“Why not? I’m loaded. I can afford it.”
“I know, but—”
“I seem to remember a certain person who bought me a leather jacket last Christmas. One I saw on Rodeo Drive and refused to shell out the bucks for.”
“That was different.”
He squared that stubborn jaw. “What’s different about it?”
“Jewelry is so personal. A man buys jewelry for his wife, not for—” She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.
“For what?” he said. “Another man’s wife? Is that what you were about to say?”
She shrugged in silent apology. “Look,” he said, more gently, “if said man is stupid enough to let his wife walk out of his life, then I’ll buy her anything I damn well please.”
Casey raised her wine glass. “Touché,” she said.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He picked up the aforementioned leather jacket and began rummaging through the pockets. “There’s one more.”
“More? MacKenzie, you’ll spoil me rotten before you’re through.”
“This one’s different.” He finally found what he sought, a flat, square package done up in the same Sesame Street paper. He held it in his hand for a moment, thumb caressing it lazily, and then he slid it across the table to her. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” he said, and to her surprise, got up from the table and walked to the window.
Casey picked it up, looked at it, glanced quickly at his rigid back, his squared shoulders. And knew. Instantly, she knew. She fumbled with the ribbon, tore at Big Bird and Elmo to reveal the CD inside. In the cover photo, he stood beneath a huge maple tree, his guitar balanced on one booted toe, deeply shadowed morning light filtering in through the branches and teasing golden highlights from that riotous mass of curls. Rob MacKenzie, the words on the spine read. The Edge of Nowhere.
“You did it!” she said, hands trembling with excitement. “Hot damn, Flash, you really did it!”
He turned away from the window, the color flushing his cheekbones the only indication of his true feelings. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You might want to listen to it,” he said, studying the toes of his Reeboks, “before you get too wound up.”
Casey snorted, in a loud and most unladylike manner, and didn’t bother to respond. Cake, ice cream and earrings forgotten, she carried the disc to the living room and popped it into her CD player. She plunked down onto the couch and folded her arms around a raised knee, and while he paced her kitchen, she listened to his first solo album all the way through.
The music was complex, cool and jazzy, with that sophisticated edge that marked all his work. He’d written and produced the album himself, backing himself up with some of the best studio musicians in the business. How many times had she heard him sing over the years? They’d been collaborating for twelve years, and they’d sung together maybe ten thousand times, yet the soft, slightly husky voice pouring from her twin Pioneer speakers still managed to surprise her. He’d always taken a back seat to Danny, but without Danny there to overshadow him, she could hear the strength in his voice. Rob MacKenzie had been born to make music, and no matter what the instrument might be, he handled it with aplomb.
“I’ve had this stuff rolling around in my head,” he said. “A second album that’s not like anything we’ve ever done before. I want to go off in a completely new direction. A little blues, a little rock, a little fusion. Remember Van Morrison’s Moondance?”
“So rich you could taste it.”
“Exactly. Use something like that as a starting point and take it from there. Are you game?”
His enthusiasm was irresistible. “I’m game,” she said, “but how are we supposed to work together if we’re on opposite coasts?”
“Elementary, my sweet. The first thing we do is go out and buy you a fax machine. Then we engineer our schedules so we can work together. Sound okay so far?”
“It sounds wonderful. I hate to have to admit it, but I’ve missed your ugly mug.”
He patted her cheek. “Let’s go check out that fax machine, kiddo. I hear there’s a monster sale going on at Woolworth’s.”
She hadn’t returned to work after her life blew up in her face. After pouring all her pent-up grief and frustration into the Rothman project, she had needed to be in a different space for a time. Now, she took comfort from the familiar patterns of working with Rob. They spoke on the phone constantly, sent faxes back and forth between Boston and Los Angeles. Whenever he could wrangle a block of free time from his hectic schedule, he flew to Boston and they spent exhausting twenty-hour days working together. He arrived one weekend carrying two suitcases and a slightly cantankerous Siamese cat in a plastic carrier. After that, he just stayed. They spent their days enveloped in cool, jazzy rhythms, their evenings lingering over dinner at Polcari’s or the Union Oyster House. Late nights often found them in some smoke-filled blues club, drawing in the music with every breath, absorbing blue notes into the very marrow of their bones.
