On impulse he pressed a button on the hands-free phone, but all he got was her voicemail. He thought quickly as he listened to the message, and then cleared his throat at the beep.
‘Hi Krystie, it’s Max. I’m looking for a favour. I want to get Sinéad something special for Christmas but I’m completely out of ideas. Will you help me? Please? Look forward to hearing from you. Bye.’
There, that sounded okay. He wasn’t asking her out on a date, although he planned to buy her lunch or, better still, dinner. Then what he’d like to do was take her back to his apartment to finish what they’d started, but it was too soon for that. She’d been friendly but distant since that night but he knew he hadn’t imagined her responses. Of course, none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been such an emotional evening. She wouldn’t have ended up in his apartment if she hadn’t been overcome with guilt at upsetting his family. But he didn’t want her to date him because she felt beholden to him or worried at offending her boss. Max wanted her to date him because she was as attracted to him as he was to her, and she wasn’t quite there yet. In the meantime, he needed to clear the decks. He pressed the remote and swung the car into his parking spot. Glancing up at the window of his apartment, he sighed when he saw the light was on. She was here.
It had been easy to put off this moment, as Natalie had been on a cruise, but when he received her text today saying she was back and had a present for him his heart sank. He had told Security to let her in, half hoping that she’d get the message when he was vague about what time he’d be home. But, he should have realised, it would never occur to Natalie that any man wouldn’t want her. She was supremely confident in her beauty and her sex appeal. She didn’t love him and would have no problem at all in replacing him, but at the moment she wanted him. She saw herself as an actress, not a model – though that was where she had earned her money and made her name – and wanted to be taken more seriously. She seemed to think dating a well-known accountant rather than a footballer would help and Max had been happy to oblige. She was sexy, independent and fun, exactly what he liked in a girlfriend.
Until he’d met Krystie. From the moment she’d breezed in the door of Starbucks she’d wormed her way into his consciousness and when she’d arrived at his sister’s apartment wearing that dress she’d taken his breath away. She was so incredibly beautiful and soft and kind and funny and caring. He wanted her. And not in the way he’d ever wanted a woman before. This was serious. And he was willing to take it slowly and wait until she felt the same way. He knew she would. There was no doubting the chemistry between them. He also needed to get rid of Natalie. He stepped out of the car and strode towards the door. Time to face the music.
‘You bastard! No one dumps me.’ Natalie’s beautiful eyes flashed, angry and incredulous.
‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart. We’ve had fun, haven’t we?’
She pulled the duvet up over the wispy, black negligée – his present – and glared at him. ‘You’re a shit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a helpless shrug, and walked to the window.
‘So who is she?’
‘Who?’ He pretended innocence but Natalie wasn’t stupid.
‘My replacement,’ she spat at him, dressing.
‘There is none,’ he said honestly and added ‘yet’ in his head.
She stormed around the bedroom and bathroom, gathering up the few bits and pieces that she’d left there, and didn’t speak again until she was about to walk out of the door. ‘You’ll regret this.’
He felt bad when he saw that she seemed close to tears and had to steel himself not to take her in his arms. Instead, he kissed her cheek and sent her away with a gentle lie. ‘I probably will.’
Only moments after the door closed behind her his mobile rang. He pulled it out of his breast pocket and smiled when he saw Krystie’s name flashing at him. Had she called a few minutes earlier it could have been really awkward. He took the timing as a good omen. ‘Krystie, thanks for getting back to me.’
‘Hi, Max.’
He closed his eyes, relishing the sound of her voice. ‘So, are you going to help me out?’
‘I’d like to, Max, but we are so busy at the moment. I really can’t afford to take time off.’
He was prepared for that one. He grinned as she played right into his hands. ‘That’s why God invented late-night shopping.’
‘Oh. Right.’
She didn’t sound happy. His confidence wavered but he pushed on. ‘I could pick you up from the studio tomorrow evening if that suits and we could head into town from there.’
‘Er, I thought the idea was to surprise Sinéad. Isn’t it going to give the game away if you pick me up?’
He smiled at the laughter in her voice and the American twang to her accent. It would strike him as false and pretentious in anyone else, but not Krystie. God, he had it bad.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry, I was thinking. Yeah, you’re right. How about you take the train into town and I’ll meet you outside Trinity College?’
‘Okay, but I’m not sure what time—’ she started.
‘No problem, it’s a five-minute walk from my office.’
‘I’ll text you when I’m on the train. By the way, what are we shopping for exactly?’
He laughed. ‘No idea. Why do you think I’m taking you along?’
She groaned. ‘Great!’
‘See you tomorrow, Krystie, and thanks.’
‘Seeya, Max.’
He ended the call, smiling broadly. Now, the Max Fields charm offensive kicks into action, he thought.
He collapsed into an armchair. Who was he kidding? Any other girl he’d brought home would have told him to send the taxi away that night and probably have ended up in his bed, but not Krystie. He shouldn’t have been such a gentleman, but he knew he couldn’t be anything but with Krystie. She was different and he didn’t want to manipulate or trick her into bed. He wanted her to come to him willingly or not at all. Max hardly knew her but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t about a quick roll in the hay. He wanted much more than that. He wanted the whole damn package.
