He’d stepped down as CEO in June. His idea.
One of his smarter moves had been to get Dylan, fresh out of the NHL and looking for something new to do, to help with NAK. He’d eased back from day-to-day involvement now, too.
NAK would have gone bust within months without Dylan’s help. Dylan knew how to read people. He knew how to fight in a way Noah didn’t.
They were both keenly aware that a central challenge for a newly public company was to figure out what to do with the founder. Sometimes the best thing for the company was for the founder to stay on as CEO, or at least remain deeply involved in the stewardship of his or her creation.
Sometimes the best thing was for the founder to find something else to do.
Like spend a few days hiking on the other side of the continent.
Noah decided to focus on that problem another time. “I promise I won’t step foot in that ballroom until I’ve had a shower,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to scare the ladies.”
Dylan grunted. “More like turn everyone off their hors d’oeuvres.”
Noah grinned, leaning back on one arm as he surveyed the view of the mixed hardwood forest they were about to enter, a relief after the rugged, open terrain above the tree line. At over 6000 feet, Mount Washington was the highest peak in the east and one of the deadliest mountains in the world, in part because of its proximity to a large and mobile population, in part because of its changeable and often extreme weather conditions. Noah liked it because unlike the other mountains in what was known as the Presidential Range—a series of high peaks named after U.S. presidents—Mount Washington had a weather observatory and a full café with hot dogs at the top.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had hot dogs, but he’d helped himself to two on his brief stay on the summit.
“It’s a beautiful spot, Dylan,” Noah said, meaning it, “but the same mosquito that bit me yesterday at the Lake in the Clouds has found me again. I think it followed me up and down this mountain.”
“It’s not the same mosquito, Noah.”
“I hate mosquitoes.”
“At least it’s only one. It could be a hundred.”
“Maybe my lack of showering discouraged reinforcements.”
Dylan grinned at him. “You and mosquitoes. Imagine if you didn’t have bug repellant.”
“No, thanks.”
“You never hiked up Mount Washington while you were at MIT?”
Noah shook his head. “Never even considered it.”
“Too busy doing math problems,” Dylan said, amused.
Math problems. Noah sighed. He had explained countless times in his long friendship with Dylan—practically since first grade—that “math problems” was too simplistic. It didn’t explain how his mind worked.
“I’m not good at math,” Dylan added.
“You don’t like math. There’s a difference. And your idea of ‘math’ is arithmetic. Adding fractions.”
“I can add fractions. It’s multiplying them that does me in.”
Noah glanced at Dylan but couldn’t tell if he was serious.
“We shouldn’t sit too long,” Dylan said. “We don’t have much farther to go, but we want to make it down the mountain in time to get to Boston and turn into swashbucklers.”
For a split second, Noah imagined himself lying back on the boulder and taking a nap. They’d encountered high winds, fog and temperatures in the low fifties on the last thousand feet or so to the summit. He appreciated the clear, quiet weather and relative warmth lower on the mountain. It was even sunny. By the time they reached the trailhead at Pinkham Notch, it would be in the seventies. He’d peeled off his jacket on the descent and continued in his special moisture-wicking Patagonia T-shirt and hiking pants. Dylan, who was built like a bull, was in Carhartt. Noah was fair and lean, more one for sessions in the gym or dojo than treks in the wilderness. Dylan had decided a few days in the White Mountains would be good for Noah.
Same with the masquerade ball tonight.
Good for him.
Noah had gone along. Why not? It wasn’t as if he had a whole lot else to do. Not like even just a couple of months ago. A year, two years, ten years ago, he’d navigated a hectic schedule that would have flattened most people he knew. So had Dylan.
“You couldn’t sign me up for a simple black-tie ball,” Noah said, sitting up straight on the New England granite. “No. No way. My best friend since first grade has to sign me up for a masquerade. I have to wear a costume.”