Rob insisted that the work week should end at five o’clock on Fridays, so on the weekends, they played. They took advantage of Indian summer, went for long drives in the country to admire the foliage, visited flea markets and antique dealers and auctions. They fell into a comfortable pattern of eating Sunday brunch in Southie with his parents, then loading Mary and Patrick MacKenzie into the back seat of Casey’s BMW and taking them sightseeing. The four of them visited Plymouth Rock, admired the mansions of Newport, shopped the outlet stores in Kittery and North Conway.
The first time Rob went running with her, he made it as far as the end of the block before he collapsed onto a bench, gasping and wheezing and clutching his chest. “Are you crazy, Fiore?” he said. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Throw away the cigarettes,” she told him, “and you might just surprise yourself.”
“Jesus, woman, I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen.”
“And your point is?”
“You’re cruel, Fiore. Damn cruel.”
“Hey, it’s your lungs, hot stuff. But don’t think you’ll keep up with me if you don’t quit.” And she sprinted away and left him sitting there.
The next morning, when she emerged from her bedroom, dressed to run, he was already up and waiting for her. “I just want to make sure you witness this,” he said as he solemnly held up his last pack of cigarettes and dropped it into the trash.
She gave him a quick round of applause. “Congratulations, MacKenzie. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”
“Just remember, Fiore, this was your idea. You’re the one who’ll have to put up with me once the nicotine withdrawal kicks in.”
“Give it a break, Flash. You’re all bark and no bite.”
For the three weeks it took to rid his body of its nicotine addiction, he bore an amazing resemblance to Attila the Hun. He took umbrage at Casey’s most innocent remarks, slammed doors and kicked drawers, and got involved in a shouting match with another driver who cut him off in downtown traffic. But Casey had to give him credit for determination. He fought nearly unbearable cravings and continued to run with her every morning until he was sweaty and gasping and unable to continue. Because he’d smoked for so many years, he built up endurance more slowly than she had. Casey slowed her speed to a crawl to accommodate him until his pace picked up. And one fine morning, he actually made it the entire six miles.
He was like a little kid, so proud of his accomplishment that he called his mother to brag. After that, there was no stopping him. He took to running with the same zeal he exhibited in every other area of his life. Within a month, he could run circles around her. And Casey wondered if there was anything that Rob MacKenzie couldn’t do.
chapter twenty-three
In January, Danny hired a private investigator to locate his mother.
Katie’s death had been the catalyst, but it had been building for some time, the need to know who he was, the need for answers to his questions, answers that only Annamaria Fiore could give him. Wh
en his V.A. counselor urged him to seek those answers, for purposes of closure if nothing else, he found Brad Logan in the telephone book and hired him on the spot. It was easier than he’d expected. Two days after he hired Logan, he got the information he was looking for: his mother was living in East L.A., only a few miles from his Malibu home.
Only a few miles, but worlds away. As he drove the mean streets of the barrio, suspicious eyes followed his progress. He slowed in front of a pink stucco house surrounded by weeds and crammed tight against a chain link fence. Swallowing hard, he pulled the Ferrari to a stop and looked around. Two scrawny kids were hanging off the fence, gaping at the Ferrari with huge, dark eyes. “Keep an eye on my car for me,” he said, “and I’ll give you both a brand-new twenty-dollar bill.”
The tallest one puffed out his chest and drew himself up to his full height. “You want us to watch your car, man, you show us the money first.”
He’d forgotten that trust wasn’t in a street kid’s vocabulary. Danny opened his wallet and pulled out two twenties. “Take care of her for me, guys, and there’ll be two more just like this when I come out. But if I find so much as a scratch, you can forget it.”
