“Her father had a heart attack yesterday. She flew out last night to Birmingham to be with him.”
“Is he okay?”
“Still critical,” Oliver said, rubbing his neck. “I told her to stay with him as long as she needs, and I’m guessing it’ll be at least a week.”
The shrill ping of the intercom on the wall near the front door interrupted him. She jumped at the sound, remembering it from childhood. It would buzz whenever someone dialed the Cunninghams’ unit number from downstairs.
“How old is that thing? A hundred?”
“Pretty much,” he said with a grimace. “It didn’t make sense for this place to get updated with the newer option to just buzz tenants’ cell phones, given my dad doesn’t have a phone, and Janice and I split our time here.”
He went to the wall and pushed the Call button. “Hello?”
The reply was every bit as staticky as Naomi remembered as the doorman’s voice crackled through. “Hi, Mr. Cunningham, I have Serena Grogan here to see you?”
“Sure, send her up,” Oliver replied, before releasing the button.
“Temp caretaker to fill in for Janice,” he said by way of explanation to Naomi.
“Oh.” She clasped her fingers loosely in front of her.
Oliver pointedly looked at his watch. “Look, Naomi. I appreciate you helping my dad out this morning. Really. But you haven’t exactly made a secret of the fact that you don’t want anything to do with me, so . . .”
She gave a half smile. “So . . . leave?”
He crossed his arms. “It’s been a trying morning. I’ve got a conference call in a half hour, I have no idea if Serena is going to go on Dad’s instant-hate list—”
“He has one of those?”
“God yes. He can’t remember much, but once he decides he doesn’t like someone, he seems to remember that just fine.”
“Really? He’s been mostly sweet to me,” she said, looking over at the docile-seeming Walter.
“Yeah, well, he likes you. Probably because he doesn’t realize the feeling’s not mutual.” Oliver opened the front door as he said it, a clear dismissal, and Naomi was surprised at the sting of regret.
Still, what could she possibly say? He was giving her exactly what she thought she wanted. He was trying to get the hell out of her life, so why was she still standing here? Naomi managed a stiff nod, then walked past him out into the hallway. She turned back.
“I could help.”
Oliver gave her a look. “What?”
“I could help with Walter. I’m still without an office for a couple weeks, so I’m working from home. My schedule’s flexible, so if you need someone to stay with him . . .”
Oliver stared at her in obvious surprise.
You and me both, Naomi thought. She had no idea what she was offering. Or why.
Hadn’t she just been telling herself that since she wasn’t going to get the apology from Walter Cunningham she’d been planning for, it was time to put the whole thing behind her?
And here she was offering to play caretaker?
“Naomi, I can’t—”
But before he finished his sentence, the elevator beeped, and a petite blond woman stepped out into the hallway.
She gave a pleasant smile when she saw Oliver and Naomi. “Is this the Cunningham residence?”
Naomi forced a smile back and made a gesturing motion toward the open door.
The woman nodded politely as she and Naomi passed each other, and Naomi listened numbly as Oliver and Serena Grogan made each other’s acquaintance.
She couldn’t resist a quick glance back over her shoulder, but Oliver had already closed the door, shutting her out.
It was just as she wanted, and yet . . . it wasn’t at all.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
Oliver had been fighting a losing battle against an impending headache since three that afternoon, and the now-unmistakable sound of a hard-boiled egg hitting the wallpaper in the kitchen was like a jackhammer on his temple.
He’d set up a makeshift office in his dad’s guest room for the day, wanting to stay close and get some work done as Walter and Serena got used to each other.
At least that had been the intention. In reality, he hadn’t gotten more than five minutes of uninterrupted time to deal with a single email, and as far as Walter and Serena getting used to each other . . . there’d been little to no progress.
Oliver went to the open door and looked out into the kitchen, watching as Serena calmly and quietly whisked away the plate and water cup that she’d placed in front of Walter for dinner.
“How about some TV, Walter? Your son said you enjoy the History Channel?” she asked, her voice never losing its pleasant hum, even as she went to pick up the egg from the carpet and drop it into the trash.
She paused as she saw Oliver, apparently noting his tension, because she gave him a reassuring smile.
He wasn’t reassured. He knew he didn’t need to apologize. Knew his father didn’t have a grasp on what he was doing, but he felt like apologizing anyway.
His father had been a menace all day. Not just the usual mood swings and unpredictability of dementia, but something different. For whatever reason, he’d decided he didn’t like Serena, and his dislike of her seemed to transcend all moods and waves of memories.
To the woman’s credit, she didn’t seem to mind. No doubt she’d dealt with it before, if not worse. In Oliver’s opinion, women like Serena and Janice were saints. Yes, they were paid for their work, but it took a special sort of person to treat Walter with unwavering patience. Walter’s former friends didn’t do it. His surviving siblings didn’t do it. Hell, Oliver wasn’t above losing his cool with his father on a particularly rough day.
Janice and Serena though, they never seemed fazed.
Naomi never seemed fazed.