“More or less. It’s not like Halloween.” Dylan was clearly unmoved by Noah’s complaints. “All in the name of fun and a good cause.”
“Right.” Noah drank some water from his water bottle, relieved that he didn’t see any mosquitoes. “I’ve agreed to dress up in whatever swashbuckler outfit you’ve managed to find for me, but I’m skipping the long-haired wig and funny beard.”
“Just not the sword,” Dylan said.
Noah grinned. “Never the sword.”
“A reenactment musketeer rapier is waiting for you in Boston. No one needs to know it’s you behind the black mask. I understand you don’t want your photo turning up on some gossip website asking if the most eligible bachelor in San Diego has lost his mind.”
“Dylan, why do I have the feeling you aren’t taking my concerns seriously?”
“Because I’m not. You’d have even more women flocking to you if they could see you in your sword-fighting duds.”
Sword-fighting duds. Noah shook his head. Expecting Dylan to appreciate proper fencing terminology was a waste of time. No doubt he felt the same when it came to Noah and the nuances of hockey.
“The costume has a cape, too,” Dylan added.
“There’s no hope for you, my friend.”
Dylan shrugged as he drank some of his own water.
“You used to be the most eligible bachelor in San Diego,” Noah said.
“Best-looking. You were always more eligible. You just have a habit of choosing the wrong women.”
Noah tucked his water bottle into the side mesh pocket on his pack and got to his feet, lifting the pack onto one shoulder. “What wrong women?”
“Hollywood babes for starters,” Dylan said, standing with his pack.
“Only recently. I haven’t been the same since I got dumped by that computation engineer my senior year at MIT. She was brilliant, cute—”
“Not that cute. I remember her.” Dylan jumped onto the trail. He didn’t seem to consider that he might slip and hit his head, twist an ankle or fall off the damn mountain. Of course, he landed lightly on his feet. “She wasn’t as cute as your latest actress.”
“Her show just got canceled, and she’s not cute. She’s gorgeous.”
“Smart?”
“Yes, I guess so. We didn’t get that far before we went our separate ways.”
“Not many people are smart compared to you. It’s a relative term.”
Also one Noah seldom considered, but he had learned through hard experience that not everyone thought the way he did. And what did he know about relationships? His latest “relationship,” with the cute/gorgeous actress of the canceled Sunday-night show, had lasted three weeks and ended that spring. He’d known from the start it wasn’t an until-death-do-us-part match, but he’d thought it would last at least through the summer.
He was the one who had ended it. Just had to be done. Expensive dinners, gifts and such were one thing. Manipulating him to bankroll a movie she could star in was another.
“It’s good you had this time to enjoy nature,” Dylan said without any evidence of sarcasm.
“Right. Sure. I didn’t even bring a cell phone.”
Waving off a mosquito that seemed to have singled him out, Noah joined Dylan in heading down the mountain. In a few minutes, they were in dappled shade, and he could hear water tumbling down a rock-strewn stream. Several hikers passed them, ascending the rugged, steep trail. There were no guaranteed safe trails up Mount Washington, but
thousands climbed it without incident every year. Preparation and the right equipment were key, but so was the right mindset—a clear understanding of one’s abilities and a willingness to turn back if conditions warranted. A foolish risk on Mount Washington could prove dangerous, even deadly.
When he’d decided to start his own business, Noah had assessed his situation with the same clarity and objectivity as he had when he agreed to join Dylan and his hockey friends hiking in the White Mountains. He’d realized within weeks of forming NAK that he needed Dylan McCaffrey on his team. They’d grown up together in suburban Los Angeles, but Noah had gone on to MIT and Dylan into the NHL. After a series of injuries ended Dylan’s hockey career, he had blown most of his money and was sleeping in his car when Noah knocked on his window asking for his friend’s help.
Dylan’s instincts and no-nonsense view of people and business helped Noah get NAK going and keep it going. Its success had exceeded their dreams. Now Dylan was marrying a woman from a small New England town and reinventing his life.
