"And since he's going to be in New Orleans, you see it as the perfect opportunity."
"I do. He, obviously, feels differently. I've left three messages, he hasn't returned one of them."
Marilyn said nothing for a long moment. She sat, eyebrows drawn together in thought. Finally, she met Kate's eyes. "If this is that important to you, why are you asking his permission?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've got an invitation. It's a free country. Just go."
"You mean, just show up at the signing?"
"Why not? Force a confrontation. Get right in his face and make him listen to you."
"But what if he-"
"Blows you off?" she supplied. "Sends you on your way?"
"Yes." Kate clasped her hands together, feeling like a kid instead of a grown woman with a child. "I'd hate that. It'd be so…humiliating."
"At least you'd know you tried. At least you could say you did all you could to repair the friendship." Marilyn stood and started toward the door. When she reached it, she stopped and looked back at Kate. "Think about it. After all, what do you have to lose?"
25
She had nothing to lose, Kate decided, and the following Saturday morning, after Richard left for his golf game, she got herself and Emma dressed and off to Luke's signing. Forty minutes later she was back home, juggling a squirming Emma in her arms as she fumbled to fit her house key into the front door lock. She finally did, opened the door and stepped inside.
Emma squealed in delight, and Kate made a sound of exasperation. "Why today, you little stinker? Are you deliberately trying to make me miss the signing?"
The infant beamed at her in response, and Kate shook her head and hurried to her bedroom. That morning, in anticipation of seeing Luke for the first time in more than ten years, she had taken extra care with her appearance. She had chosen a chamois-colored linen jacket and trousers and a short-sleeved silk shirt.
She had been halfway across the Causeway when Emma had thrown up. Not any old puke, but a major, bypass the bib, all over her clothes, upchuck. Always prepared for this not unusual occurrence, Kate carried an extra set of clothes for Emma everywhere she went. She had swung into one of the crossovers, and gone around to change Emma.
One small problem. She hadn't brought another set of clothes for herself and just as she had gotten Emma looking picture perfect again, her daughter had decided once was not enough and had decorated the front of Kate's blouse.
She'd had two choices: go to the book signing wearing a blouse with baby puke stains decorating the front or turn back.
So, here she was.
Kate reached the bedroom and laid Emma on the bed. The infant smiled and waved her arms and legs in delight. "Oh sure, now you're happy, troublemaker."
Emma's response was her rendition of a laugh, a kind of low hum followed by a popping sound.
Kate couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, so we're going to be late. Big deal. Less time waiting in line."
After slipping out of her jacket, she crossed to the closet, unbuttoning her blouse as she went. The mirrored doors were slightly ajar; she slid them the rest of the way open. As she reached for another blouse, she caught a glimpse of the bed, reflected in one of the doors.
It was slightly rumpled, as if someone had lain on it. She moved her gaze to the pillows. Both bore the imprint of a head.
She frowned. That wasn't right.
She had made the bed moments before hurrying out of the house. Hadn't she? She searched her memory. Admittedly, she had been flustered. Nervous at the prospect of seeing Luke again, worrying about what she would say to him when she did. Richard had already left; she remembered fluffing the pillows and tossing them into place, then rushing out the door with Emma.
She hadn't even sat on the bed after she'd made it. She certainly hadn't lain down.
Someone had been in her house. Someone who had not been invited. A stranger. They had reclined on her bed, had pressed their face into her pillow, into Richard's.
Kate shuddered, surveying the room. Nothing else appeared out of order. She shook her head, feeling slightly off-kilter. She had to be imagining things. Why would someone break into her house and take nothing? And how could they have gotten in and out so quickly? She hadn't even been gone an hour.
She crossed to the bed, bent and ran a hand over the spread, smoothing it. As she straightened, her gaze landed on an edge of something shiny and pink peeking out from underneath the bed.
One of her padded, satin hangers, she realized. One of the ones she hung her good lingerie on. She frowned. Now, how had that gotten there? She retrieved it and started for the closet.