Oliver leaned a shoulder on the doorway, absently watching as Serena coaxed Walter over to the living room, even as his mind was on a different woman altogether.
“Leave me the hell alone,” Walter grumbled at her as she tried to put a blanket over his legs.
Oliver entered the room, smiling apologetically at Serena as he went to his father, but Walter persisted in his bad mood.
He shoved at Oliver, “You’re in the way.” He gave a suspicious look to the kitchen, where Serena had started doing the dishes. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Serena, Dad. She’s going to keep you company for the next couple weeks while I go to work.”
“I don’t want company.”
“It’s not up for debate,” Oliver said, hearing the tiredness in his own voice.
“Where’s Janice?”
“Her father’s sick. She’s caring for him.”
“Thought we paid her to care for me. Don’t like her.” He pointed at Serena accusingly.
“Dad, give her a chance.”
“Where’s the other one?” Walter demanded.
“The other what?”
“The girl. The one you like with the orange hair.”
Oliver froze, a little surprised his father recalled someone he’d met only twice. “Naomi?”
Walter gave him a conspiratorial smile, and Oliver would have warmed to his father’s rare attempt to connect as father and son if it hadn’t been over the one person Oliver was trying desperately not to think about.
“Where is she?” Walter asked again. “I like her better than that one.” He said it loudly, then pointed at Serena again.
There was no way the blond caretaker wasn’t overhearing this, and Oliver gave her an apologetic wince across the room, but she smiled and gave a quick wave of her hand as she continued cleaning the counter.
“Naomi’s not your caretaker, Dad. She’s just our neighbor.”
Walter’s expression turned mutinous, and defeated, Oliver lifted his hands in resignation. Naomi had offered, and Oliver was tired. So tired.
“What about this, Dad? I’ll ask if Naomi can help sometimes, if you be nice to Se
rena the rest of the time.”
Walter gave Serena one last dirty look, then a defiant nod.
Oliver exhaled in relief. It was probably a futile argument, since his father more than likely would forget who they all were tomorrow, if not in the next moment, but Oliver was determined to make Walter’s lucid moments as bearable as possible, and if that meant Naomi . . .
Oh, who was he kidding. His desire to have Naomi around had very little to do with his father. He was going to figure that woman out if it killed him. And it might. Or she might.
Oliver went back into the kitchen to Serena. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing this far too long to take anything personally.”
“Why do you do it?” he asked curiously. It was overstepping, but Serena was friendly and open in a way that Janice wasn’t.
Serena’s smile was sad. “My grandmother suffered from dementia. She helped raise me, and when she started to lose her memories, it was . . . rough. I decided pretty early on that I wanted to do whatever I could for those who went through what my grandma did. And for their families.”
“You’re a better person than me,” Oliver said, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“You’re doing just fine,” Serena said quietly. “Though if I might suggest something . . .”
He looked at her and waited.
“You need a break,” Serena said gently. “For his sake as well as your own. Your father needs you to have a clear head on his behalf. I’m scheduled to stay until nine tonight. Why don’t you go take an hour or two to yourself?”
He hesitated, thinking of his father’s instant, if unfounded, dislike of Serena.
“We’ll be fine,” she said, reading his thoughts.
“Maybe I’ll head home just for a few. I live right downstairs and can be up within seconds if you call.”
“Absolutely.” He knew she wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.
“About tomorrow’s schedule, if you’re amenable, I’d like to work out a part-time, as-needed schedule, perhaps in the evenings. But I need to check something first. Can I let you know in a bit?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile. Then she nodded toward Walter, who’d started to doze off in his chair. “He seems rather attached to this Naomi person.”
“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he,” Oliver said wearily.
Irrationally so. Like father, like son.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said to Serena. “I’ll have some answers on your schedule.”
She waved him away, and Oliver headed to the second floor of the building.
But not to his own apartment.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
Naomi was somehow unsurprised to see Oliver Cunningham outside her peephole. She was surprised by the jump in her stomach at the mere sight of him. Like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Suddenly she was glad she’d taken the time to put on makeup and real clothes today, instead of the sweatpants and messy bun she’d been rocking for the past couple of days of working at home.
Naomi opened the door and for a long moment, neither of them said a thing.
“I’ll pay you,” he said, ending the charged silence.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“To watch my father. I’ll pay you. He can’t stand his new caretaker, and that’s too damn bad because I’ll need her to stay with him at night, but during the day . . . does your offer still stand?”
She should say no. She should end this thing with the Cunninghams before it got any more complicated.
Instead, she stepped aside, wordlessly inviting him in.
“Have you eaten?” she asked, gesturing at the stove. “I was just making . . . well, making’s a strong word. I’m heating up a jar of tomato sauce and boiling water for pasta.”
He gave her a surprised look. “Did you just invite me to dinner?”
“Apparently,” she muttered, lifting the lid off the boiling water on the stove and adding a generous handful of salt as she’d seen on the Food Network, not the tiny pinch of salt her mom had added on the rare occasions she’d tried to cook.
