“So we’ll talk to her in the morning. Give her the soft sell, very low-key, salvage her pride. I have a feeling it’s taken a beating lately.”
“You’re a good man, Flash.”
“Hey.” He beckoned to her, tapped his bottom lip. “Put your money where your mouth is. Plant one right here, Mrs. MacKenzie. A nice, long, slow one. Then, let’s sneak down the back stairs to the kitchen and check the freezer. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a new half-gallon of fudge ripple in there.”
She cupped his cheek, gave him a tender, lingering kiss. Opened her eyes and said, “You must have read my mind, MacKenzie.”
Harley
Hunched over the ream of tax paperwork he’d spent the last four hours trying to translate into some form of comprehensible English, Harley Atkins took comfort from the dark and violent homicidal fantasies that crowded his brain. The tax code had obviously been written by deranged and sadistic individuals who took great glee in torturing the American taxpayer. Utter gibberish. He was a lawyer, for Christ’s sake, and everybody knew that lawyers specialized in obfuscation. But he had to hand it to those IRS people. They took the blue ribbon with their distinct brand of claptrap.
With a sigh, Harley tossed down his pen. As hard as it was to admit, he was going to have to turn it over to a tax accountant. And he couldn’t blame it all on the IRS; part of the problem was that he was monumentally distracted. All he’d been able to think about since dinner was the woman he’d found standing in his kitchen this afternoon, washing his dishes.
He’d heard stories about Will Bradley’s younger daughter, had heard enough about her to know he wanted to steer clear of her in the worst way. The woman had walked away from her kid and found herself a rich husband, and in Harley’s book, that was an unforgivable sin. Any woman who could do that had to be a granite-hearted, frigid bitch. Like his ex-wife.
He hadn’t been prepared for the reality of that lovely, heart-shaped face, for the enormity of those blue eyes, for the genuine sadness they conveyed. Colleen Berkowitz wasn’t quite the hardass drama queen he’d expected. Sure, she was a little brittle, a little caustic. But that was merely the face she presented to the world. Self-preservation. Beneath that hard outer shell, there was something else, something he recognized all too well: vulnerability. He’d seen the panic on her face when she realized her childhood home had been lost to her forever.
That was what got to him. If there was one thing that always kicked him hard in the gut, it was vulnerability on a woman’s face. He’d seen too much of it growing up, on the faces of his momma and his sisters, living with Big Earl and his crazy ways. Harley had made his escape from that particular hell, but he’d never forgotten. He carried the memory around with him, heavy baggage he would have gladly lived without. Until he walked into his kitchen and saw Colleen Berkowitz standing there, he thought he’d been successful at burying that baggage so deep he’d never see it again. But the vulnerability on her face stirred those memories and brought them floating back to the surface in living, breathing Technicolor.
The woman was trouble, and he had no intention of getting involved with trouble. He couldn’t allow himself to go anywhere near a woman like that, no matter how afraid, no matter how broken she was. And Harley knew broken when he saw it; the two of them, he and broken, had developed a close personal relationship by the time he was eight years old, living on that hardscrabble old farmstead in rural Georgia. Maybe that was why he’d felt such an instantaneous connection with this woman he didn’t even know. Life had obviously kicked her in the teeth a time or two, and she wore the evidence on that gorgeous face of hers.
But she wasn’t his problem. He already had enough on his plate. His little girl. This farm. Trying to keep their heads above water. Trying to be both mother and father to a kid who didn’t understand why her mother had left her. There was no room in his life for a blue-eyed angel with a wistful expression and layers of pain even he, a total stranger, could see clearly. He couldn’t take on anybody else’s pain right now. His was still too recent, too raw. Amy’s defection had left him gutted, and he was just starting to rise out of the ashes of that crashed-and-burned relationship. He was a little smarter now. He wouldn’t be taken in again.
Annabel bounced into the kitchen, dressed in knee socks and a football jersey that ended halfway down her slender thighs. At twelve, she still had a boyish look, with scrawny arms and legs, but some time back, she’d started to develop breasts. How the hell that had happened, he had no idea. Of course, being the overprotective father that he was, he’d been in a rush to cover them up, lest some perverted, prepubescent seventh-grade male consider his little girl some kind of sex object. The ensuing conversation had been awkward, exacerbated by Annabel’s determination to avoid all things feminine. He’d finally mentioned his dilemma to Trish Bradley, who’d volunteered to take his daughter by the hand and drive her to the nearest department store, where they’d picked out a half-dozen training bras. He didn’t even want to think about what the hell they were being trained for. Sometimes, ignorance truly was bliss.
He thought, not for the first time, about hanging a poster-size photo of his ex-wife on the kitchen wall, where he could use it for target practice. The thought gave him immense pleasure, and for a few seconds, he wallowed in it. Then he leaned back in his chair and said, “Why’re you still up? You have school tomorrow.”
Standing in front of the open refrigerator door, his daughter looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Dad…tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Is it?”
