Do-Over (2 page)

A
H, HE WAS BACK
in the land of pastel golf shirts and liver pâté on limp toast points at the country club. As he zipped down Woodward Avenue, Mark Morgan shuddered even though the sun shone brightly overhead.

If, a mere week ago, someone had asked him whether he’d consider abandoning impending partnership in a Wall Street legal practice for the pleasures of the Motor City, he’d have suggested that they get their medication levels checked.

Of course, a week ago he hadn’t known that his dad’s response to his mother’s moderate stroke two months earlier had been to boycott their marriage. So now Mark had a mom who couldn’t talk and a father who refused to. From what a family friend had finally
told Mark, not only was his mother failing to improve as the doctors had hoped, she was actually in a decline.

Succinctly put, one week ago Mark’s life hadn’t sucked.

But it had lately, culminating with this morning’s crack-of-dawn flight home. He’d been trapped next to a businessman who admitted that he often got airsick, then proceeded to demonstrate.

As Mark neared the freeway that would take him a half an hour east to his parents’ home on Lake St. Clair, he asked himself if there was any way around the monumental step he was about to take.

If he accepted their offer, he’d be a partner in Saperstein, Underwood within six months. On the whole, the firm suited him. While some of the partners seemed a little squirrelly, they were bright, aggressive and had a reputation for being among the best. Working with Cara Adams would be an added benefit. He had to admit to a flash of pleasure when he’d seen her name listed on the firm’s letterhead. If anything, now she was even sharper than she’d been in law school, and she’d been no slouch back then. She hadn’t exactly been hard on the eyes, either.

Six years ago, checking out her long legs, slender hands and sweep of red hair nearly dark enough to be auburn had beat the hell out of pondering the intricacies of the Uniform Commercial Code. He smiled at the recollection and at the memory of their encounter the night after completing the Michigan bar exam.

If he had to move home, Saperstein, Underwood was the place to be. The money wouldn’t be the same as at his current firm, but expenses in the Midwest
were hardly the same as those in Manhattan. Besides, income had never been an issue.

He was exiting the expressway when he concluded that if there was another way to deal with this mess—one that would sit equally well upon his conscience—he couldn’t grasp it. And he was a fairly bright guy.

A few minutes later, Mark pulled off Lakeshore Drive onto a ribbon of road marked Private—No Trespassing. Home lay ahead. Three generations of Morgans had lived in Lakewind, an Arts-and-Craftsstyled tribute to industrial wealth. He doubted he’d be generation number four. Though the place was undeniably beautiful, he preferred a home somewhat smaller than an apartment complex. As far as he was concerned, the time had come and gone for enormous estates. One day in the far-off future, when the decision was his to make, he’d find a use for Lakewind that benefited more than just the Morgan family.

Mark pulled his dad’s classic convertible Jag into its bay in the garage, hung the keys on the rack and made his way across the herringbone-patterned, redbrick courtyard to the house’s kitchen entrance. The scents of comfort greeted him: rich, brewing coffee and sweet cinnamon and sugar from the cinnamon rolls cooling on the stainless-steel shelf above the stove.

His back to Mark, a broad-beamed man hummed as he wiped down a countertop. As Mark took in the sight of Jerome Jones, suddenly everything seemed so simple. So right.

“So you made me cinnamon rolls,” he said. “They always were my favorite.”

The man turned around, his face creased by a wide smile. “’Bout time you got yourself home.” His bossy words came with a bearlike hug.

Mark grinned at the gentleman who in his heart was a second mother. And yes, he meant “mother.” No hard-assed father stuff from Jerome, just kind words, cookies and cinnamon rolls, and a sharp-tongued reminder of manners when he stepped out of line.

To Mark, the fact that Jerome was male was inconsequential, as was the fact that he was gay. Jerome had worked for the Morgan family since before Mark had been born. And while his mom had always done her best by him, it was Jerome who’d covered for her at home while she was at the Charity Premiere Night of the Detroit Auto Show or her museum board meetings or whatever else filled eighty percent of her time.

Mark had understood his mother’s absences and never resented her for them; they were part and parcel of being a Morgan. Family obligation, noblesse oblige and all that jazz. His affection for Jerome—who’d rescued him from more teenaged crises than he could count—was limitless.

“And it’s about time you got out of bed,” he said. “I was here early this morning.”

