But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Irene had been like a mother to Carly after her own mom died when Carly was nine years old. An only child, she’d spent every summer after that, and sometimes Christmas, with her aunt. At any rate, there was no one else to organize the funeral. Irene had never married and had no children. Her brother, Brenda’s dad, was on a sailboat somewhere in the South Pacific. He’d been notified by ham radio but it would be weeks before he could get back. Carly’s father, who might have helped, or at least been a support, was in London on business.
Where was Finn? If anyone should pay his respects to Irene, it was him. As far as Carly knew he hadn’t set foot in Fairhaven for twelve years, not since he’d fled town after his disastrous performance at that year-end concert. But she and Finn had been friends, good friends, or so she’d thought. Although what kind of friend ran off to Los Angeles and never contacted a person again?
She roused herself to put an arm around her cousin’s shoulders in a quick hug. “We should stay in touch. Come and visit me in Manhattan sometime.”
“I will,” Brenda promised. “And you’re always welcome in Portland.”
Rising, Carly glanced out the bay window overlooking the quiet residential street. A vintage red Mustang had just pulled in to the curb. Her heart leaped as a man, easily six foot three, unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He ran a hand quickly through his wild dark hair and straightened the long black waistcoat beneath the slim-cut, asymmetrical suit jacket in ebony satin.
Finn Farrell, at last. Carly saw him glance at the house and his mouth drew down, tight and sad. She could feel his grief from here and her own chest grew heavy. Then he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands and started purposefully up the front path. He was almost at the steps when around the side of the house, a dog barked. Rufus, Irene’s ditzy Irish setter. Finn changed direction and headed for the side gate, disappearing from view behind a camellia bush in bloom.
Carly carried on dispensing tea but her gaze kept drifting to the hall from which Finn would appear if he entered by the back door. She accepted condolences and offered hers in return. Her generous, loving aunt had touched so many lives.
A warm, furry body nudged the back of Carly’s thigh. Rufus had been distressed all week, restlessly searching the house for Irene and whimpering outside his mistress’s closed bedroom door at night. Now he bumped Carly’s hand, his red, silky body wriggling for attention, already forgiving her for banishing him to the backyard during the reception.
“Where did you come from?” she said, even though she knew Finn must have let him in. “I’m sorry but you have to go—Rufus, no!” The dog rose on his hind legs and planted his front paws on her chest. Tea jostled out of the pot onto her silk blouse. “Rufus, get off! Help, someone!”
“Down, Rufus. Sit.” Finn grabbed Rufus’s collar and hauled the dog off. He looked at Carly, his dark eyes connecting with hers. The years apart dissolved in a moment of shared grief. Then his gaze turned curious as he took her in, cataloging the changes, no doubt. Her blond hair a shade darker, and shorter, just brushing her shoulders. A few extra pounds. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. He had those, too, as well as laugh lines around his mouth.
Coming as she did from Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Carly had once thought of the poor-but-talented Finn as a modern-day combination of Byron and James Dean—sexy, poetic and tragic. Naturally, she’d grown out of that silly fantasy. Poetic and sexy he might be but he wasn’t tragic, just unreliable.
“Take him out.” She dabbed at the wet splotch on her blouse. “Please.”
“Sorry I missed the service.” Still holding Rufus’s collar, Finn leaned in to kiss her cheek. His warm breath stirred old memories, which she ruthlessly shoved away. “I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I heard, I just got in the car and drove. Should have taken a plane.”
“Irene would have understood.” No matter how badly Finn had let Irene down, she’d always forgiven him. Carly wasn’t quite so generous. She didn’t mind for herself, but her aunt deserved better treatment. She forgot now why she’d wanted him here so badly. He caused ripples, disturbed the equilibrium. People were glancing over at the dog, at the larger-than-life figure Finn cut, shaken out of somnolence.
“How’ve you been?” Finn’s gaze searched hers, oblivious to everyone but her. “You look terrific.”
“Good. Well, not so wonderful at the moment obviously.” She felt her cheeks heat, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his face, drinking in the thick straight slashes of eyebrows, the curling bow of his upper lip, the sexy mole on his right cheek. The eyes that saw everything. Despite his trendy suit, he had a slightly disreputable air about him. How could she possibly feel a tug of attraction after all this time, and everything that had happened between them? Or rather, hadn’t happened.
“Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the dining room through the arched doorway where the table groaned with sandwiches and cakes. “Do you want tea? Or there’s coffee.”
“Yeah...no.” Finn’s gaze skimmed her classic dark suit and discreet heels. “You’ve gone all corporate. When did that happen?”
“When I grew up and got a real job.” The day she’d signed her current work contract she’d gone on a shopping spree to upgrade her wardrobe and was still paying off the resulting credit card bill. She gave him the same once-over. “You’ve gone all Hollywood.”
“Camouflage. It helps to look the part.” He swiveled to survey the clusters of dispirited guests. “Irene would have hated this. So hoity-toity, so stuffy.”
Even though he echoed her earlier comment, she was irked. Was that a judgment on her? “It is a funeral.”
