Paradise Found

by Mary Campisi

  When a subcontractor at one of Rourke’s holding companies is killed, Rourke decides to pay the widow a visit and offer condolences, never dreaming the widow will be Kate. As they embark on a cautious journey of rediscovery, one far greater than they could have imagined, secrets and lies threaten to destroy their newfound closeness—forever.

  Dedication:

  To young love, true love, and the beauty of second chances.

  The Way They Were

  by

  Mary Campisi

  Chapter 1

  “There’s just me and you, and we’re not talking.”—Clay Maden

  Kate Maden watched her husband rifle through the dresser drawer in search of his Syracuse T-shirt. He called it his lucky shirt, but Kate knew a tattered orange and blue T-shirt had nothing to do with Clay’s success. Hard work and a will as strong as his twenty-two inch biceps were what made Clay Calhoon Maden ‘lucky’, but there was no use telling him that.

  “Aha!” He yanked the T-shirt from the drawer and tossed it on the bed, then pulled open a second drawer.

  “Looking for these?” Kate dangled a pair of thermal socks in her right hand.

  Her husband’s sunburned face broke into a grin as he snatched them up and said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a drawl, “Babe, what would I do without you?”

  That was Clay’s way of saying I love you. Not a sophisticated proclamation or a grand gesture marked by diamonds and roses. Just a look that spoke of commitment as strong as the equipment he used to tear down the sturdiest building. Any woman would be honored to have such a man by her side.

  “I’m thinking this job could get us carpeting and a new washer,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the flowered comforter and pulled on a sock. “How about a front loader?”

  “You don’t mind the drive?” He was a 5:00 a.m rise-and-shiner, but an hour’s drive on top of an early start time was a lot to ask.

  “Nah. Every mile is that much closer to getting you that Berber carpeting.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “You just decide whether you want plain or one with those fancy designs.”

  “Clay.” She ran a hand over the reddish stubble on his chin. “I have you. And Julia. I don’t need carpeting to make me happy.”

  “You deserve more,” he said, “but it’s the best I can offer.”

  “Clay—”

  “Gotta go.” He gently set her on her feet and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll call you after the interview.”

  When he’d gone, Kate straightened the comforter and picked up his work clothes—jeans, flannel shirts, thermal socks. The only suit he’d ever worn had been the J.C. Penney pin-stripe on their wedding day. She thought of her husband’s calloused hands, his weathered skin, his bad back. He was a hard worker who believed in honor and the strength of a man’s word. He’d given her so much more than any other man—including the one who’d broken her heart.

  ***

  Clay pulled up to the job site as the sun inched over the treetops. This was his sixth day and he’d decided to gain an hour on everybody so he could get home early. He pulled the gear from his truck, grabbed his thermos and hopped out, whistling Bon Jovi’s It’s My Life as he made his way across the grassy lot. This job would net him the carpeting, the washer and a hefty down payment on the eternity ring on hold at Zales. Wouldn’t Kate just croak? So, it wasn’t Tiffany’s, it was stamped with commitment and not even Tiffany’s sold those.

  As he made his way toward the building, a battered Ford pickup barreled down the side road, kicking up gravel and dust. It squealed to a stop beside him and Clay’s foreman jumped out. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Hey, Len.” Clay raised a hand at the grizzled man in Carhartt and flannel. “Thought I’d get a head start so I can make it home in time for Julia’s choir recital. She’s doing a solo.”

  Len Slewinski scratched his chin and spit on the ground. “You reckon to break union rules by starting here without the rest of the crew?”

  Clay grinned. “Pretty much.”

  The older man shook his head and spit again. “Stubborn as your daddy. You know they say the owner of this here building is real persnickety about rules and regs.”

  “Well he’s not here, is he? There’s just me and you and we’re not talking.” Len had worked with the Madens for twenty-eight years, in spite of a bum hip, a stiff knee, and last year’s double bypass.

  “I don’t like it boy. That pretty little wife of yours wouldn’t like it either.”

  “That’s why you’re not going to tell her. What are you doing here two hours before starting time?”

  Len kicked a clump of dirt and coughed. “Skip asked if I’d post watch for him seein’ as he’s taking Shirley to Niagara Falls this weekend.”

  “Let me guess. Another honeymoon?”

  Len nodded. “You got it. Most women only get one honeymoon, less they switch husbands. I told him he better not say a peep to Loretta ‘cause I’m not leaving my own bed and I sure as hell ain’t leaving my john for some foolish fanciness.”

  “Women like that sort of thing now and again.” Maybe he should take Kate to Niagara Falls. They could ride Maid of the Mist and eat Chinese like they had on their honeymoon.

  “Mostly they start squawking if they hear somebody else is doing it. That’s why she can’t find out.”

  “She won’t hear it from me. Tell you what, why don’t you go fetch yourself some of those fried eggs over easy at Sophie’s? That way you can say you didn’t see anybody breaking code and it’ll be true.”

  Len jawed on the idea for all of three seconds. “You got yourself a deal. Be careful, boy. Just ‘cause you done it your whole life don’t make it safe. Them scaffolds is tricky. Fifty feet is still fifty feet.”

