by Jane Porter
“Marta . . .”
“I travel all the time. There could be an accident. Plane, car—”
“Of course I’d take her,” he interrupts gruffly. “But I wouldn’t just want weekends and holidays. She’s my granddaughter. She’s you. She’s your mother.” And then his face tightens, lines deepening everywhere. “She’s all that I love best.”
I bite down hard. My dad isn’t a complicated man, and he’s not a particularly deep man, but he has spent most of the last fifteen years taking care of his women. “I’ve met someone, Dad.”
“Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome with a Harley?”
I crack a smile. “It’s a Freedom bike. And how did you know?”
“Your daughter tells me everything.”
“Does she?”
He nods, but there’s a soberness in his eyes that tells me he’s worried, he’s worried about all of us. Here he is at sixty-eight, and nothing in his world seems as secure as it once did, not with Mom slowly disappearing, not with his only child single and raising a child of her own.
“Why aren’t you spending Christmas with him?” he asks bluntly.
“He’s coming over later tonight.”
“After your mom and I leave?” Dad guesses.
I smile wryly. “He’s a good person.” And just thinking of Luke, I get that blasted lump again, the one that fills my throat and makes my chest hurt. My feelings for him have gotten so strong and there are times, like now, where I don’t want to feel this much.
“Why don’t you invite him over sometime when we are here?” Dad’s trying to sound blasé. He’s not succeeding. I know he’s interested. He told me once he wouldn’t sleep properly until he had me settled.
Settled.
The expression used to annoy me, but it’s actually beginning to sound better and better, because settled no longer means settling, but comfortable. Safe. Secure.
Maybe at thirty-six going on thirty-seven, I’m ready to settle down. “Maybe I will.”
“How about dinner the Sunday after you get back from Whistler?”
“Dad.”
“I’ll throw some steaks on the grill. We’ll keep it casual and friendly.”
“Dad.”
“Afraid we’ll embarrass you?”
I think of Luke, and my heart turns over. “No.”
He waits, silent. And knowing him, I know he’ll just continue to wait. He’ll wait forever. I sigh, push the hair back from my face. “If I do invite him for dinner at your house, it’ll just make everything more serious. You know, take it to the next level.”
Dad collects the dessert plates and stands up. “’Bout time.”
The week we spend in Whistler, British Columbia, between Christmas and New Year’s is better than the best medicine in the world. Eva and I have a great time. We ski and ice-skate and sit in the hot tub outside the hotel and laugh as the snow falls on us.
One night we indulge in fondue at a little Swiss style restaurant. Another night we eat steaks and ribs and huge potatoes. The next night we stay in our room and watch a movie and get room service.
Then Luke arrives, the day before New Year’s Eve, and he has his own hotel across town, so we shuttle back and forth, comparing his accommodations with ours. We, Eva concludes gleefully, have the better hotel.
New Year’s Eve, the three of us attend a party hosted by someone none of us know, but Luke being Luke Flynn gets invitations to all sorts of things, and Luke thought Eva might enjoy a proper New Year’s Eve gala, one of those parties where everyone dresses black tie and dances in an ornate ballroom and drinks expensive champagne.
I hadn’t brought anything so fancy with us, so Eva and I go shopping in downtown Whistler and hit every boutique we can, searching for a proper party dress.
I find a simple black gown that’s cut on the bias and hugs the figure, and Eva falls in love with a midnight blue velvet dress with a lace collar. With dresses and new shoes, stockings and coats and purses, we head to the hotel to dress.
The New Year’s Eve party is crowded and very posh, but Luke’s wonderful sense of humor keeps Eva and me in stitches.
With the clock and crowd counting down the time, I stand with Luke and Eva with our party hats and noisemakers and wait for the New Year.
The hour strikes, brilliant bits of confetti fall, and Luke lets me kiss Eva, and then he kisses me, and as we stand there, the three of us, I think, This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life.