“It should be a celebration of her life. She found something positive in every situation, no matter how dire. She brought people joy.” Finn’s eyes narrowed a moment and then he snapped his fingers. “I know. We’ll have a wake. A good old-fashioned Irish knees up. I know where she kept her good whisky.”
A trio of Irene’s women friends standing nearby—an older woman in a long skirt, a well-dressed businesswoman and a grandmotherly type—turned, their faces brightening.
Finn winked at them. “These gals are up for it.”
“Behave yourself,” Carly protested, biting back a smile. Typical Finn, he managed to fluster, annoy and amuse her all at the same time. “For Irene’s sake.”
“This is for Irene’s sake.” He removed the teapot from her hands and passed it to the woman with the expensive haircut. “Take care of that, please. We’ll be back.”
With one arm around Carly’s waist and the other hand in a firm grip on Rufus’s collar, he steered them out of the living room, across the entrance hall and down the corridor into the kitchen. Deciding it was useless to protest, Carly allowed herself to be led. It was a relief to get out of the gloom.
Finn shooed Rufus into the yard. “Sorry, boy. It’s only for a couple of hours.” Then he put his hands on Carly’s shoulders and gently pushed her into a chair at the long oak table in the middle of the country-style kitchen. “Sit down before you fall down. You look as if you’re about to break into a million pieces.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She wasn’t, of course, far from it, but she wasn’t going to spill her guts to Finn. They’d been too long apart. She didn’t know him anymore.
“Now let’s see what we’ve got.” He rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and took down a bottle of Glenmorangie. Grabbing a pair of water glasses he poured triple shots. Handing one to Carly, he raised his glass. “To Irene.”
Carly swirled her glass. She didn’t usually drink hard liquor but the smoky amber liquid beckoned. Still, she hesitated. “The guests...”
“We’ll get them a drink in a minute.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She took a tentative sip. Silky smooth and fiery, the scotch burned her throat and set up a warm glow in her empty stomac
h. As if by magic, her frayed nerves calmed. She took another swig. And another. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and thrust her glass forward.
Finn poured another two fingers of scotch. “Careful, don’t get plastered. This is sipping whisky. Have respect.” He gazed into his glass, a thumb rubbing the rim thoughtfully. “Did my parents come to the funeral?”
“No. I invited them, of course, but they couldn’t make it.” Carly paused, having gathered from Irene that this was a delicate subject. “Have you seen your mom lately?”
He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “Not in twelve years.”
Carly sipped her scotch, grateful for the numbing haze as questions tumbled around in her head. How could he have stayed estranged from his mother for so long? What had he been doing all these years? Why had he stood her up?
She settled for the more immediate question. “How did you hear about Irene?”
Finn took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. “I Skyped with her last week. She told me about her hiking expedition to Mount Baker.”
Carly passed a hand over her eyes. “I still can’t believe she went by herself.”
“She was very fit, why shouldn’t she?” Finn said. “But I asked her to email me when she got back so I would know she’d gotten home safely. When I didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t respond to my phone calls, I asked Dingo to check on her.”
“Dingo? Is he your Aussie friend from high school?”
“Yeah, the ne’er-do-well who introduced me to rock music.” Finn’s grin flashed and then he sobered. “He told me Irene’s death had been reported in the local news that night. She was found on the trail by another hiker.”
Until this moment Carly had avoided forming a mental image of Irene at the scene of her death. Now she staggered to her feet and across the tiled floor to lean over the sink, her stomach contracting convulsively. It was wrong that her aunt should have died alone, possibly in pain, without anyone to even hold her hand. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Finn was instantly at her side. “I had no idea you were such a lightweight drinker, Maxwell. Do I need to take you to the bathroom and hold your hair?” He spoke lightly but his hand on her back was steady and comforting.
“No.” She swallowed, willing the wave of nausea to subside. Then she splashed cold water over her face. Finn handed her a towel to dry herself. When she’d recovered, she said, “Irene asked me to go on an Alaskan cruise with her this month. If I’d said yes she might still be alive. She and I could be watching humpback whales together right now. If something went wrong I would have been with her.”
Finn took her by the shoulders, forcing her to focus on him. “You couldn’t have known she was going to have a brain aneurysm. Her death wasn’t your fault.”
Maybe not. But she wished she’d made time for her aunt instead of chasing that Wallis Group account. An account she still desperately wanted. Carly dragged her sleeve across her damp eyes. “Did she know anything was wrong with her health? She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Nor to me.” He rubbed Carly’s arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. She had lots of friends. She could have asked someone else to go on the cruise. Or to go hiking with her. Even then there’s no guarantee she would have survived.”
“I know.” Carly filled her glass with water from the tap. Through the window she could see the backyard and the new leaves on the trees. A pile of tomato stakes rested against the fence next to the shed. April was the month Irene started to dig the garden beds for planting vegetables. Carly could picture her getting tools from the garden shed in the corner of the yard. Trundling wheelbarrow loads of compost over to the beds. Instead, the garden was overgrown with weeds and the grass needed cutting.
