Money. It always, always came down to money in life. She'd known that since the day she'd showed up for the reading of her father's will and her angry stepsister had shoved her into the lawyer's arms. Money. People debased themselves for it.
The preschool was eerily quiet, the sound of her footfalls unnaturally loud as Helen walked the empty hall through the lobby, then paused at the door to activate the alarm. It had been the first warm day of a cold, hard spring. No wonder no one was around.
Still feeling like that boy at the piano—only with supper to cook after the piano lesson was done—Helen hurried along the flagstone path to her Volvo, parked in its allotted spot behind the building.
Next to it, like a sleek black cat stretching its paws into a carpet of bluestone, sat a very new Porsche.
Chapter 10
Here, still? She could see him behind the wheel, not sleeping, not reading, just ... sitting. Waiting. For her? When he could be at home or the office, buying and selling and making scads more money for everyone?
Helen was deeply impressed. He must be taking Katie's welfare very seriously indeed to be able to make himself sit like a bump on a log for two whole hours. She was nearly to the parking lot when Byrne climbed out of the Porsche's low-slung seat and stood beside the car, attentive and alert, a half-rueful smile on his face. Despite the dropping temperature he wore no jacket, which she could see was thrown over the passenger seat. He'd rolled his white shirtsleeves to the elbows and loosened his tie, as if he were preparing himself for a knock-down, drag-out negotiation.
What, exactly, did he have in mind to negotiate? He wasn't due at the preschool until Orientation Day, more than a month away. Unless a parent was on the fussy side, it was unusual to have any contact before that time. Even then, it would be by phone.
She walked directly up to him, remembering well their last encounter. The whisper of "Enchantra" seemed to hover in the air. Her heart began tripping erratically, out of fear that the scent would waft between them again. What if it did? What could she say?
"Hello, again," she murmured, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. She felt obligated to apologize. "I had no idea you were out here. Why didn't you ring? I would've got the door."
"I didn't want to interrupt you at work," he explained. "Obviously you stayed late because you had plenty of it to do."
Ah. Work. Naturally he'd respect that. "I saw you returned the books. Did they help?"
"Helped a little; scared me a lot. I had no idea what I didn't know until I read them," he said candidly.
"That's all right. You're not alone," Helen reassured him, but she was wondering where he'd been for the past three years. Hank had learned to change a diaper faster than she could, and Hank was the one, not her, who'd potty-trained Russell. Could a stock trader possibly be more macho than a state trooper?
Byrne had cocked his head and was looking at her briefcase. "Uh-oh. I recognize a workload when I see it. Not done yet for the day?"
Helen sighed and lifted the attaché, weighing its contents. "Nope. The paperwork never ends." She opened the door to her car and dropped the briefcase on the passenger seat, then turned to him. If he had a reason for being there, now was the time for him to state it.
"Okay, here it is," he said, as if she'd spoken the thought aloud. "I was hoping to steal some of your time. Hoping to pick your brain about Katie. I'll be bringing her back from Zurich next week and frankly, I'm not any forwarder on what to say or do about Linda."
Linda. He used the name as though she were a mutual friend. It sent a shiver through Helen, as though he'd thrown open a door to a vast, cold place.
"Mr. Byrne—"
"Nat.''
"Nat," she said automatically, "I don't think my advice can possibly top what you read in the Fendelstine book."
His brow came down in a sharp crease of impatience. "That one assumes the child attended the funeral. It doesn't apply."
Which Helen knew but had forgotten. "You're right, of course," she allowed, feeling less like an expert than before. "Did you look at the section on terminal illness in the book by Carey?"
"I did," he said, "even though Linda didn't suffer from terminal illness."
Here was new information.
Helen nodded and said, "Even a brief illness would warrant the same response."
She shivered again in a sudden, rippling wave. It was cold. She was tired. Russ and Becky would be waiting like hungry cubs back at the den. She was torn between helping him and serving them.
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back on his gleaming car, then looked down at his shoes. He cleared his throat. Then he looked again at her.