My man. My child. My family.
By the time we drive home on New Year’s Day, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll hire that young ad executive I liked so much, the woman who wants to relocate from San Francisco to be closer to her boyfriend in Seattle. I’m going to give her the Trident account, and I’m going to take Freedom Bikes. And the New Year will be prosperous, less stressful, and happy.
Especially happy.
I do exactly what I resolved to do.
I hire Beth on Tuesday, put her on a plane to New York Thursday, and Friday afternoon I jump in my truck and head to Seattle to attend my first meeting with the Freedom Bike Group’s executive board.
I’m definitely nervous, though. Frank had sent me bios on everybody, and I’m the only female in the bunch. But I wouldn’t be here, I remind myself as I park and take the elevator up, if I didn’t have something to contribute.
The meeting is held in Freedom’s new office space, and everyone’s already in the conference room, mingling.
I recognize a few faces from the last time I was here, but I don’t see Frank, and I’m disappointed because he’s at least one person I know.
Then I freeze, and my smile falters. I do a double take. Luke. Luke?
What the hell?
My pulse quickens as everyone begins to take a seat. I wait for Luke to look at me, make eye contact, but he doesn’t. It’s not until everyone’s seated and I’m the only one left standing that I force myself to move. Into the last open seat, the seat at his left.
Hell. Hell, hell, hell.
My legs feel like fire pokers as I make my way to the table. I’m so upset that I can hardly see straight. What is Luke doing here?
How is he connected with the Freedom Bike Group?
“Join us, Marta,” a voice booms from the far end of the table, and it’s the man I recognize from the first dinner I had with the group, the one with thick gray hair and an equally thick gray handlebar mustache.
I shift my briefcase to the other hand and slide uncomfortably into the seat next to Luke.
His half-smiling eyes meet mine as I sit down.
I’m not smiling. I’m livid. Beyond livid. What the hell is going on?
Little spots dance before my eyes. My head swims.
“Breathe,” Luke mutters. “You’re about to turn blue.”
I’d object, but I can’t. He’s right. I am holding my breath, and I force myself to exhale and then inhale, and exhale. But the breathing isn’t helping. I’m just getting more and more upset.
I know he’s looking at me, but I refuse to glance his way again. I’m shaking in my seat. My arms, legs, and hands tremble with shock and fury. I don’t want to be sitting here feeling this, either. Freedom is business. I’m here for business. I’m here to work.
Which leads me back to Luke. Why is he here? And what is his part with Freedom?
The man with the mustache, R.J., calls the meeting to order, and we’re to go around and introduce ourselves, giving our name, our title, and anything else we feel is pertinent. R.J. starts, and the introductions go to his right. I’m listening to the introductions but taking in only about half of what everyone is saying, as I’m too aware of Luke to my left.
When it comes to Luke, he says the least of anyone so far. “Luke Flynn.” And that’s it. That’s all he says.
R.J. laughs. “Our Luke is a closemouthed guy.”
Our Luke. So R.J. knows him well, quite well, if he refers to Luke Flynn that way.
Luke meets my gaze and arches an eyebrow
.
Deliberately I turn away, my gaze sweeping the table. “I’m Marta Zinsser, president of Z Design, a Seattle-based advertising agency. I met many of you in October, and as you know, I’m a big fan of Freedom Bikes.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Luke shift abruptly. He’s scribbling something on the pad of paper in front of him and slides it toward me.
I look at the paper and what he’s written: “Even though you ride a Harley?”
Looking up, I meet his eyes, but I can’t smile. I feel sick. Dead. This is a trick, I think, but I don’t know what the trick is yet to understand it.
“What are you doing here?” I write on the pad of paper.
He scribbles back, “I’ll tell you after.”
I don’t think I can wait until after. Thank God we have a break at the one-hour point, and before Luke can get caught in conversation, I tell him we have to talk now.