Again she stopped, a sensation like ice water sliding down her spine. She turned back toward the bed, staring at the space between the floor and the edge of the frame.
A space deep enough for a grown man to hide under.
Even as she told herself to grab Emma and run, Kate walked toward the bed, heart pounding. She glanced at the now quiet Emma. The infant watched her every move, her gaze wide and solemn, as if she, too, felt something was amiss.
Kate reached the bed. She bent and reached for the dust ruffle. She lifted it and peered underneath.
The phone rang.
Kate screamed and sprang away from the bed. Startled, Emma let out a wail of terror. Kate scooped her up, cradling her to her chest and cooing softly.
The recorder answered on the fourth ring; a moment later Richard's mother's voice echoed through the house. Kate let out a breath she hadn't even realized she held and rested her head against Emma's. No one like Mom Ryan to bring her back down to earth.
Kate laughed self-consciously. What an imagination. There had been nothing under the bed but a couple of dust bunnies and a pair of Richard's socks.
Of course, there hadn't been. What had she expected to find? Or who? The bogeyman? A murderer or rapist? This was Mandeville, for Pete's sake. What was wrong with her?
It was nerves. Over seeing Luke. Over what she would say and how he would respond.
She glanced at her watch and muttered an oath. If she didn't leave soon, her worrying would be for naught-the signing would be over and Luke long gone.
Emma calmed, Kate hurried to the closet. She grabbed the blouse hanging smack in front of her, slipped it on, fastened the buttons and tucked it into her linen trousers. With one last look at the bed, she lifted Emma and hurried out of the house.
26
The Tulane University bookstore manager ushered Luke and his publicist to a table set up in the middle of the store. A wide path had been cleared from the table to the store's double glass doors. Copies of Dead Drop were stacked on and under the table and racked on the surrounding displays. Off to the right, a book cart was weighted down with several dozen cartons stamped with Luke's publisher's name and the book's title.
Luke stared at their number, aghast. He'd never seen so many copies of one of his books in the same place.
"I hope we ordered enough," the manager said, looking flustered. "Some of those people have been waiting two hours already. They're not going to be happy to leave with an IOU."
Luke shifted his gaze to the bookstore's glass front and the mob of people waiting outside. All those people were here for him? He had thought they were here to buy concert tickets or something.
"Hot damn," Helena, his publicist, muttered. "I think I just creamed my jeans."
Luke laughed. The ever-raunchy, slightly cynical publicist was gazing at the glass doors and the crowd beyond, all but gloating with pleasure.
"You know what this means, don't you?" She squeezed his arm, not taking her eyes from the throng of readers. "You've arrived, Mr. Dallas. This kind of crowd only shows for a brand author-Clancy, King-those guys. Or for celebrities. This is better than sex, I swear to God."
Luke shook his head, too amazed to speak. It wasn't so long ago that he'd sat in a mall bookstore, copies of his novel piled on the table in front of him, signing one or two during the entire
two-hour event and being grateful for it. It wasn't so far in the past that he couldn't remember the rush of anticipation when a customer would approach his table; then the disappointment when they'd asked him if he knew where the bathroom was. Or where Clancy was shelved. Or if the new Grisham was in.
"Play it as cool as you want, Mr. Macho," she whispered as they took their seats behind the table. "I know you're so pleased you could piss your pants about now."
Luke sent his publicist an amused glance from the corners of his eyes. "Piss my pants? Helena, isn't that a bit crude, even for you?"
She leaned toward him, eyes alight with humor. "I'm a New Yorker. So fuck off."
He laughed. Crude or not, it was true. For a writer, nothing could compete with the high of knowing your books were being read and enjoyed. Not even a fat royalty check was as satisfying as a glowing letter from a fan, though he had to admit, the checks didn't hurt a bit.