There was no doorbell, so he opened the torn screen door and knocked on the glass. From inside came the canned hysteria of a television game show. He knocked harder, and after a moment, shuffling feet approached the door. The dirty blind lifted, and dark eyes peered out at him. He swallowed again, his throat clogging up with some unexpected and unrecognizable emotion. The door swung open, and with it came the moment he’d spent thirty years both dreading and anticipating.
His legs were trembling, and he tried to find his voice. But Anna Fiore Montoya was quicker. “I figured you’d show up one of these days,” she said.
***
She should never have brought Rob with her to buy a bikini.
Anything he liked, she wouldn’t have worn out of the dressing room. Anything she liked, he declared suitable for his grandmother. Finally, he picked out a minuscule number made of shiny green Spandex. “This one,” he said.
“You can’t be serious. There’s not enough material there to cover a poodle.”
“Trust me, Fiore. This is the one.”
Casey made sure the fitting room door was locked securely behind her before stripping down and squeezing into the few square inches of fabric. She was scandalized by how little of her it covered. The bottom dipped low at the pelvis and narrowed to tiny knots at the hips. The halter top cupped her breasts and dissolved into spaghetti straps that tied behind her neck. The shiny knit fabric left nothing to the imagination. She turned left and right. If she was going to be scandalous, she should at least look good while she was doing it. With a certain smug satisfaction, she noted that her thirty-something body was as taut as any nineteen-year-old’s. The bikini fit her like a glove. She narrowed her eyes, wondering just how Rob had known that it would look spectacular on her. For the first time in her life, she felt like a temptress. What a shame that all this would be wasted because she’d come to Nassau with Rob instead of somebody who could appreciate her.
Hell’s bells. She tore off the bikini and yanked her tee shirt back down over her head. Casey Fiore would never be a temptress. She was too proper. Too much of a lady. Too damn square to wear a bikini she could have fit into the change compartment of her wallet.
Only one man had ever seen her that close to naked, and Danny would be apoplectic if he saw her dressed that way in public. The image pleased her, and she mentally thumbed her nose at the specter of Daniel Fiore. She was an independent woman, and if she wanted to wear the most outrageous bikini this side of Cannes, she would wear it. And if she wanted to carry a rose between her teeth and thread ostrich feathers in her hair and dance the can-can while she wore it, she would do that, too. It was time she let loose a little. Maybe even time she went out and had an affair. There were other men in the world. She’d wasted the better part of a year waiting for Danny Fiore to come running after her. It was pretty obvious that he wasn’t coming.
Well, she wasn’t waiting any longer.
They spent the rest of the morning dropping their money in the tourist traps, buying baubles and trinkets to bring home to nieces and nephews and other family members. Rob bought his mother a flowing cotton skirt of such vivid colors it hurt the eyes to look at. Casey bought a carved wooden alligator for her father, and for her stepmother a cassette tape of calypso music. They ate lunch at the hotel, then returned to their rooms to drop off their loot and change into their swimsuits.
She put on the bikini and stared at her reflection in horrified fascination as her hard-won nerve dissipated, her vow to start life anew as an Outrageous Woman swirling away with it. Why not just prance on the beach naked? At least naked would have been straightforward. This was worse. This was secretive. This was exotic. This was sexy.
She’d never in her life been sexy. She slept in flannel all winter, cotton all summer, wore her skirts at a respectable length and her shirts buttoned all the way. She never showed any cleavage. She wasn’t even sure she had cleavage. Maybe, she thought, eyeing her reflection, she’d been wrong about that. Studying herself from a different angle, she decided she’d definitely been wrong about that. It was amazing to discover, at the age of thirty, that she had a chest.
Her confidence rapidly disintegrating, Casey folded a terrycloth beach jacket around her and knotted the belt, tied a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head and stepped into her beach sandals. Gathering her nerve around her like a suit of armor, she stepped out into the corridor.
Rob was waiting outside, by the pool. They set up beach chairs on the pristine white sand. She wedged her tote bag into the sand between their chairs, left her hat on her chair, and together they walked down to the water’s edge.
