If I Loved You

by Kress, Alyssa

  "It's called the Multimedia Plus Group. And they liked the idea of printing a publication that promoted positive views of celebrities, as opposed to the hordes of tabloids that tear characters apart."

  Norman's ode to Savannah Bowen had been the flagship edition of the reworked Hollywood Rattler. Instead of scorning the article as delusional, Pattie had admired its insight. Recently, she'd come to realize Savannah hadn't been any more indulged than herself. On the contrary, expectations for Pattie's older sister had been set very high, with pressure no child should have to endure.

  Did this excuse her bad behavior, the blackmail and the treachery? No, but it made it more understandable.

  Norman's article, however, had shown Pattie that, at least on one plane, Savannah had managed to overcome her own deficiencies. Through acting, she'd explored and revealed the human condition. Onscreen, she'd been able to reach people she never could have dealt with in real life.

  It was better to do it in real life, though, Pattie thought, glancing up at Zane. A warm gratitude suffused her, as so often happened these days when she simply looked at him. It was hard to believe somebody loved her, warts and all—but it was true. Oh, she would always know it was true.

  That certainty had changed her life.

  She put her hand on his forearm. "I'm so glad we've found resolution regarding Savannah."

  His gaze shifted to meet her eyes. "Yes. We can move on now."

  Pattie's eyebrows jumped. They could move on...now? What did he think they'd been up to the past few months? Not only had they bought this house and moved in together with Tristan, but also Zane's toy airplane company had already pushed into the black. His current fleet of make-it-yourself kits was so impressive he'd entered negotiations with several school districts for the production of educational videos about the mechanics of air lift.

  "I kind of thought we had moved on," she said.

  A peculiar look crossed Zane's face as he sank into a chair across from her. "Not completely.

  Oh. This sounded interesting. It would have sounded vexatious to the old Pattie, the one who never got into long-term relationships—the Pattie who was actually afraid no man would stick. But to the new Pattie, Zane's reserved hint caused a nice little thrill inside.

  But she pretended not to have a clue. "Not completely?" she repeated innocently. "What do you mean?"

  His eyes narrowed. Apparently she hadn't sounded innocent enough. He knew that she'd guessed—and that she didn't intend to help him out.

  Sheesh. What would be the fun of that?

  "Okay. You want me to spell it out for you?" Zane leaned his forearms on the table. "There's the deed to the house, on which we're both listed, and there's our handshake agreement to raise Tristan together, but there are still a few, uh, technical details regarding the whole arrangement I'd like to, um, iron out."

  "Technical details," Pattie repeated, fascinated. "I wonder what those could be?"

  His eyes narrowed further. Pattie wasn't sure if he was about to propose marriage or tell her to buzz off when a child's voice from outside the open window exclaimed, "Fly! I'm gonna fly!"

  The expression on Zane's face changed abruptly as he and Pattie traded horrified glances. "Tristan!" they both cried.

  Zane beat Pattie out the kitchen door to the backyard, but only because he was closer. Once outside, Pattie's gaze went straight to the rafters of the ranch-style house, but no toddler daredevil was visible.

  "Ah. Down here." Zane laughed.

  Pattie lowered her gaze to find Tristan standing atop one of the small landscaping boulders that ringed the backyard lawn. Her terror instantly relaxed. "So what's going on, Tris?"

  "I'm gonna fly." He grinned, clearly pleased to have garnered an audience.

  "We're watching." Zane put an arm around Pattie's shoulders.

  "Whee!" Tristan jumped off the boulder. He landed in the grass on all fours and then executed a somersault. Ending on his butt, he looked up at them and laughed.

  "Great flying!" Pattie told him.

  "I liked the somersault, too," Zane agreed.

  "I do it again," Tristan offered, springing to his feet.

  While he climbed back onto the boulder, Zane took one of Pattie's hands and lifted it to his lips. "There is somewhere to move on to," he told her, his voice deep.

  "We could be a real family," Pattie agreed, her own voice sinking low. It was surprising, and a little disconcerting, how much emotion swelled inside her. But that was okay. Zane wasn't going to let her down.