“After the meeting,” he answers, waving to R.J. and another heavyset fellow.
“No.” I smile at R.J., nod at the heavyset fellow. “Now.”
We step out of the conference room together and walk down the semidark hallway. Luke attempts to put his arm around me, and I pull away sharply. “What have you done?” I choke, grateful the light’s dim or he’d see the pain in my face. “What have you done?” I repeat, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Nothing,” he says, stopping me at the end of the hall.
One of the gentlemen is heading our way to get water from the cooler. “That’s not true,” I whisper. “You’re part of this somehow, you’re here at this meeting, which means you’re part of Freedom—”
“I’m the owner.”
My God. My legs wobble, and I fall back a step, even more unsteady. Luke puts a hand out to my elbow, but I won’t let him touch me.
“So you did all this.” I can’t speak above a whisper even if I wanted to. “You were behind Frank’s call and the money and terminating the other agency’s contract, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Luke, don’t lie to me. Not to me, of all people. I’m not stupid—”
“I never said you were.”
“Then tell me the truth. Did you talk to Frank?”
“Yes, and no.”
That’s all I need to hear. I lift my hands. I surrender. “Then I’m done. I quit. I’m out of here.”
I start walking for the elevators as fast as I can. I’m shaking so badly, I’m afraid I’ll fall out of my high heels, but I don’t stop out of fear that I’ll fall apart. But I can’t fall apart here, not in front of men who build motorcycles.
Luke’s walked with me to the elevators. As the doors open, he tries to grab my elbow for a third time. I raise my hand warningly. “Don’t.”
My Mountain of a Man puts his hands on his hips, his red gold hair flaming. “So what do I tell everyone?”
My eyes burn and my throat burns, and I swallow hard. Luke has disappointed me more than anyone has in years. “You tell everyone you made a mistake, and you’re going to do everything in your power to get Lowell Bryant Agency back.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’m shaking as I drive home, both furious and heartbroken. How could Luke do that to me? How could he pull a power play like that?
Fine, he can be founder of BioMed. He can be a billionaire. But don’t be God and manipulate my jobs and whip up magical contracts to “make things better” for me.
I don’t want a fairy godmother for a boyfriend.
Arriving home, I’m just glad Eva’s in bed. I couldn’t handle trying to act normal in front of her right now.
I spend the next two weeks avoiding all contact with Luke. I don’t return his calls or answer his e-mails or his text messages.
I’m done with him, so done that I delete him from my BlackBerry and go through everything I have and toss anything he might have given to me, anything that might remind me of him, even putting my bike up for sale on Craigslist. It’s not a Freedom bike, it’s a Harley, but I never want to ride a motorcycle again.
Eva knows I’m upset, and she knows it’s about Luke, especially as she doesn’t see him anymore or hear me speak to him on the phone.
It’s not easy, though, for me to erase him that fast. I might have blanked him out of my BlackBerry, but I can’t get him out of my system that fast. I do miss him, far more than I anticipated, far more than I can handle.
But getting rid of the bike will be the first step to really moving on.
The bike has found a buyer. I read the e-mail from an Al Pancetti of Lakewood, Washington. He’ll pay asking price with a cashier’s check, and he’ll be here the day after tomorrow in the afternoon to pick it up.
Wow. That was fast. So that’s it. Bike is gone. Well, almost gone.
I leave my desk and head to the garage, pull back the dropcloth, and, crouching next to my bike, run my hand over the chassis. I feel a twinge of pain as my fingers glide over the chrome and glossy paint.
I need to go for one last ride. Sticking my head in the studio, I shout that I’m taking an early lunch and will be back before one.
I’m already wearing jeans and a sweater, so I layer on a black leather coat and my black combat boots and set off. I head north on 405, passing Bothell and Mill Creek, continuing on to where 405 and 5 merge, up to Mount Vernon, before turning around and heading home again.