Noah had no idea what he was doing beyond taking a hot shower when he was back in civilization.
More mosquitoes descended on him when he rounded the next bend in the trail, but by then he didn’t care. He could hear cars. After three nights sleeping in a tent, he was ready to check into a five-star Boston hotel, even if a B-movie swashbuckler costume was waiting for him.
* * *
Dylan had booked a room at the sprawling Mount Washington Hotel, a National Historic Landmark that opened in Bretton Woods in 1902. Noah would have happily stayed there for several days and enjoyed the resort amenities and the spectacular views of the surrounding mountains, but he and Dylan had to get to Boston.
They took turns in the shower and changed into fresh clothes.
Noah didn’t shave. Dylan grinned at him. “Four days’ beard growth is essential for a swashbuckler, I take it.”
Noah shrugged. “I’m just hoping it will help keep anyone from recognizing me.”
He slipped into a black sport coat, which he wore over a silky black T-shirt and black trousers—the uniform he’d adopted after graduating from MIT. He didn’t remember why, except it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Dylan insisted it was because he wanted to appear older. Maybe it had been. Whatever the reason, now people expected him to show up head-to-toe in black.
He cupped his iPhone in one hand and started out into the hall.
“How many messages did you have?” Dylan asked as they left the room.
“What makes you think I looked?” At his friend’s roll of the eyes, Noah answered with an exaggeration. “Ten thousand.”
“You mean ten, and one you answered.”
It was close. That was Dylan. He could read people.
They headed down wide, elegant stairs to the main lobby, then outside onto a sweeping porch overlooking expansive lawns and the stunning mountains where they’d spent the past four days and three nights.
As they walked to Dylan’s car, he frowned at Noah. “Everything okay?”
“I got bit by mosquitoes. Do you worry about West Nile virus?”
“No, and you don’t, either. What’s up?”
Noah shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat of Dylan’s Audi. He’d bought the car for his Knights Bridge residence now that he was spending most of his time on the East Coast. Noah didn’t offer to drive.
He needed to think.
In fact, he’d had one call from San Diego that made him uneasy. He would have to return it once they arrived in Boston. He had no choice.
He could see that Dylan was on alert. He would help in a heartbeat if Noah was in trouble. NAK trouble, personal trouble. It didn’t matter.
This time, Noah didn’t want Dylan to get involved.
The San Diego call was his problem.
Dylan seemed to guess that asking more questions would get him nowhere. His years on the ice, practicing, playing with a team, had honed his natural instincts about when to make a move, when to hold back. Noah had always been more of a solo operator.
As he started the car, Dylan took a breath, obviously reining in an urge to interrogate Noah. Finally he said, “Olivia’s done a lot of work on her house since you were there in April.”
“That’s good,” Noah said neutrally. Olivia’s house had needed a lot of work.
“We’re tearing down my place,” Dylan added.
“Ah.”
As far as Noah was concerned, it was the only sensible option. He’d been to Knights Bridge just that one time, in early spring, not long after Dylan had received a handwritten note from Olivia Frost demanding he clean up his property, an eyesore for potential visitors to the getaway she was opening down the road from him.
Except her note was the first Dylan had heard of her, Knights Bridge or his ownership of a house there. He’d had no idea his treasure-hunter father had bought the house and left it to him upon his death two years ago. It was built in the 1840s but wasn’t the architectural gem that Olivia’s home was. In fact, it was a rundown wreck.
Dylan hadn’t expected to discover that he had roots of his own in the out-of-the-way Swift River Valley, and he certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with Olivia Frost.
Despite the miles he had hiked over the past few days, Noah felt restless, frustrated with his situation, even trapped, but at least he didn’t have to keep the players straight in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. He stuck out enough in Southern California but he enjoyed relative anonymity there compared to what he would endure in a small town straight out of Norman Rockwell. Dylan had tried to explain to him that, despite appearances to the contrary, time hadn’t stopped in Knights Bridge.