  His gaze lifted to hers. In his eyes she saw all the love she'd come to expect.

  "But I should let you say it, shouldn't I?" Pattie murmured.

  His lips curved. "Patricia Bowen. Will you marry me?"

  She could feel her own lips curve. He hadn't let her down. He never would, at least not in the big things. "Zane Kincaid, I would absolutely love to marry you." The words, spoken to him, made perfect sense.

  Laughing, Zane drew her into his arms and then twirled with her in a wide circle.

  "Flying!" Tristan exclaimed. "You guys are flying, too!"

  The End

  About the Author

  Alyssa Kress completed her first novel at age six, an unlikely romance between a lion and a jackal. Despite earning two degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and spending nearly a decade in the construction industry, she's yet to see her feet stay firmly on the ground. She now lives in Southern California, together with her husband and two children.

  You can learn more about Alyssa Kress and her other novels at http://www.alyssakress.com.

  Other books by Alyssa Kress:

  Marriage by Mistake

  The Heart Heist

  The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

  Asking For It

  Love and the Millionairess

  Working on a Full House

  Your Scheming Heart

  I Gotta Feeling

  The Fiancée Fiasco

  Preview of That'll Be the Day

  Ian woke to the sound of whatever was the latest heavy metal band being blasted at about a hundred thousand decibels.

  "Holy!" He came to consciousness with a start. It took him a few heart-pounding seconds to realize he was at home. This wasn't some freak fire alarm going off at a hotel in Dallas or Little Rock or...where had he been last night? Raleigh.

  Ian groaned and rolled over to check the time. Seven-thirty. Hell, he'd probably end up thanking his son for blasting his stereo loud enough to wake him. He had to be at the office in less than an hour.

  Ian took three more seconds to bemoan his exhaustion, then stumbled out of bed. Andy's music made a cacophonic counterpoint to his shower, shave, and dressing.

  By the time he got downstairs the music had been turned off but other loud noises could be heard. An argument was well under way in the kitchen. Unfortunately, this was an all-too-familiar ritual.

  "There are dishes in the sink, Andy," a young, female voice was complaining. "Last night it was your turn to wash."

  Andy's voice drawled. "I didn't feel like it."

  "You didn't feel like it! You didn't feel like it! So now I have to do your dishes, because you didn't feel like it?"

  "Hey. Chill."

  "Chill? Chill?" Kathy's voice was rising. Ian could hear the frustration he often felt toward Andy being expressed with an eleven-year-old lack of reserve.

  Both kids stopped talking the instant he walked into the room.

  "Good morning." Ian sounded equable—he hoped. He finished tying his tie. Now what? Did he try to solve their argument, even mention it? And what about Andy's music? He watched his children watching him and felt a familiar sense of incompetence. He was not a good parent, he'd be the first to admit it. How market conditions would affect prices, that he understood. How to make two dozen subcontractors work around each other and end up with a completed, on-budget shopping mall or resort hotel—these things he could do with astonishing flair.

  But fig
ure out how to get his own kids to get along, or even do the dishes? Forget it. Without Sophia, he was lost.

  Nevertheless, the tension on Kathy's face disappeared. "Dad!" she cried, and threw herself at him.

  Ian caught her embrace and felt his own tension ease in the force of her unfettered affection. She was a petite little package mixed of girl, as-yet-unfurled woman, and sprite. As always, she made a smile spread over his face. But over Kathy's shoulder he could see fourteen-year-old Andy glowering. Ian's smile faded.

  "You're back," Andy said.

  "I told you I'd be back Thursday." Inwardly, Ian winced. The truth was that by the time the plane had landed, he'd grabbed a cab and opened his front door it had been well into Friday morning.

  Kathy drew back from her father's embrace. Her gaze went from Ian to Andy, concern flitting over her features. "Anyway, you're home for the weekend," she said, obviously trying to smooth things over.

  "Yes," Ian said, and smiled at her. "The whole weekend." Though he had a ton of papers to go through, pursuant to his recent trip to Raleigh.