The store manager opened the door; the crowd descended. For the next hour and a half, Luke signed one book after another. Helena and the store manager assisted him by handing him books, already opened to the title page.
The crowd was friendly; Luke's only regret was not having time to chat with each reader. There was no time for such pleasantries, not if he didn't want a riot at the back of the line.
Which was in sight. Luke glanced up, trying to calculate whether there would be enough books to go around and how long it would be before he could give his hand a break. His fingers had begun to cramp.
The line shifted, moved forward, parted. And there she was, the most beautiful face in a sea of faces, instantly recognizable to him even though it had been at least ten years since he had last seen her. He caught his breath; his mind went momentarily blank, then flooded with but one thought, one stunning realization: Kate was here.
Helena leaned slightly toward him. "God, I need a cigarette. Mind if I slip away for a minute?"
Luke blinked, crashing back to the moment, where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. A reader stood in front of the table, her expression expectant. He smiled, asked her name, autographed a book to her, then greeted the next reader in line.
He looked at his publicist. "What did you say?"
"A smoke. Mind if go for one?"
"Not at all." He shook his head and returned his gaze to the end of the line and Kate. He saw that she wasn't alone. She had a baby on her shoulder. A girl, judging by the pink romper she wore. Richard's baby. He steeled himself against the way that made him feel, against the quick kick of resentment. Against the something that smacked of jealousy.
He drew his eyebrows together, mustering indignation and what he told himself was anger. Didn't she get it? There was a reason he hadn't answered any of her messages. He hadn't wanted her here. He didn't want to see her.
Liar. He'd wanted to see her too much.
Luke forced himself to focus not on her, but on the job he had to do. On this triumphant moment. He smiled, signed his name and told himself Kate was just another reader, that he would treat her as such. When she reached the front of the line, he would sign her book and send her on her way.
That moment came sooner than he would have liked. She stood before him, looking flushed and nervous and hopeful. It was the last that affected him most.
She smiled. "Hello, Luke."
"Kate." He kept his tone impersonal. The store manager slid him a copy of Dead Drop. "How would you like this inscribed?"
Her smile faltered, the baby squirmed in her arms. "To Kate and Richard, whose friendship once meant the world to me."
She had never pulled her punches; had never danced around the truth or issues. It was one of the many things he had admired about her. Now, he found himself angry at her brass. He did as she requested anyway and handed her the book.
"I'd hoped we could talk," she said, dropping the book into her stroller and jiggling her baby, who had begun to protest in earnest now.
"This is hardly the time or place."
"I know. There's a la Madeline at the corner of St. Charles and Carrollton Avenue. Could we meet there, after the signing?" The line stirred behind her, growing impatient. "Please, Luke."
Refuse and send her on her way.
He expelled a quick, frustrated breath instead. "I'll be a while yet. Another hour, maybe more."
"I'll wait for you."
He looked away from her, then back. "I'll try. No promises, though."
She nodded, and he watched her walk away, thinking of the past and promises and a time when he'd thought he couldn't live without her.
In the end, Luke couldn't not meet her. He told himself he was doing it for closure, so he could get her out of his life and system, once and for all. He told himself that after today, Kate Ryan would be a permanent part of his past.
That wasn't the way it felt, however, when he walked into the French bakery-café an hour and a half later. It wasn't the way he felt. No, as he stepped into the restaurant and sought her out with his gaze, he felt twenty again and madly in love with a girl who didn't love him in return.
The feeling rankled, and Luke stiffened his spine and crossed to where she sat, feeding her baby a bottle.
Kate lifted her gaze. "I didn't think you'd show."
He slipped into the booth across from her. "I wasn't going to."
"But you're here." She eased the empty bottle from her baby's mouth, then brought the infant to her shoulder and began patting her back. "Why?"
"Morbid curiosity."
"Funny."
"I'm not laughing."
For a moment she sat frozen, then a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "You always were brutally honest."
"I'm thirsty," he said, standing. "You want anything?"
"A coffee refill. Thanks."