As a rejoinder, it left a lot to be desired. But by this time of night, his brain was too fried to come up with anything more pithy. His days all flowed together anyway, into a single, continuous loop that played over and over and over. Up at four, milk cows, feed cows, scrape down the barn, feed chickens, repair ancient equipment, milk cows again, rinse and repeat. The work was tedious, intensely physical, and repetitive to the point of madness.
And Harley loved it.
After ten years of the mind-numbing dullness of big-city corporate law, of the office politics and the game-playing, of vying for that partnership and the corner office with its breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, he’d had enough. Amy’d been the one to get the office, along with a surfeit of fringe benefits that included sleeping in the senior partner’s bed. Harley hadn’t wanted the damned office anyway. Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted any of it. The office, the partnership, New York itself. He was just a simple farm boy from Georgia, one who liked walking into the local hardware store and being greeted by name. All those late nights, all those billable hours, all the cut-throat scrambling to reach the top, he’d done for them, for his family. For Amy and Annabel and any unborn future mini-Harleys.
That had turned out really well.
Annabel took a Popsicle from the fridge, closed the door, and crossed the room to where Ginger rested on an old blanket beside the wood stove. Kneeling, she rubbed the dog’s belly. Ginger wagged her tail against the floor and let out a long, contented sigh.
His daughter looked up at him with huge dark eyes like her mother’s. “Why do you suppose somebody didn’t want her?” Annabel said.
Harley’s brows drew together in a scowl. There were names for people like that, but he tried hard not to use them in front of his daughter. Sometimes, he slipped up, but at least he made the effort.
“Some people,” he said, “don’t have any respect for animals. And if they mistreat animals, chances are pretty good that they’ll also mistreat women and kids.”
His daughter let out a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes. “I feel one of those fatherly lectures coming on. Yes, Dad, when I start dating, I promise I’ll never go out with any guy who ever pulled a cat’s tail.”
“I’m serious. There are real statistics. If you look at the stats compiled by the Humane Society, you’ll see that there’s a direct correlation between animal abuse and domestic vio—”
“Dad! Can you fo
r one minute stop being a lawyer and just be my dad?”
The kid had a valid point. “Sorry. It just happens to be one of my pet peeves. No pun intended.”
She peeled the paper off her Popsicle. “Is that why you were a dismal failure at corporate law?”
His mouth fell open. “Who told you that?”
She took a lick of orange Popsicle and grinned cheekily. “Mom said it.”
“Oh, did she? Was that before or after she—oh, hell, never mind. I was not a dismal failure. I was damn good at it. I just hated every stinkin’ minute of it, that’s why I left.”
“I wasn’t trying to criticize. What I meant was that you’re too nice to be a corporate lawyer. Who cares about corporations, anyway?”
Apparently, your mother. He had to bite his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. But as much as he hated his ex, that still didn’t give him the right to poison his daughter’s mind. She’d figure out, soon enough, just what kind of woman her mother was. But she’d have to figure it out on her own. It wasn’t his place to enlighten her. “Bed,” he said.
“But—”
“There will be no buts. It’s late. You’re twelve years old. Give your daddy a hug and get yourself on upstairs.”
She wrapped those skinny arms around him, turning his heart into a soft puddle of goo. Soon enough, it would be some other man she’d be wrapping those arms around, and he could barely stand the thought. Better enjoy it while he could, because his days as her best guy were numbered.
“Dad? Can I go with you tomorrow when you take Ginger to the vet?”
“As long as you’re up and ready by nine. Shoo, now, before I change my mind.”
“Night, Daddy.”
“Night, angel.”
He watched her go, the little girl he’d taught to ride a bicycle, the one whose discarded baby teeth he’d snuck out from under her pillow, replacing them with quarters. He watched until she was out of sight, and then he listened to the sound of her footsteps scampering up the old wooden staircase.
And he snorted. Training bras, indeed.
Colleen
The household lay in silent slumber. After pointing her in the direction of the powder room and showing her where to find extra bedding in case she needed it, her sister had gone up to bed, but Colleen couldn’t settle down. She was antsy, edgy, her insides churning. Standing at the window, absently rubbing her wrist, she stared out at the moonlit winter night and wondered what the hell she was doing here, thrusting herself uninvited into the life of the sister she didn’t even know anymore. They lived in separate universes, had never seen the world in the same light, had been strangers for the last two decades. There was no reason to believe anything had changed, just because they were in their thirties now and fate had them sleeping under the same roof.
Besides, this was a short-term arrangement. She was here only because, with Dad gallivanting around the globe, there was no other place to go. She’d stay only as long as necessary. Find a job, sock away some money, and then blow this town without bothering to look in her rear-view mirror. Hell would freeze rock solid before she’d let herself get sucked back into any family bullshit.
Damn you, Irv. How could you do this to me?
It wasn’t the money. The money, the house—let the kids have it. The hard thing, the thing that killed her, was being without him. He’d been such a strong, vital presence, larger than life. And the nights, those long and empty nights when sleep eluded her, were brutal. After dark, without Irv, she had no idea what to do with herself.
She needed a drink, needed it so much she ached from it. Needed its comfort, needed that glass to hold in her hand. But she’d spent far too many nights like this one with glass in hand, self-medicating. That liquid had been comforter, confidant, confessor. And, ultimately, destroyer of lives. Those days were over, and no matter how low she sank into the muck, she wasn't going back down that road.