  As if he could hear Ian's thoughts, Andy snorted. "Yeah, right. The whole weekend with Dad—and his laptop."

  Andy's blatant disrespect shot a spurt of anger through Ian. The work I do puts a roof over your head—and paid for that stereo you play too loud! But before Ian could voice the retort he was stopped by a sudden twinge, an odd pinch of discomfort in the middle of his chest. For a moment, he lost the train of his thought. What was that?

  Then Andy's face clicked back into his focus. Ian took a deep breath and recalled that he had to remain the cool-headed one around here. Not to mention the kid was right. He would be spending most of the weekend with his laptop. "Uh, yes," he said, and decided the wisest course was to change the subject. "I see the sink is full of dirty dishes," he remarked, and gave a pointed glance in that direction.

  Andy shrugged. "Yeah?"

  Ian took in another deep breath. Odd. Either that action, or the continued effort of leashing his temper caused the twinge in his chest to return. "Mrs. Granby is coming this afternoon," he told his son, carefully atonal. He felt the twinge fade away again. "I'd hate her to have to walk in to a dirty kitchen."

  Kathy turned to shoot her brother a triumphant look, but Andy only had eyes for Ian. "So tell her not to come," he said. "We don't need that old biddy."

  "You're not old enough to be on your own all afternoon."

  "Bull. Brandon does it. And Troy, too. They think it's dumb I have a babysitter. Anyway," he added, smug, "I was in charge all of last night, wasn't I?"

  "You were in charge...for a few hours last night," Ian returned, definite.

  Andy waved the statement aside. "Even Aunt Maggie. She says I'm plenty old enough to be on my own."

  "Aunt Maggie?" Ian's eyebrows arched.

  "That's right." Andy pressed on. "She says you're overprotective."

  "Hm." Ian pressed his lips together. He often had to reach down to the depths of his self control to keep from expressing how he really felt about the children's aunt, Sophia's overblown, earth-mother sister, Maggie. God knew, it was nice to know she was around in case of an emergency, but it could be a bitter pill to swallow, losing a wife only to be left with a witch of an ex-sister-in-law.

  And when Maggie butted into his relationship with his children, Ian came very close to wanting to strangle the woman. He'd had more than his share of murderous thoughts toward Maggie since his wife had died. Sophia's sister seemed to think the vacuum in parents gave her a place to step in.

  Step in? Splash down.

  "Fortunately," Ian said to Andy, letting his self-control slip a little with the word, "Aunt Maggie is not in charge."

  "Fortunately?" Andy's eyes turned into slits. "I'd say 'too bad'."

  Ian frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means—Oh, screw it. You wouldn't understand if I spent a week trying to explain it to you."

  Ian lifted a finger. "Watch your language, young man."

  "Watch my language?" Andy's eyes widened. "Fuck you."

  "Andy—!"

  But the boy was already gone, brushing past Ian to bang through the kitchen door. If the door hadn't been a swing, it would have slammed. As it was, it swished back and forth while Ian and his daughter stood there and stared at it.

  Well, I certainly handled that well.

  "He's such a turd," Kathy at length remarked, and pointed. "You notice he managed to get out of doing the dishes?"

  The discomfort in Ian's chest briefly flared.

  He tried to clear his mind of it all once he'd dropped off the kids at their various schools and was driving in to the office. It was far easier to concentrate on problems he could solve, like zoning and planning codes, recalcitrant politicians, or a critical shortage of steel during a bidding war.

  In fact forty minutes later, as the elevator stopped on his floor of the office tower, one of three floors leased by Brockton Construction, Ian already knew where he would start with the Raleigh problem. Brockton's corporate lawyers, he'd get them on the phone first thing.

  "Good morning, Eileen," he said, easily pleasant, as he strode into the streamlined elegance of the secretary's area outside his office door.

  "Mr. Muldaur," Eileen returned, with a congenial smile.

  Ian could definitely feel himself relaxing. At the office everything was under control, no matter how wild it seemed to get. As for his deteriorating relationship with his son, he would put it out of his mind.

  Yes, he'd forget all about his problems with Andy, Ian decided. For the hours he was at work, he wouldn't stress over his deficiencies as a parent.