“I don’t have to stay. I was just . . . my dad’s decided he likes you.”
“That surprises you?” she asked, taking a sip of the red wine she’d poured herself.
“Well, like I said, he doesn’t like many people.”
“Because of the illness?”
Oliver shrugged. “Because it’s him.”
She watched him for a moment, noticing the shadows under his eyes, the tired set of his shoulders.
“So,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Does your offer to watch my dad during the day still stand? Just until Janice gets back. And seriously, let me pay you.”
“I don’t need your money.”
Her voice was sharp, and he gave her a puzzled look. “I’m aware of that. But I’m also aware I can’t take advantage of your time.”
She sipped the wine and considered this.
“But there’s another part of the deal,” he said quietly.
“Aha.” She pointed at him in accusation.
He gave a faint smile. “I need you to decide.”
She gave him a startled look. “Decide what? What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, coming around the counter to stand beside her, “that you can’t be swiping at me one moment and asking me to stay for dinner the next.”
“Are you telling me how to behave, Mr. Cunningham?” Naomi meant for her voice to be brisk and businesslike and was appalled to hear it come out a little breathy.
He was so close.
Oliver smiled slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m not sure anyone would dare tell you how to behave. I’m simply warning you.”
“Warning me about what?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth before slowly lifting to her eyes once more. “That next time you look at me like you want me to kiss you, I will.”
She scoffed, although she was afraid it came off more hot and bothered than anything. “When did I look at you like I wanted you to kiss me?”
“Friday night. Before you got scared and ran away.”
Her cheeks flooded with heat, and she wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment that he might be right.
She decided on anger. It was safer. “Am I the only woman who’s never fallen at your feet? Is that why you keep sniffing around?”
“Sniffing around?” he asked incredulously before giving a quick shake of his head. “Damn, my game is worse than I thought.”
“We’re not playing a game,” she said, taking the opportunity to move away. “Weren’t you the one who told me on move-in day that I should try to be neighborly? That’s what I’m doing, asking to help you out. Don’t read into it.”
Oliver closed his eyes and inhaled, looking so exhausted that she had the strangest urge to press her hand to his cheek, to offer . . . comfort. If she were honest, it was a bit of a foreign feeling. She rarely felt warm toward people. That had changed, slightly, with Claire and Audrey. Even more so with him.
Finally he opened his eyes, and he looked more determined than ever as he fixed her with a steady look.
“You have to decide, Naomi. Decide what we’re going to be to each other. I can’t entrust my father’s care to someone so mercurial. So decide how you feel about me. About my father. No more games.”
She wanted to argue that she wasn’t playing games, but . . . he was right. To say that she was inconsistent in her behavior toward him would be an understatement, and that wasn’t like her. Naomi had always been an all-in person. She decided how she felt about something and stuck to it.
Which was the tricky thing with the Cunninghams. She had decided her feelings: Hate. Resentment. A few revenge fantasies mixed in.
Only they hadn’t been what they were supposed to be. Walter hadn’t been the cold, heartless patriarch deserving of a scathing set down. And Oliver hadn’t been a petulant dirtbag t
hrowing soccer balls at little girls’ faces and breaking their glasses.
They’d changed, forcing her feelings about them to change, and she was no good at that. A hard admission to make, even to herself, but it was the brutal truth. But maybe she could be better. Maybe she had to be.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her gaze on his Adam’s apple instead of his eyes because she wasn’t that brave.
“For?”
“The mixed signals,” she said. “I don’t blame you for being frustrated.”
Oliver nodded in acknowledgment of her apology. “So what’s it to be? Barely civil neighbors or . . .”
That or was intriguing.
What would happen if she leaned into him right now? If she were to lift onto her toes and brush her lips over his?
Without warning, an image of her mother flashed through Naomi’s mind.
She could be civil to Oliver and Walter Cunningham, but she wouldn’t fall for the man who’d helped set her mother down a path of self-destruction. She wouldn’t.
But neither could she continue to let the hate consume her. Perhaps . . .
Naomi lifted her eyes. “Or we could try to be friends.”
His head inclined slightly. “Friends.”
She nodded. “It makes sense, right? We live next door to each other. Friends and neighbors who lend each other a cup of sugar when the need arises.”
Oliver smiled slightly. “You bake?”
“Wine,” she amended quickly. “We could lend each other wine.”
“Friends,” he said slowly. “I can try that. In fact, how about we try that wine thing now?”
“I think that can be arranged,” she said, stepping back to retrieve a glass. She poured, and handed him a glass of the zinfandel.
He accepted it with a grin. “You know, I once knew this woman who disliked me so much she’d only serve me drinks in coffee mugs.”
“Is that so?” Naomi said, lifting her wooden spoon and stirring the sauce. “She sounds delightfully charming.”
“That’s one word for her.”
“What word would you use?” Naomi asked.
He leaned his hip against the counter, watching her stir. “Complicated,” he said finally. “I’d say she’s the most complicated woman I’ve ever met.”
Passion on Park Avenue Page 14