“Carly?” Finn said. “Are you okay?”
“I haven’t eaten much today.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “The scotch is hitting me hard.”
“I meant, in general.” He paused, his gaze searching. “I got the impression Irene was worried about you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
Carly closed her eyes at the rough caring in his voice. She’d had a massive crush on him for years when she was a teenager, but though he’d been friendly and teasing, he hadn’t seemed to notice her in “that way” until the summer after he’d graduated high school.
He’d invited her to the year-end concert put on by Irene’s students and to the party afterward. That night he was to perform part of the repertoire he was using for his live audition for the Juilliard School of Music the following week. She’d bought a new dress and sat in the first row next to Irene, her palms damp and heart racing, not sure if she was more excited about his first major public performance, or what might happen afterward.
The concert was held in the high school auditorium and was open to the public. All his schoolteachers and classmates, his friends and their parents, and all of Irene’s other students’ families had been in the audience. Everyone knew of his talent and was rooting for him to be awarded a scholarship to the prestigious music school. The anticipation had been building for weeks and was a fever pitch by the night of the concert.
And then, disaster. Finn’s performance was a shambles. His fingers stumbled over the keys, he forgot whole passages, he stopped midbar and skipped notes. It was so unlike him. Then someone in the back booed and Finn stalked offstage without finishing. Irene had been gray-faced, speechless. His parents, Nora and Ron, had hurried out, their heads hanging. Every single person in the audience had felt some combination of shock, betrayal and disappointment. What should have been a jubilant celebration had turned into a debacle. Finn hadn’t gone to New York for his Juilliard audition, nor did he pursue what should have been a stunning classical career. A week after the concert he left town, never to return. He’d not only stood Carly up for the party, he hadn’t contacted her or answered her calls. She’d never seen him again until today.
“Why was Aunt Irene worried about me?” Carly asked. One more thing she would never be able to ask her aunt. It was hard to comprehend the fact that she was gone. That Carly could never again pick up the phone and hear her voice.
“Just that you were working too much,” Finn said. “I could have misinterpreted. Aren’t you a high school guidance counselor?”
“That was years ago,” she said. “I switched to human resources. Recently I got a job with an international head hunting firm.” She had loved counseling teenagers but one day she’d looked around and realized that her friends were leap-frogging to the top in their various professions whereas she was stagnating. Now or never, she’d told herself, and started applying for jobs that would make use of her dual major in business and psychology. She’d worked her way up the ladder and had recently landed a plum position at a prestigious company.
“Sounds like a big change,” Finn said. “Do you like it?”
“Love it.” Mostly. Irene was right about working hard. Most weeks she logged upwards of sixty hours. Kind of put a cramp in anything else she might want to do, like have a life. But the payoff would be worth it when one day she got that corner office and the word partner after her name.
“Irene told me you live in Los Angeles,” she said, changing the subject. “What do you do there?”
“Drink too much,” he said cheerfully and raised his glass.
“She had such high hopes for you.” The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air between them.
“My life isn’t over yet.” Their eyes met and his smile faded at the reminder that Irene’s was.
Cursing her lack of tact, she touched his arm. “Sorry.” She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going through his head at that concert or why he’d blown off a chance for a place at Juilliard. Such a waste of talent.
Finn poured himself another shot. Seeing his long, tapering fingers on the bottle—a pianist’s hands—brought back the mem
ory of their first, and only, kiss. The stuffy heat in the third-floor turret of this house, his hands anchoring her hips, the slide of his tongue against hers. Remembering, a pooling warmth settled in her belly that had nothing to do with the scotch.
He raised the bottle. “Hit you again?”
She pushed her glass closer. He held her wrist to keep the glass steady and sloshed in another two fingers’ worth. Then he clinked glasses. “Here’s to you, Carly Maxwell. Long time, no see.”
This time when she looked into his eyes, a rush of boozy affection washed over her. With his black hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead and his rakish grin, he looked like a pirate in a designer suit. “To the good old days.”
He smiled and gave her a wink that made her heart skip. “What might have been may still be yet.”
Peter, Irene’s attorney, entered the kitchen looking for someplace to put his empty coffee cup. He set it next to the sink. “Carly, while I’m thinking of it, come see me at my office next week for the reading of Irene’s will. I’m her executor.”
Carly had been so busy organizing the funeral and calling people that she hadn’t had time to think about what was going to happen with Irene’s property and personal effects. She hoped Irene had remembered how much she loved the seascape that hung in the dining room. It reminded her of their beachcombing expeditions. “I’ll call first thing Monday to make an appointment.”
Peter spied the bottle of scotch. “Is that alcohol? I sure could use a drink.”
“What’ll you have?” Finn went to the cupboard over the fridge and started pulling down liquor bottles. “There’s also bourbon, gin, vodka and brandy.” He handed the bottles to Peter, who lined them up on the table. “Carly, are you okay with dipping into Irene’s stock of liquor?”
“Of course,” Carly said. “She liked her guests to enjoy themselves.”
Bringing Emma Home Page 24