  He paused in front of his secretary's desk. "I'm going to be on the phone most of the morning, Eileen. Could you take messages on my incoming calls?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Muldaur."

  Smiling, Ian went into his office. He was going to have to work magic to get around the political hurdles in Raleigh. He'd be spinning multiple plates in the air for the next six months. There would be dicey moments, but in the end...he'd be successful.

  Ian strolled through his office and tossed his briefcase onto a padded visitor chair. He loosened his tie as he dropped into the oversize chair behind his sleek cherrywood desk. He could feel the adrenaline rising, readying him for the task. But as he pulled the rolodex toward himself to find the number for the lawyer's office, he felt a pain again, a sort of tightening around the upper part of his chest.

  Ian's fingers paused on the cards in the rolodex. His brows drew down. If he concentrated, he was sure the pain would go away. He took several deep breaths and, indeed, the pressure lightened, the mild pain receded.

  Shaking off any further thought of the matter, Ian went back to finding the phone number. He picked up his receiver and dialed, then leaned back in his chair.

  "Dunbar, Creston and Winchell," purred a polished, female voice in Ian's ear. "How may I direct your call?"

  "This is...Ian Muldaur, from Brockton." Ian frowned and rubbed one hand over his chest. "I'd like to speak to Bill Dunbar."

  What the—? The pressure in his chest was back, mild, but disturbingly viselike. As he sat there, waiting for the receptionist to get Bill Dunbar, Ian could feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

  Jesus Christ, what is this? I'm in perfect condition, do my exercises every morning—even when I'm on the road. This could not, repeat not, be a heart attack. Besides, it just didn't feel impressive enough. It barely met the threshold of pain.

  "Ian!" Bill Dunbar's voice came deep and hearty over the phone wires. "What can I do for you this fine, financially fit morning?"

  For a moment Ian couldn't say anything. He was feeling out of breath, even dizzy. "Mm. It's a political situation. Delicate." He paused to struggle for air. "But my secretary just buzzed me...a call I've been waiting for. You don't mind --?"

  There was a hesitation, and then came Dunbar's voice, sounding not quite as ebullient. "Of course not. Call back when you can
."

  Ian set down the phone. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply. But he couldn't shake the dizziness, or get rid of the pressure over his chest. This was ridiculous. Outrageous. This feeling simply had to go away.

  But as Ian sat there, concentrating on breathing, the feeling didn't go away. Instead, and to his considerable alarm, the pressure got worse, along with a sensation of impending doom. Dread had Ian getting to his feet. He watched as his hand lifted and one finger pressed down the intercom. "Ei--leen?"

  The whispery quality of his voice shocked him. It seemed to make an impression on Eileen, as well, who didn't bother replying over the intercom. The next instant she appeared at the door of Ian's office.

  Her face contorted as she looked at him. "Mr. Muldaur!"

  Ian barely had to time to admit he was in real trouble before the floor came up to meet him.

  ~~~

  It was a slow Friday. Maggie had only had one customer, who'd sauntered leisurely through the rows of alyssum and impatiens, her lips pursed, looking disapproving. Unsurprisingly, the lady had left without purchasing a thing. She hadn't even bothered to say hello to Maggie.

  So now Maggie had abandoned her post inside and was wielding her pruning shears. The roses were getting a bit ragged. Might as well get something accomplished this morning.

  The sun beat down with a pleasant warmth. Overhead a hawk circled, looking for some hapless rodent. Maggie's nursery was on the very edge of the midsize town of Palmwood. Beyond her chicken wire fence, the California desert stretched proud and lonely: hard-packed dirt, clumps of silvery pungent sage, and a few, precious spears of yucca.

  Open space, freedom. It always gave Maggie a sense of tranquility to gaze out toward the mountains.

  But this morning instead of gazing serenely at the mountains she released a blistering curse as she managed to stab her finger with a thorn. She didn't know what was wrong with herself. She usually enjoyed a quiet morning all alone with her flora. Business was slow, it was true, but she always managed to scrape together enough for the rent.