I’m on 5 South, passing the University District and getting ready to take the 520 on ramp, when my bike begins to sputter. It’s making a coughing, skipping sound, and from the way the engine starts racing, something’s loose.
Glancing down, I look for the screw in the carburetor, and once I find it, I run my fingers across it. It feels tight. I’m going to need to back it off, but I can’t do it driving.
I pull over to the side of the freeway, hoping I can make the adjustment now without having to go to a gas station. It’s dangerous here on the side of the road, but I work quickly, first tugging off my helmet and then kneeling next to the bike.
I use my fingernail to try to turn the little screw. It doesn’t need a lot, just a small adjustment would work, but the screw doesn’t budge. I try again without success. I’m still kneeling next to the bike when I hear a truck pull up behind me.
“Everything okay?”
I know that voice. Very well. Karma, I think, pushing hair off my face to look up at an unsmiling Luke.
I wipe my cold, stiff hands on my knees and sit back on my haunches. “Hey.”
Luke towers above me. “Break down?”
“The carburetor needs adjusting.”
“Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
His scrutiny deepens. “Where are your tools?”
My skin grows hot, and I hate this feeling, so anxious, so nervous, so not in control. “I don’t have any.” The beat of silence is hugely uncomfortable, so I add flatly, “I’m using my fingernail.”
“Your fingernail,” he repeats.
I know it sounds funny, but it’s what I’ve done before and it was fine. “Yes, my fingernail.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s laughing on the inside. “Is it working?”
“It will,” I answer, surprised by the crazy weakness in my knees and thighs as I stand. I’m shocked by the sight of him and hope that my brisk tone communicates that I’m a professional and completely in control.
He doesn’t buy it. “What if it doesn’t? What will you do then?”
It must be a rhetorical question, because he doesn’t even wait for an answer. Instead he heads to his Land Rover, retrieves a toolbox, and returns with a screwdriver.
He steps around me and crouches next to my bike. With a quick twist, he adjusts the screw on the fuel filter, shakes it once to make sure it’s on tight, and then stands up.
“All done,” he says, looking down at me, his expression as cool as the frost on my lawn this morning.
“Thank you,” I answer stiffly.
�
��You should carry tools,” he adds. “If you’re going to ride—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “I should. But I wasn’t going far, and I didn’t expect any problems.”
He stares down at me, and I can tell he’s just as angry as I am. He’s quiet so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer, and then he gives his head a single shake. “You make so many assumptions, and most of them are so wrong, so wildly off base, that I sometimes wonder what we were doing seeing each other.”
Luke’s words hit hard, each of them a slap, the consonants and vowels like stinging hail. “I wonder who it is you think I am,” he continues, “and why you always think the worst of me.”
I open my mouth to protest, but there’s enough truth in what he says that I can’t defend myself. Instead I stand there, chin lifted, even as my insides fall, icy cold.
“I have ethics, Marta, and I wouldn’t sell out, not even for you. I’m proud of the way I do business. I’m proud of how I conduct myself. Maybe it’s time you looked at the way you conduct yourself.” Finished, he turns and heads back to his truck.
Shaking, I watch him put away his tools and then open his door. “So what did happen with Freedom Bikes?” I call to him. “If you didn’t go in and wave your magic wand, who did?”
The traffic is thick and loud and zooms past, and for a split second I think Luke hasn’t heard me, but then he pivots away from his truck and faces me.
“Frank,” he answers.
I’m not sure I heard him right over the roar of traffic, so I walk toward him. “Frank?” I repeat.
Luke glances at a huge semi truck that has just sounded its horn. “It was Frank’s idea to toss out the other agency and bring you back in.”
“So you didn’t ride roughshod over the executive committee?”
He makes a sound of disgust. “God, no. I wouldn’t be in business today if that’s how I operated. First, I delegate decision making, and second, Frank came to me, telling me he’d made a mistake. He wanted you back. I told him there was nothing I could do, that it was his and the board’s decision.”