"I don't know about you," he said with a half-smile, "but this conversation, as much as I want—need—to have it, seems a little on the bizarre side for a parking lot. Can't we just go somewhere for a while, have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, and talk?" he pleaded.
Put another way, the question might have gone something like: "Is your time really so all-fired precious?"
The short answer to that was: yes. Helen had a career and two kids. The pie-and-coffee part kind of got lost in the shuffle. Despite that, she decided on the spot to file him under "career" and have the pie and coffee. It was, somehow, the least she could do.
"All right. I just have to call home and have my kids order a pizza," she told him. "They'll be faint with hunger by now."
"How old are they?"
"Fourteen. Sixteen."
"They don't fend for themselves by then?" he said, surprised and obviously alarmed.
Helen gave him a grim, wise smile. "Not unless I leave notarized instructions on the kitchen table. I'll be right back."
She turned to head for her office, but he caught her arm. "Wait. Use my cell phone," he suggested.
Heat. The warmth of his touch shocked her. Here it was, twilight in May in New England; but it felt like noon in July in the Bahamas. "I ... oh ... yes. That makes sense," she stammered. "I've been meaning to get one of these things."
He reached in his front seat for the phone and handed it to her with the kind of pleased expression that boys reserve for their best-loved toys. She took the phone, called the house, and was thrilled—thrilled—when Russ answered.
"Hey, kiddo, I'm going to be later than I thought," she said, turning away from Byrne. "Is Becky home?"
She took his grunt to mean a yes. "Good. You two can send out for pizza. You'll find a few dollars on my dresser if Becky's broke. I want everybody staying in tonight. Are you clear on that?"
She could hear him rolling his eyes. "Natcherly."
"I should be home in—an hour?" she asked, looking at Nat for his best guess.
Nat bobbed his head from side to side in comical consideration, then pursed his lips in a reply of "more-or-less."
"'Kay. Bye," said Russ, devoid of curiosity.
Helen handed the phone back to Nat and said, "Where to? I'll follow you in my car."
But Katie's father simply shrugged. "Damned if I know. I haven't eaten around here in years."
"But you live right—" Helen bit off the observation, not wishing to remind him what a rotten, uninvolved husband and father he sounded like, and said, "Genevieve's is nice. Besides the restaurant, they have a pub with lighter fare. It's on Derby Street, near Pickering Wharf. Suppose you follow me."
They got in their respective cars and Helen led the way, with Byrne nudging her along. She frowned repeatedly into her rearview mirror, trying to keep him a safe distance from her bumper. But Type As weren't like that; Type As would much rather breathe down the back of your neck. Not for the first time, Helen had to wonder how any woman with a sensitive, artistic temperament could have married a man so hard-driving—literally—as Nathaniel Byrne.
She glanced in her rearview mirror again. There he was, his dark brows knit in concentration, his full lips set in a line more grim than eager. If she hadn't known the man, she'd have had the uneasy sense that he was stalking her. Damn, but h
e made her feel on edge. One minute he was disarmingly casual; the next minute—well, this.
It wasn't far to Genevieve's. Helen pulled into the restaurant's parking lot and Byrne whipped into the spot alongside, slipping out of the Porsche in time to get her door for her. Suddenly things were looking and feeling very much like a date, which left Helen poised between sudden guilt and murky pleasure.
It's not a date, not a date, she reminded herself as she got out of the Volvo. It's a tax-deductible snack. She'd make certain of it by paying for it.
He slammed her door for her while she waited uncertainly in his shadow. He turned. She was in the way. They bumped shoulders.
"I'm sorry," Helen said, truly distressed. "I'm used to getting my own door."
Byrne smiled that damnably disarming smile of his. "That's the problem with career women today: too competent by half. How do you expect us to impress you with our chivalry?"
They were very close. Oh, I'm impressed, all right, she wanted to say. With your smile if not your chivalry.
Suddenly he cocked his head and said, "Are you sure you don't wear Enchantra?"