Chapter Eighteen
The Met was just opening when Sheila arrived. The security man recognised her and nodded and she lowered her head and hurried past. She came here most days now, early in the morning while the tourists were still gorging themselves on the breakfast buffet. She would be long gone by the time they started to arrive. Feeling anxious today, she made straight for Gallery 822 and the Water Lilies painting by Claude Monet. As always, when she first saw it she gasped, and then felt the tension leave her body. She stood, allowing its beauty to envelop her and peace and serenity to descend. While she was immersed in the detail, the brushwork and the simplicity of the masterpiece, she was able to block out the horror of what she had done to her family.
She had lived in this wondrous cocoon that Karl had created for her until that phone call. Then the scales had fallen from her eyes and the cruelty of her actions struck her like a knife through the heart. No longer did she see things from her point of view but from Sinéad’s. It was as if she had been consumed by her sister and now existed only to relive the hurt and the pain and the anguish that Sinéad must have gone through, that Sheila had caused. There was none of the sense of justice she’d felt as the plane had climbed out over Dublin and she’d looked down on her hometown without a shred of guilt or regret. Only the thought of coming face to face with her twin had brought her to her senses, and now she felt nothing but a deep sense of shame and remorse.
Karl tried to reassure her, saying repeatedly that she’d done the right thing. He said it was time to put herself first, that this feeling would pass, she was just in shock. But she’d tuned him out, was barely aware of him. He was an unwanted presence in her private world of misery and nothing he said or did helped. But nor could she face doing the one thing that would help: going home. A lethargy descended on her and she felt weary and miserable spe
nding all of her time in bed or here in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Some people went to a church to find peace but Sheila’s sanctuary was the Met. Sometimes she wandered aimlessly from room to room but other times she would remain transfixed in front of one piece and was brought out of her trance only by the sound of tours arriving. Nothing really gave her comfort or solace, but Monet came close. She found it impossible to stand in front of a canvas by the man she’d worshipped since childhood and not be distracted for a few precious moments.
A cough snapped her out of her trance and she spun around to see a man studying a painting nearby. He seemed unaware of her, lost in the work, but she still tugged her woollen hat down lower over her eyes and hurried from the room. It was almost ten thirty and the gallery was already coming to life. Time to go home.
She emerged onto the street, her head down, hands plunged deep into her thick winter coat, oblivious of everything and everyone. What dream world had she been living in? How had she ever thought that she could just walk away? She had obviously been in shock when she’d come up with this crazy plan. Now she was wide awake and horrified at her actions. It just wasn’t possible to move on before she resolved things with her family.
She thought of the studio Karl had created for her and the body of work she had built up. Her reinvention had all been part of the madness. Why had he done it? Had he realised it was therapy? She sighed, realising it was more than likely true. He was a clever man.
And it had worked then, so maybe it would work now. Sheila quickened her pace. She would paint and paint and paint and maybe, just maybe, the answer would come to her. Maybe she would figure out what to do next. Maybe she would figure out a way to heal her sister’s damaged heart.
Karl’s face lit up when he came home to find her in overalls. Heedless of his beautiful suit, he hugged her and kissed the top of her head. She was glad for his silent support. There were no words left to say. She allowed her body to relax against his for a moment and, when she finally stepped back and looked up at him, she was surprised to see tears in his eyes. She touched his cheek and he covered her hand with his before turning it and kissing her palm. How glad she was that she had come looking for him. She’d put little thought into it. She just knew that she had to leave Dublin and it seemed fitting to come looking for Karl. He had been so happy to see her, welcomed her into his home and provided the safe haven she so badly needed at the time.
She swallowed back her tears and smiled at him before turning back to her work, and a few moments later heard the gentle click as he left the room.
As she worked, she found her mind wandering back to her childhood and the Christmas before her mother died. While Sinéad made decorations with her mother, Sheila would kneel on a chair at the kitchen table and make lopsided mince pies and Christmas cake from her grandmother’s private recipe book. Though her efforts might not have been pretty when she was eight, they were still edible and the family scoffed the lot.
‘You’re so practical, just like your Aunty Bridie,’ she remembered her mother saying, sounding disappointed.
Mum had always been happy at Christmas. She loved the carols and the festive colours and their excitement as they wrote their Santa letters. She would fill the house with deep-green holly and pretty red poinsettias and there was always a scent of mulled wine, mince pies or plum pudding in the air. Sheila was happy in the warm kitchen with her mother, preparing for the big day. She had one clear memory of helping to make the stuffing for the turkey and her mother singing along to the radio. To this day the smell of thyme and Bing Crosby singing ‘White Christmas’ always reminded her of that moment. Christmas had lost its sparkle when Mum died and Bridie was ruling the roost, but once Sheila was old enough she’d reinstated all the old traditions and had done every year since.
Her dad’s only job had been to collect the Christmas tree, trim it and put it up. Of course, he always ended up on the floor in a tangled mess of lights with Max crawling happily around him, clapping in delight when they lit up, only to wail when a fuse blew.
