.

  He leaned in toward me, resting one elbow on the counter as if about to share a secret. “I hope you won’t mind me saying…that Scottish guy? He must be a complete idiot.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s nice to hear it from someone else, actually. He is,” I confirmed.

  “How could he ever let you go?”

  “I don’t think it was hard, actually…” I didn’t really want to discuss Jack. Things had finally veered out of uncomfortable territory, and I didn’t want them heading back in that direction. I finished the wine in my glass.

  “Are you ready for this incredible wine you brought?” Connor had the bottle I’d brought in his hands, and was pulling clean glasses from the cabinet.

  The irony of discussing Jack while poised to drink his expensive wine was not lost on me. “I’m ready.”

  Connor poured and we toasted one another. And when my phone buzzed with Miranda’s check-in text, I quickly replied, telling her that everything was fine and no more checks would be needed.

  * * *

  Dinner was phenomenal. Connor was an amazing cook, and once the questions that had lingered between us were answered, it felt like we were starting on a clean page.

  “Are you sorry you didn’t save that wine for some important occasion?” Connor was finishing the last sips of his second glass.

  I shook my head. “Not even a little bit. I’m glad I got to share it with someone who could appreciate it.” I smiled at him. “I’m glad I didn’t open it by myself and drink it with ramen, having no idea what a crime I was committing.” I mentally slapped myself for bringing up the word ‘crime,’ but Connor seemed to take it in stride.

  We sat together on the couch before the fire, closer than we’d ever been. Our legs pressed together on the couch, and his hand rested lightly on my knee, his fingers moving slowly back and forth. It was comfortable, but a thread of tension wove between us and I realized I wanted him to lean in, maybe kiss me. An anticipation I hadn’t felt in years circled through me and as much as it made me slightly giddy, I was enjoying the sensation.