"You can't possibly smell it again," she said, begging the question. She began walking quickly toward the restaurant's side entrance.
Falling in with her, he said, "I don't smell it, exactly. But—laugh if you must—I'm finding this undeniable aura about you. Of Enchantra." He shrugged and said, "You must remind me of their ads or something. I expect they use a raven-haired beauty like you."
Raven-haired! Beauty! What could she say to a remark like that? Nothing. She let the wave of pleasure that had rolled across her nerve endings recede, and then she spoke. "I hope Katie is enjoying herself in Switzerland," she said, determined to keep the conversation tax deductible.
She watched him in profile as his brow creased again. He compressed his lips and shook his head uncertainly. "She doesn't sound happy when I talk to her. Three-year-olds run hot and cold on telephones, I know. But in general, I think maybe Zurich was a mistake."
"What does Peaches say?" Helen asked as she stepped inside the restaurant ahead of him.
"Ah. Peaches. She wasn't crazy about the idea in the first place. I plan to give her a big, fat bonus when—"
A hostess approached with a smile. "Two for dinner?"
All thoughts of a simple piece of pie and coffee seemed to go by the board. Suddenly Byrne was starved, and so was she. They had no reservations and the restaurant side was crowded, but they were in luck: A table for one could be made into a table for two. They eased their way behind the hostess through the pub section and were seated in a dark snug corner with a view of the wharves through the mullioned windows. A waitress came by to replace a flickering candle inside its amber hobnailed globe and promised to return with menus.
More than ever, it was feeling like a date. Helen glanced into Byrne's sea blue eyes, then out at the darkening sky above the harbor, before returning again to his comfortable smile with an awkward one of her own. He seemed perfectly normal. She, on the other hand, felt as self-conscious as hell.
She pressed forward with her plan to take a tax deduction. "You were saying about Peaches and Katie?"
Some of the smile left his face as he said, "I was wrong about the cousins. The good news is their English is decent. The bad news is they're boys, and older than Katie. They've pretty much ignored her."
"And Katie's grandmother?"
"Just the opposite—she's spoiling Katie rotten. Candy, presents, indulgences—hell, that's my job," he quipped. "It's a strain on Peaches, as you can imagine. She doesn't say so, of course; you have to read between the lines. She's in an awkward position. She's not Katie's mother, after all. And my mother-in-law is a big believer in blood being thicker than water."
"And you aren't?"
He thought about it for a moment. "On balance," he said carefully, "I think kids belong wherever the most love is. A parent's love is a wonderful thing; but it's not the only thing."
His voice was sad and pensive and unsure. Helen had to wonder whether he felt truly enlightened or was just rationalizing. He did love that career, after all.
"You have lots of faith in Peaches, then."
The waitress brought wine, which he had wanted and Helen had not; he sipped it appraisingly, then answered her question. "It was Linda who had all the faith. She and Peaches were uncannily close. I've never seen two women hit it off like that."
"Really. How long had they known one another?"
"Let me see. I guess, about three and a half years. They met when Linda was pregnant with Katie. Peaches was Linda's Lamaze partner, in fact," he said, coloring.
Helen wasn't fast enough to hide a double take. "I know, I know, I should've been there," he acknowledged. "But I was getting the Columbus Fund up to speed: seven days a week, eighteen hours a day. I wanted Linda to hold off on starting a family, but she—"
He smiled ruefully at the memory. "She had a mind of her own," he said softly. "And I'm glad, because otherwise I wouldn't have Katie now."
But you don't have her, knucklehead, Helen wanted to say. Your mother-in-law does.
Still, the deed was done and his daughter would soon be home, so Helen settled for saying, "Katie's going to blossom at The Open Door. I hope you'll be there to see it happen; it's one of life's more joyful miracles."
It was a warning shot across his bow. Helen didn't want him thinking that he could dump Katie off at The Open Door and go back to moving money from here to there and back again without another care in the world. Single fathers didn't get to do things like that.