Dad had always been useless around the house. How relieved he must have been when Bridie had offered to move in and look after them all. Sheila remembered, as a very obstinate ten-year-old, how resentful she’d felt at this woman coming into their home. They were doing just fine, they didn’t need help. She could do everything her mother had. But Maggie hadn’t been the most conventional of mothers and had a slapdash approach to housework and cooking, and so Sheila quickly came to appreciate the benefits of having her aunt around. You could always rely on her. Bridie was always waiting at the school gate and the aroma of a casserole in the oven or freshly baked bread would greet them when they got in the front door.
Bridie didn’t ‘experiment’ the way Mum had. She believed in plain, healthy eating and shepherd’s pie and Irish stew featured regularly on the menu. She was strict, insisting they change out of their uniforms and do their homework the instant they came home. They were also expected to keep their rooms tidy and help with the housework. It was a discipline that they had never known but one that Sheila embraced. But Sinéad had hated it and rebelled. Bridie was so very different from her beloved mother. She would go crying to Daddy, but he knew better than to take on Bridie and instead would bring home sweets to placate her. Max, a happy child, had accepted Bridie’s arrival just as he accepted everything. Once his life went along smoothly, he wasn’t too bothered who looked after him.
With Bridie in control, Dad had his life back. He played golf on Saturdays and he occasionally went for a pint. Bridie went to a ladies’ club on Mondays and to bingo on Wednesdays, but, while she was always back before ten, they would be asleep when Dad got home.
Though Bridie had been brilliant when it came to running a household, she’d never been one to kiss or cuddle or sit on the floor and play with them. Sheila and Max had taken that in their stride, but it was hard for Sinéad. She had always been a tactile child and sensitive. Just like Mum.
Sheila stopped and stared out across the Manhattan skyline, the brush dropping from her fingers. ‘Just like Mum,’ she breathed.
She stumbled from the studio and blindly made her way to the window seat. She pulled her knees up to her chin and stared out, unseeing, rocking as the enormity of what she’d done to her sister hit her like a freight train. Her moans and sobs were like that of an animal and her shoulders and ribs ached as all the pain and guilt and fear gushed from her. She never even heard Karl come in and he had to repeat himself a few times before she heard him.
‘Sheila! Sheila, what is it?’ Karl was at her side, his arms around her.
But, though she opened her mouth and tried to speak, nothing came out.
Sheila became aware of voices, Karl and another, male, deep, musical. She had no idea how much time had passed, but she was lying on the large sofa in the living room. The small lamp was on and firelight created shadows on the walls. Karl had removed her overalls, dressed her in pyjamas and tucked a rug around her. It was like having the chickenpox all over again. She wondered if he planned to feed her hot broths and read her a comic as Mum had when she was little. The thought made her giggle and then the giggle turned to hysterical laughter and then she was sobbing again. The voices went silent and then Karl was crouched beside her. ‘Donna?’
His anxious expression made her sob harder and he held her until she’d calmed down again.
‘Why don’t you give us a moment alone, Karl?’
She looked up into the gloom and groaned when she saw the man standing there.
He raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Good to see you too, Donna.’
‘I was worried,’ Karl said when she turned questioning eyes on him. He squeezed her hand and stood up.
She watched him leave and then looked back up at her visitor. ‘Why are you here, Zach? I’m not your patient.’ The man was an old friend of Karl’s and he and Sheila had hit it off straightaway when Karl introduced them. She liked him, she liked him a lot, but, then
, what was there not to like? Not only was he handsome and funny, there was something very warm and caring about him. If ever a man was in the right job it was Zach Taylor.
‘Karl’s worried about you.’ He pulled up a footstool next to her and lowered his large frame onto it, his knees almost level with his chin. ‘He thought that I might be able to help.’
She smirked. ‘You’re the one who is going to need a doctor if you sit like that for long.’
He grimaced. ‘You could be right but stop changing the subject. I’m here to talk about you. What’s wrong, Donna? You can talk to me. We’re friends, aren’t we?’
She nodded, tears welling up again at the compassion in his dark eyes.
‘I could arrange for you to see a counsellor if that would be easier.’
She wiped her eyes with a knuckle. ‘I don’t want to talk to some stranger about my problems.’
‘Then talk to a friend.’
She looked up at him, blinking away her tears. ‘You?’
‘Well, I’m here now.’ He smiled. ‘And I hope I’m a friend.’
‘Friends share their problems,’ she pointed out. ‘It isn’t one way.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘So if I were to tell you some of my problems it would be okay?’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘I suppose it would.’
‘Okay, but you’re right, I need to get off this goddamn stool.’
As he stood up Karl put his head round the door. ‘I was heading to the gym, Donna, but if you’d prefer me not to—’
‘Go, I’ll be fine,’ she reassured him.
‘I’ll look after her,’ Zach promised.
Karl came over to give her a quick hug. ‘See you later. Thanks, Zach.’
‘So?’ Sheila looked at him expectantly when they were alone.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Me first, huh?’
She nodded.
‘Okay, then.’ He stretched out on the floor and leaned his head against the sofa.
First We Take Manhattan Page 16