  “Got it.” If Len didn’t stop yakking Clay would lose his early start.

  “See you in a few.” Len threw the truck into gear and bumped down the dirt road.

  Clay headed toward the building, calculating the time he’d already lost. Damn, he’d have to work fast. He could secure the side section before Len got back. He entered the building through a side door and flipped the light switch. A stark expanse of beams, metal, and cement were all that remained of Jennings and Seward Faucet. Len said the new owner planned on putting some of those high-end condos in here.

  A spark of anger surged through him as he thought of all the people who used to work in this building, people who had mortgages, tuition, and grocery bills. They’d lost out because China could make faucets cheaper than upstate New York. What kind of jobs could a high-end condo give to a machinist?

  The rich kept stuffing their pockets and the poor fell deeper in debt. As a boy, Clay had never thought about which group he belonged to—his parents made sure he and his brother had a new jacket every winter and enough food on the table for seconds. Things changed the summer a rich kid from Chicago moved to Montpelier and taught Clay just how much he didn’t have.

  Clay sucked in a breath and pictured the first blow of the wrecking ball as it slammed into the building in a moving, swaying dance of destruction culminating in a rubble of steel and concrete. Len said Clay had the deadliest aim he’d ever seen. Maybe because he pictured the rich kid’s pretty-boy face each time he swung.

  Clay tossed his gear next to the scaffold and rummaged through his bag for his safety harness. Damn. He must have left it on the front seat of the truck. He glanced up the scaffolding to the top. In all the years he’d been demolishing, he’d only needed his harness twice. His Syracuse T-shirt and skill would keep him safe. He grasped the first rung of scaffold and heaved himself up.

  ***

  Fifty minutes later, Len returned with a fried egg and bacon sandwich for Clay. “Clay? Where are you?” He scanned the beams and scaffolding in search of his boss. “You in the can?” Len made his way toward the back door and the three port-a-potties lined up like little blue boxes. “Clay?” He pulled open each port-a-potty door. Empt
y. Well, empty except for the smell of bad business. Dang, where the hell was he? Len stepped back into the building and scanned the area a second time.

  It was then he spotted a crane hook swaying thirty feet away, just a slight sway, not enough to make a dent in a tin can. “Clay?” Len forgot his bum knee as he broke into an awkward run. “Clay!” He stopped short when he reached the crane. “Jesus, God Almighty.” The boy lay sprawled on the concrete, arms and legs flung out, neck bent too far to be natural. A small pool of blood circled his head like a red halo.

  Len knelt beside his friend, knowing before he touched him, he was dead. “Jesus, God, and all the Saints.” Len crossed himself and felt Clay’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He rocked back on his knees, swiping his eyes as he stared at the red-brown stubble on Clay’s jaw.

  How the hell had this happened? In all the years he’d been with the company, they’d never lost a person. And now this. Len’s gaze flitted over Clay’s back. A blue SYRACUSE splashed across it in bold letters. Where was his harness? A sliver of panic inched up his legs and landed in his gut. Where the hell was his damn harness?

  Len pushed himself up and blew out a steadying breath as he made his way to Clay’s truck and yanked out his safety harness. The boy was not going to be remembered as the reckless fool who got himself killed because he hadn’t worn a damn safety harness. That would make him nothing more than a statistic for an insurance company and Clay and his family deserved better than that.

  Chapter 2

  “Money is all those kind of people want anyway.”—Diana Flannigan

  “Mr. Flannigan? Excuse me, sir, but your niece just called again.”

  Rourke Flannigan glanced up from the financial reports spread out on his desk. Niece? Oh yes, Abigail. “What did she want this time, Maxine?”

  Maxine Simmons cleared her throat. “It seems she’s having a bit of a problem working your remote control.”

  “What?” The girl had been living with him for three weeks and was already driving him crazy.

  “Your remote control, sir. To your television.”

  Rourke shook his head and forced the curse back down his throat. Maxine didn’t appreciate “cuss” words as she called them and since she was the only secretary he’d ever hired who didn’t want to marry him, he tried to honor her request and saved the swear words for when she was out of earshot. And right now, he’d saved up quite a few under the name of Abigail.

  “Remind me again, Maxine, why I have not turned this child over to Child Services?”

  “She’s your niece, sir.”

  “She’s also a tyrant, an abominable tyrant. Abigail the Abominable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rourke leaned back in his chair and considered his current situation. “What am I supposed to do with her? I haven’t been around a thirteen year old in,” he paused and thought, “damn, oh, sorry, Maxine, in almost twenty years since I was thirteen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do I know about thirteen year olds? They’re rude, slovenly, and self-centered. Why would anyone want one, can you tell me that, Maxine?”

  “I suppose they grow on a person, Mr. Flannigan.”

  Spoken as the spinster Maxine was, as though she were referring to moss or lichen. “I suppose, but good Lord, why would a person actually choose to be stuck with a child?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  Rourke laughed. “Which is why we suit so very well.” His laughter shrank to a half sigh. “But here I am, saddled with a niece I haven’t seen in seven years and am now solely responsible for because my free-spirited sister and her idiotic friends decided to fly a prop plane across the Indian Ocean.” Damn them. “How ridiculously irresponsible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s not like I can farm her out to Diana,” he said, thinking of his aunt. “Can you picture her face if Abigail dropped the F-bomb?”