He lifted one eyebrow. "You don't think much of me, do you?"
Now it was her turn to flush. "I didn't say that. You seem concerned, if a little at sea."
The waitress arrived before he got a chance to respond. After she left with identical orders of chicken breast in raspberry vinaigrette, he said, "Let me be blunt. I haven't been a hands-on father, partly because Linda never forced me to. She was perfectly happy, with Peaches's help, to do the parenting on her own.
"All right," he corrected, "maybe not perfectly happy. We were fighting a lot over my absences at the end ... fighting over everything, actually," he muttered as he fiddled with his bread knife.
He stared out the window, and it seemed to Helen that he was somewhere else altogether. "There was increasing hostility. We didn't seem able to communicate at all. I thought it was about Katie, but it wasn't. It was about Linda or me ... or both of us. I don't know. We just lost it. In the space of a few months, we just ... lost it," he said with a bleak little sigh. "It happened so fast. All of it."
Caught completely off guard by his candor, Helen made a big deal of buttering her roll. She had no idea what to say. He seemed to want to talk, not about Katie so much as about Linda. It was natural, of course. He was bereaved and Peaches, his sounding board, was in Zurich.
Helen felt obliged to say something. "No one is ever really prepared for the death of someone close." It sounded so trite.
He swung his gaze back to her. "Are you married, or divorced?" he asked, implying that there were only those two choices.
"Neither. Like you, widowed."
He looked bewildered, as if she'd accused him of joining a cult. "Widowed. It's a funny word. I don't feel widowed. I feel as if Linda's just gone off in a snit. That she'll be back and we'll hash it all out. The end was so ... God. Brutal."
He looked up at Helen, genuine pain in his eyes. "We hadn't been speaking for three days before ...."
Three days. Helen had hardly gone three hours in anger at Hank. "That makes it much worse, then," she conceded.
"If I could only have the days back!" he said fiercely. Then he focused on Helen once again, with an intensity that left her drained. "How did you deal with it? Was it a hard loss?"
His question, so blunt, so naive, took her breath away. "Very," she said.
"Was it unexpected?"
She didn't like this at all. He was a fellow sufferer—but she
didn't like this at all. "You might say that," she said faintly. "My husband was a state trooper. About four years ago, he pulled someone over for speeding. He ... he was shot point-blank by the motorist."
Byrne slumped back in his chair, as if he himself had taken the bullet. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry."
"It's all right," Helen said, forcing a tight smile of forgiveness. "It was a long time ago."
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm so caught up in Linda's death that ... I'm sorry."
"No, really, stop. You may not believe it right now, but people do work through their grief, some better than others." She added, "I had a hard time because Hank died violently—"
"I understand, I understand completely," he said.
Somehow she resented that. "I don't see how you can," she argued. "When someone takes a life, it's always worse—"
"Right."
Something about his look, his voice, sent a shiver through Helen. He had refused to stick to the subject—his daughter—and had gone lurching off onto an unmarked path. As curious as Helen was to know the fate of Linda Byrne, she wasn't sure she wanted to walk down that path just then. Not with him.
She hesitated before she said, "I ... don't understand you."
He picked up on her reluctance. "Of course you don't understand me," he said with forced lightness. "I'm babbling. Chalk it up to nervousness. I haven't been out for a meal with a woman since ...." He shrugged. "I can't remember." He glanced around for their waitress. "Where the hell is she?" he wondered irritably. "The service here stinks. Oh, miss," he said, commandeering the nearest one he could find. He held up his wineglass to her.
Edgy and nervous herself, Helen watched him fume as he waited for the refill. He was making no effort to pick up the thread of their original conversation about Katie, apparently leaving that burden to Helen.
Well, nuts to you, she decided. First you need me, then you don't. This was a waste of time. Surely she should be home minding her own family instead of second-guessing the hotbed of emotions that was sitting opposite her. She resolved to wait him out. He had come here to talk about Katie. Fine. Let him talk.
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