But there was Coke in the fridge. It might be a lousy substitute, but that bottle was something smooth and familiar to hold in her hand, something cold and wet to trickle down her throat. Colleen stepped away from the window, quietly closed the door of the guest room, and tiptoed down the long center hallway toward the kitchen.
Faint strains of music floated on the air, Bob Seger crooning about loneliness and missed chances down on Mainstreet. She paused at the threshold. There, in the darkened kitchen, barefoot and illuminated only by the moonlight that spilled through the French doors, Casey and her husband were slow dancing.
Their body language was eloquent, the two of them clearly so lost in each other that the ground could have opened up beneath them and neither would have noticed. Fingers threaded through the curls at the nape of his neck, her sister gazed up at her husband with unabashed adoration. He lowered his head, brushed his cheek against hers, and she let out a soft, breathy laugh. It was silly, and it was romantic, and, watching them, Colleen felt a tightness in her throat. The vibrations they radiated spoke of a completeness that couldn’t be breached. Yet there was something else, something faint and transient, a wistfulness that bordered on melancholy. Maybe it was her imagination, or maybe it was the dark blue quality of the music, but she felt it clearly, from twelve feet away. Rob reached out a finger, brushed a single dark lock away from his wife’s face, and the hair on the back of Colleen’s neck stood up. She’d clearly stumbled into a moment so intimate that she had no business being here.
She took a step back, must have made some kind of noise, for Rob glanced up and saw her. “Hey,” he said.
Casey turned to look at her. Instead of the expression of censure she expected, her sister beamed. “Colleen,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to—you were—”
“It’s fine,” Casey said. “We were just getting ice cream.”
“Is that what they call it these days? Really, I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Please stay,” her sister said. “Have a bowl of ice cream with us.”
Rob said, “You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a genuine MacKenzie fudge ripple extravaganza.” He released his wife, lightly brushed his fingertips against her arm as they separated, strode barefoot across the room and flipped on the overhead light.
“I’m sorry,” Colleen said. “You two were having a moment, and with my usual grace and refinement, I blundered right into the middle of it.”
“Don’t be silly,” Casey said, taking a trio of ceramic bowls from the cupboard. “We have plenty of moments. We sleep in the same bed every night. What I need is more time with my sister.”
That was the last thing Colleen needed. More time with her sister. She opened her mouth to protest, but what came out instead was, “All right.”
***
“It was quick,” she said, stirring sugar into her teacup. “He wasn’t feeling well, which was so not like him. Irv was an athletic kind of guy. He sailed, he played tennis, he ran five miles every day. He was sixty going on thirty-five. That’s one of the reasons we got along so well, he was so young for his age. We did everything together. Until suddenly, he wasn’t up to doing much of anything. He was experiencing gastrointestinal pain, general malaise. When he started losing weight for no reason, I put my foot down and insisted he go to the doctor. It wasn’t easy to get him there. Irv could be a bit of a jackass.” She paused, squeezed her tea bag against the side of her teacup, felt the rip in the fabric of her heart that would probably never heal. “He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Five weeks later, he was gone.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Her sister reached out a hand and took hers. Squeezed it. Colleen hesitated before allowing her fingers to curl around Casey’s. That kind of intimacy felt so foreign.
“To tell the truth,” she said, “I’m not sure I deserve your sympathy. I haven’t exactly been the best sister. I didn’t even call you when Danny died.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
“But, you see,
it does matter.” She snatched her hand away, rubbed at her knuckles. “You don’t understand! I was so damn jealous of you, for so many years. And then your husband died, and I knew how devastated you had to be. You and Danny were—” She glanced at Rob, bit her lip, said, “Well, you know. And I just couldn’t do it, because I felt like such a hypocrite.”
“Jealous,” Casey said. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“Are you serious? There you were, leading this exotic, glamorous life. You were married to the most gorgeous guy on the face of the earth—” She glanced again at Rob, said, “No offense intended.”
“None taken.”
“And he became a freaking rock star. And you were the one writing his hit songs. You had money, fame, and one of the most sought-after men on the planet. Think about it. There I am, twenty years old, still living in Dad’s house in this one-horse town, trapped in a loveless marriage, and chasing a two-year-old around the house. While my husband’s too busy finishing his college degree to even notice I’m alive. I turn on the TV and what do I see? My sister, on stage in front of the world, accepting a Grammy Award for writing her gorgeous, talented husband’s first hit record. You had everything that I didn’t have, and I was so damn jealous I couldn’t see straight.”
“And I was so jealous of you,” Casey said softly, “because you had the one thing I couldn’t have.”
She let out a hard breath. “You mean Mikey.”
“I wanted a baby so much, and I couldn’t have one at that point in my life, and there you were, with that beautiful little boy, and I wanted to curl into a ball and die.” Casey paused for breath. “As for that glamorous life—” She turned to her husband. “Babe? Would you like to address this one?”
Redemption Road: Jackson Falls Book 5 (Jackson Falls Series) Page 3