“Well, these old bones don’t move as fast as they used to.”

Mark laughed. “No pulling the pity card. We both know you could still corner me, then rip me up one side and down the other, if you had the mind to.”

“Just don’t give me reason to do it,” Jerome said in his best threatening voice.

Mark tried for the guileless expression he’d used when he was a teenager in hopes of bailing himself out of trouble. “Me?”

“Yes, you. I didn’t buy that innocent routine back when you’d sneak girls into the boathouse, and I’m not buying it now.” He scrutinized Mark in the way
only a parent—or nearly parent—can. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because he said, “You look ready to see your mother. She’s in the yellow salon. She likes the sunshine there.”

He nodded.

“Kid,” Jerome said, “she’s going through a rough patch. Be patient.”

Mark hid a smile at being called a kid. He supposed he’d always be one in Jerome’s mind. “I will. Promise.”

As Mark walked down the broad hallway to the yellow salon, he steeled himself for the changes he might find in the always crisp and elegant Frances Parker Morgan. Funny thing… Change in his own life, he could handle, albeit grudgingly. Change in his mother’s made his jaw clench.

Mark stepped through the French doors and into the yellow room. What he saw was a portrait of reassuring normalcy. His mother was seated at her fussy little appointment desk in the lee of the bay windows. She wore one of those suits too feminine to really be considered a suit, and looked, as always, wonderful.

“Mom,” he said, his throat tight with emotion.

She rose gracefully and walked toward him, the sunlight making the threads of gray in her pale blond hair shine like polished silver. He could see little impact from her stroke. Maybe a slight relaxation of the muscles on the left side of her face. He folded her in his arms and said, “You look beautiful.”

Smiling, she returned his hug, then stepped from his grasp.

“Wel—wel—” She frowned, drew an aggravated breath and tried again. “Wel—”

Mark’s heart sank. He hated seeing her struggle like this.

“Shit!”

He blinked. In his thirty years, he’d never heard even a “damn” escape his mother’s mouth. He couldn’t hold back a laugh before he said, “Well, you’ve got that word down.”

Humor shone in her brown eyes, and she laughed with him.

“Don’t make light of this, Mark.” His father had always had a way of sneaking up on him. Mark watched as his dad rose from a wing chair at the opposite end of the room and made a show of folding his newspaper and putting it on a low table nearby. “Frances, I’ve already spoken to you about that crass language. No more of it.”

Mark got the feeling that if she could have gotten “screw you” from brain to mouth, that—or something even more blunt—would have been the response delivered to her husband.

Jerome had been right: It was about time Mark got himself home. All was clearly not well at Lakewind.

Cara’s Rule for Success 2:

Never tell your boss he’s stupid…even if he really

should have

already figured that out for himself.

A
S IT TURNED OUT
, Howard’s dictum of “See me as soon as you get in” really meant, “Just so you know who’s top-dog now, see me after I’ve made you cool your heels for forty minutes. Then watch me take four phone calls before I stoop to acknowledge your presence.”

Through it all, Cara kept a pleasant smile on her face and mourned Howard’s premature baldness. Otherwise, she’d have scoured his office for a hair to use as a personal effect on a voodoo doll. According to her calendar of retribution, he was overdue for a freak sinkhole to open beneath his desk and swallow him whole.

When Howard finished his last phone call, he took off his glasses, held them up to the light and inspected for stray dust motes that might have had the gall to land on his lenses. Satisfied that he remained pristine, he slipped the titanium-rimmed, itty-bitty-to-the-point-of-ludicrous frames back on his face and finally focused on Cara.

“We have found Rory’s departure rather disturbing,” he said. “We trust that you have, too.”

Cara had never been sure whether Howard’s use of “we” was meant to be a Partnership We or a Royal We. All she knew was in her current stressed state, she wanted to blurt,
“We, who? You and the rat in your pocket?”
Sadly, she had never responded well to authority figures other than Rory. Saperstein wasn’t bad, either, but of course he was dead.

“Rory’s leaving came as a shock to me, too, Howard,” she replied.

“Really?”

Cara looked down at her hands. They had somehow knotted in her lap. Her knuckles shone white. She carefully placed one palm on each knee and adjusted her posture to a less defensive stance.

“I had no clue,” she said.