  “No sir, I cannot picture it.”

  “You know, I’d pay Child Services a monthly fee for Abigail’s food and clothing, and I’d rent a nice little apartment over on Crestwood—”

  “They don’t do that sort of work, sir.” Maxine adjusted her cat-eye glasses and peered at him. “They handle children who are in danger. Abuse, abandonment and the like, I believe.”

  “Well, if my niece continues to call me every five minutes, she will be in danger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sighed again as the beginnings of a headache pinched his right temple. “Tell her I can’t talk right now. She should go online and pick out her own television with her own remote, so she doesn’t need to play with mine.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Do you think that will satisfy her?” He had no idea. If she were fifteen years older and not his niece, he’d send her flowers or jewelry— whatever a Centurion Black card could buy—which was anything. He stayed away from those who wanted non-monetary offerings. They were the ones who—

  “It will help, sir.”

  “What? Oh, right. Tell her to order whatever she wants, make a list and give it to you. DVD’s, an I-Pod, whatever kids are into these days.” Who knew what that was? “Something to keep her occupied.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “And make sure she practices the house code. I do not want the police department calling my office again today. Three times in three days is a bit much, don’t you think?”

  “It would appear a bit excessive.”

  “Do you think the child is slow?” He hadn’t thought of that before. Perhaps she needed a psychological evaluation, IQ, and the battery of tests, similar to the ones the company gave new employees to test their ability to mesh with the organization and calculate future success. Perhaps Abigail needed a test to measure her ability to mesh with him. Or perhaps she’d inherited her idiot father’s genes, whoever that was. That was one thing about his sister; Gwendolyn had liked to keep the family guessing.

  “I could contact the company psychologist, if you like.”

  Rourke waved the idea away. “No, we’ll wait on that. Give it another week or so, though God knows how I’m going to last.” He snatched his Blackberry and checked his latest text message. Janice. Again. “I’ll be taking a forced vow of celibacy if this continues much longer.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Nothing. On second thought, take a poll of the women in the office who have teenage children. Be very discreet about it. See how they’d handle the situation. Whoever comes up with the winning solution will receive a ten day trip to Hawaii—children not included.”

  Rourke spent the rest of his morning fielding requests for interviews with Forbes and Money magazine. The completion of his latest project brought both financial and entertainment icons swirling around him, anxious for a photo op and a cover story. People, GQ, Newsweek. The headlines read, ‘Mr. Renovator of the Millennium’. It was all so overdone, but if an occasional, well-placed smile and a penguin suit permitted him to forge his legacy, he’d tolerate the absurdities. His aunt said he had a face the public liked to look at, so he’d let them look if it helped the company. After all, it was all he had.

  “Mr. Flannigan,” Maxine buzzed him, “it’s Mr. Gregory, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Send him in. And Maxine, check on my niece. She hasn’t called in two hours and I want to make sure she hasn’t blown up the house.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Miles Gregory entered Rourke’s office carrying a black portfolio and looking every bit the head of RF Renovations, Limited’s legal counsel—mid-fifties, trim, polished, and one of the few people Rourke didn’t second guess.

  “We have a bit of a problem.” Miles adjusted his bow tie and stroked his chin. The man had a habit of throwing out his concerns and if the issue were noteworthy, he offered a second, more forceful delivery.

  Rourke waited to determine the level of concern.

  “A potentially big problem.”

  Aha, it was indeed
an issue.

  “Rather huge, actually.”

  Three exponents. This was a problem. “What’s the matter, Miles?”

  His lawyer cleared his throat and eased open the portfolio. “It’s regarding the property in New York. There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident? How bad?” When Miles hesitated, Rourke’s concern escalated. “How bad, Miles?”

  “The man died.”

  “Died?” The word tumbled from Rourke’s mouth in an unintelligible heap. People on his jobsites suffered back strains or an occasional fracture. They did not die. He demanded safety precautions and instructions far past OSHA requirements, so much so that Miles dubbed him “Man of a million precautions.”

  “Rourke?”

  Dead. “What happened?”

  Miles slid the portfolio across the desk. “He was a demolition subcontractor. Fell fifty feet onto concrete.”

  “Did his fall harness malfunction?” Rourke imagined the harness strap breaking and the unknown man’s horror in the millisecond before he hit concrete.

  Miles shook his head. “Not that the inspectors can tell.”

  “Christ.” Rourke grabbed the portfolio and scanned the report. When he noticed the date of the incident he cursed again. “Why am I just hearing about this if it happened almost five months ago?”

  “We tried to insulate you. It’s not good for the head of the company to get dragged down by something like this.”

  “Dragged down? The man died, for Christ’s sake. I should have been told.”

  “I apologize. You were in the middle of the Chemstrol acquisition.” Miles fiddled with his bow tie and added, “That’s why we brought this to Diana.”

  “She knew about this?”

  Miles nodded.

  He’d deal with his aunt and her subterfuge once he handled this situation. “What problem could be larger than this man’s life?”