He went to the counter, got Kate's coffee and a Coke for himself, then returned to the table. She had burped her baby and was carefully transferring the now sleeping infant to the car carrier. That done, she snapped the child's harness into place, then tucked a soft-looking blanket around her.
"She's beautiful," he said, setting the drinks on the table. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." Kate's lips lifted. "Her name's Emma."
"Motherhood suits you." Though he said the words easily, he felt like he would choke on them, they were so bitter, so grudging. "Richard must be…pleased." More like, so puffed up with pride he resembled one of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloons.
She hesitated. "Of course he is."
"In that chatty Christmas letter you sent, you didn't mention being pregnant." "I wasn't." She paused. "Emma's adopted." The words landed between them, begging an explanation, begging for him to ask what had led her and Richard to adoption. Instead, he looked her dead in the eyes. "What do you want, Kate?"
"To see you. Is that so strange? We were once the best of friends." "Years ago. A lifetime ago. We're not a part of each other's world anymore." "I know. I-" She bit the words off and fussed with her baby a moment, smoothing and retucking the blanket.
Then she met his gaze once more. "I regret that. I miss you, Luke. I miss our friendship."
He felt her words like a kick to his gut. "Stop it, Kate."
"It's true. You don't know. You-" She drew in a deep, shaky breath. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to try to make you understand how it was. What happened."
"I know what happened. I was there, Kate." He flexed his fingers, furious suddenly. So angry he shook. "Or have you forgotten?"
She swallowed hard but didn't look away. "I haven't forgotten anything, Luke. Not one moment."
Her words stung. As did the rush of hope. He hated that she could still affect him this way, after all these years.
"What are you telling me?" he asked, his voice hard, insulting. "Richard's not enough anymore? That you need a good screw with somebody else?" He leaned toward her, shaking with anger. "That you feel like repeating the past?"
She recoiled at his words, her expression wounded. "You know better t
han that. You know me better than that."
"Do I?"
"I'm sorry, Luke. I'm sorry I hurt you." Her eyes flooded with tears. "I'm sorry I killed our friendship."
"I'm sorry, too." He stood. "But you did. And it's too late to go back."
"Wait! Please!" She caught his hand. "That night…when we were together…it wasn't a ruse. I was devastated. Richard had broken up with me again. I'd vowed it would be for the last time. I'd vowed that I wouldn't take him back, not again, no matter how many flowers he sent. We were through, I believed that. I turned to you because-"
"You used me. To make Richard jealous. To get back at him for the blonde. The many blondes." He shook off her hand. "Well, it worked. I hope you're happy with the life you angled for."
"That's not true! None of it." She lifted her face to his. "Please, Luke, just hear me out."
Emma stirred and released a small, whimpering cry. Luke sank back to the booth and nodded tersely. "Say your piece, but do it quick."
"The next morning, Richard came to see me. The way he always did, tail tucked between his legs. I told him we were through, that I'd had enough. He begged me to forgive him, Luke. Begged me. And he cried. He loved me, he said. He wanted to marry me. He wanted us to be together forever."
"And you crumbled?" Luke snapped his fingers. "Just like that?"
"I loved him, had loved him for years. Marrying him was what I'd dreamed of for so long. How could I not forgive him?"
"How?" The word roared past Luke's lips. "By remembering where you'd spent the night before. By remembering the promises you made to me."
"I didn't make you any promises. I-"
"That's bullshit, Kate. You slept with me. That meant something. To a girl like you, it meant something. We talked about Richard. The past, our future."
"I'm sorry." She clasped her hands together. "If I could take that night back, I would. Don't you know how often I've wished I could? I wasn't thinking clearly-I acted irresponsibly. I hurt you, our friendship. Richard."
Luke made a sound of fury. "Don't tell me how you hurt Richard. Did it ever occur to you that Richard knew where you were that night? That he knew about us? Didn't you ever wonder why he asked you to marry him that morning?"
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