The ocean’s warmth delighted her. It tickled her toes and lapped at her ankles. Beneath a cloudless sky, the water was a deep emerald, and the midday sun reflected off the stucco buildings that lined the beach. “This place is spectacular,” she said. “I’m so glad we came.”
“Told you that you’d like it.” Rob moved his feet around in the swirling surf. “When I came down with Kiki last year, I swore I’d come back the first chance I got.”
“Kiki,” she said with interest. “I don’t believe I remember Kiki.”
“You never met her.”
“What a shame. She sounds so intellectual.”
“Shut up, Fiore.” He reached down, cupped a palmful of water, and tossed it at her. She squealed, took a step backward, and splashed him back. Like two kids, they splashed and laughed until they were both thoroughly wet. Casey held up both palms in surrender and they staggered back up the beach to their chairs. While Rob liberally spread sunscreen across the bridge of his nose, Casey took a deep breath and removed the beach jacket.
And the sky didn’t fall. The sun’s heat explored her flesh like warm fingers. She settled herself in the chair, smoothed sunscreen on her exposed areas, and opened one of the paperback novels she’d bought in the hotel gift shop.
After a while, the heat made her drowsy. She set aside the book and adjusted her chair and lay back, eyes closed, enjoying the sun’s sensual warmth. Beside her, Rob was reading. Every so often, over the ebb and flow of the surf, over the buzzing of insects flitting from tropical flower to tropical flower and the distant voices of people cavorting in the water, she heard him turn a page.
She turned her head to study him. His lanky legs were sprawled, bony knees extended, feet buried in the sand. Above baggy cotton shorts of an exotic, vivid jungle print, his stomach was flat, his chest generously covered with hair. His shoulders were bony but wide, his biceps surprisingly well developed. All in all, not a bad package. “I’ve decided to have an affair,” she announced.
“Oh?” he said without looking up from his book. “Anyone I know?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She closed her eyes again and made a lazy mental run-through of all the men she knew. The list wasn�
�t very long. Or very promising. Disappointed, she opened her eyes again. “I never knew you had freckles,” she said.
He scowled and muttered, “The curse of the Irish.”
“I think they’re cute. So what do you think?”
He looked up from his book. “About what?”
“Who I should have an affair with.”
His eyes made a slow perusal of her, head to feet and back, lingering briefly on her breasts. “I don’t know,” he said, “but if you run around looking like that, you’ll have no shortage of potential victims.”
She felt an all-over heat that had nothing to do with the sun. “This was your idea,” she accused.
“What was?”
“This thing I’m hardly wearing.”
“I’d say you’re doing a pretty spectacular job of wearing it, Fiore.”
“How would you know? You’ve had your nose stuck in that book ever since we got here.”
“Not every single minute,” he said.
“Oh, please,” she said. “I’m going down to the water.”
She stood up, resisting the urge to adjust her bathing suit to adequately cover her bottom. Ignoring him, she walked determinedly across the sand to the water’s edge and waded into the surf. She was waist high when a bright red Frisbee hit the water directly in front of her. She picked it up and turned around to see Rob standing a few feet away. “Truce?” he said.
She grinned wickedly and sent the Frisbee sailing. “Go fetch.”
Like an overgrown golden retriever, he splashed off to catch up with the Frisbee. He shot it back to her, and she jumped to catch it. They continued the game until they grew tired, returning damp and sandy to their beach chairs. “I’m starved,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
He pulled on a tee shirt and she threw her beach jacket over her shoulders and they went in search of sustenance. They found it at a beachside cafe, where they sat at a wrought-iron table beneath a pink and white striped umbrella and ordered the catch of the day. While they waited for it to arrive, Casey sipped her strawberry daiquiri and studied the couples sitting at the other tables. The island was a regular Noah’s Ark. Everybody seemed to be in pairs, most of them young and tanned and in love. “I feel like a misfit,” she said. “I think we’re the only people on this island who aren’t honeymooners.”
Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Page 27