Maybe it hadn’t, but it was still small.
Really small.
Noah stared out the window as the mountains and woodlands of northern New England gave way to the suburbs of metropolitan Boston. Dylan drove with occasional suspicious glances at him, but Noah didn’t budge. He wasn’t talking.
When the Boston skyline came into view and traffic picked up, he sat up straight, wide-awake.
This was familiar territory.
Dylan valet-parked at the same five-star hotel in Copley Square where the charity event was being held and they each had booked a suite for the night. Their costumes for the evening would be delivered to their rooms.
“Noah,” Dylan said as he climbed out of the car.
Noah knew there was no point denying there was a problem. He shook his head. “Later.”
“Anytime. You know that.”
“I do. Thanks.”
When he reached his suite, Noah dug out his iPhone and stood in the window overlooking the familiar city streets as he dialed Loretta Wrentham’s number in San Diego. Loretta was Dylan’s personal lawyer and friend, a striking woman in her early fifties who recently admitted she’d been his father’s lover, at least briefly. According to Loretta, Duncan McCaffrey had never told her why he’d bought a house in Knights Bridge, either, but it had changed his son’s life.
That was Duncan, Noah thought. He’d been a restless soul, divorcing Dylan’s mother, traveling the world, having adventures. Fifteen years ago, he’d turned up in Boston when Noah was a freshman at MIT. Noah had been homesick, feeling like a misfit even among people just as dedicated to math and science as he was. Duncan McCaffrey had suggested Noah take up a martial art. “Karate, tae kwon do, tai chi, fencing. Something.” Noah had signed up for his first fencing lesson that week. Duncan had already gone off on some expedition.
Noah had known Loretta since she’d started working with Dylan during his early years with the NHL and considered her a friend.
She answered on the first ring. She must have pounced on the phone. “I haven’t found out a thing,” she said. “Not. A. Thing.”
That wasn’t good. Loretta was a hound. One sniff, and she pinned her nose to the trail straight to the end. This one had her stumped.
A few days before Noah flew to Boston for his hike i
n the White Mountains, he’d spotted a mystery man on his tail in San Diego. Or what he thought was a mystery man on his tail. He’d first noticed the man outside a waterfront restaurant, then at his fencing studio and finally outside the NAK offices in downtown San Diego.
On that third sighting, Noah had raced outside but got there too late. The man was gone. Loretta was on her way into the lobby of NAK’s stylish high-rise. Noah asked her if she’d seen anyone. She said she hadn’t, but offered to find out what she could. As a friend.
“It could just be my imagination that this guy’s following me,” Noah said, as he had a little over a week ago when he’d explained the situation to Loretta in San Diego.
“Do you have an imagination?” She caught her breath. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t mean it as an insult. You’re just so...evidence-oriented. I’m a lawyer. I can relate.”
Noah had learned not to dwell on people’s stereotypes about him but he was tempted to tell Loretta that if he didn’t have an imagination, there would be no NAK, Inc.
Nor would there be a fortune for anyone to scheme and fight over.
If that was what was happening.
He didn’t know if the man’s reasons for tailing him were personal, professional or money related—or even involved him.
“This guy could be a reporter,” she said.
“I suppose,” Noah said, unconvinced. So far, most journalistic interest in him since NAK had taken off had been legitimate, professional. No sneaking around, no following him.
“I wish you’d gotten a better look at him. Tall, gray hair, trim, wearing a dark gray suit. That’s not much. You’re sure you’d recognize him again if you saw him?”
“Yes.”
Loretta sighed. “Maybe he’s looking into one of your Hollywood ex-girlfriends. A paparazzi type.”
Noah grimaced as he watched a young couple run across Boylston Street hand in hand. “All I need is some idiot with a camera popping up out of nowhere and snapping shots of me dressed as a swashbuckler.”
That Night on Thistle Lane Page 3