“That’s surprising. After all, there’s been no one in this firm closer to Rory. One might even say that the two of you were intimate.”

His implication was clear in the way he sounded out each syllable of
in-ti-mate.
Cara leaned forward in her chair and placed her hands on Howard’s desk; she knew he hated having his belongings touched.

“
One
had better think carefully before saying that. That is, if
one
isn’t up for some very unfriendly litigation.”

“Well, certainly I wasn’t referring to myself.”

At least he was rattled enough that the Royal We had disappeared. She watched as he straightened the stacks of paper she’d moved minutely out of place.

“For the benefit of the other partners who might be thinking those rather, um, incendiary thoughts, here’s the scoop, Howard. Rory and I have never had any relationship
other than a business one. And obviously, even that didn’t run very deep.”

Howard had already recovered his cool. “We’ll withhold judgment on just how deep your relationship runs. We want you to know that for now, we’ll be checking your work and limiting client contact. Also, you will use our secretary, Jane—”

“Her name is Jan.” Howard went through secretaries the way a marathon runner goes through bottled water.

“Jan, then,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You will use Jan until such time as our confidence in you is restored, and we replace Leigh.”

“Re—replace?” she stammered. “She didn’t leave with Rory, did she?”

“If only she had. We were forced to terminate her.”

“Why?”

She could have sworn he shuddered before he said, “For matters that will not be discussed with other employees of Saperstein, Underwood.”

The bummer of it was that if she wanted to know what had happened to Leigh, her best chance of getting the real scoop would have been from…Leigh.

“Fine,” she said.

Howard’s phone rang. When he took the call, Cara stood to leave. Howard raised his index finger in a you-have-not-been-excused gesture. She sat, then waited through an interminable call conducted over the speakerphone as Howard and a car salesman debated the respective merits of parchment, ivory or sand-colored leather for Howard’s new Range Rover. The options hadn’t been so fine-tuned in her Saturn.

Finally, Howard hung up. He launched back into
their conversation—if it could be called that—as though the ten minute delay had never occurred.

“The partners have decided that a weekend retreat is needed. We’ll be in Bay Harbor, and while we’re gone, we’d appreciate it if you would keep clear of the building. Your access card must be on my desk before five this evening.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“I never joke.”

He had that right. Only the fact that she could understand the tack he was taking stopped her from going for his throat.

Without her access card, once the front doors were locked for the night, she’d have a better chance of breaking into a bank vault. From the partners’ point of view, they were protecting firm assets—the remaining finance clients not lured away by Rory McLohne.

Still, her fury was a burning thing to swallow. She could remind Howard how she’d sacrificed long-planned vacations and more than one hot date for the good of the firm, and how, for the past four years in a row, she’d cranked out more billable hours than any other associate.

All of which would mean spit to him—especially the date thing, since he flirted with being genderless.

Wishing him an agonizing kidney stone before he fell into that voodoo sinkhole, she stood, smiled and said, “Anything you want, Howard.”

Which, based on Howard’s regal nod, was no less than the creep felt he deserved. When the phone rang again, Cara got out while the getting was good.

A
T FIVE-THIRTY THAT EVENING
, Cara walked down Royal Oak’s Main Street. In her left hand was a bag
with a bottle of vodka and one of cranberry juice. In her right was a hefty box of espresso truffles from the totally decadent candy store one block west. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been out of the office this early, except when she’d had appendicitis.

Feeling like a tourist visiting an exotic port—or a zoo—she gazed into windows. People gathered in groups on the low couches in coffeehouses and crowded around bars. Couples stood close, with a comfortable intimacy Cara scarcely understood. Singles smiled and laughed. She couldn’t believe the sheer volume of humanity, or how damn happy everyone looked…as if they’d just been sprung from prison.

Actually, she was developing familiarity with the “sprung from prison” feeling; Howard had done everything but strip-search her for hidden files before she’d been permitted to leave the office for the weekend.

Before going into Retreads, her friend Brianna’s store, Cara took a moment to look across the street, for in that direction was Paradise. About six weeks earlier, she had placed a deposit on one of the new loft condominiums being built there.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” she reminded herself as she picked out the long bank of windows on the sixth floor that would be hers. For this, there was virtually no limit to the crap she’d endure.

Feeling a glimmer of hope—plus awesome upcoming mortgage pressure—Cara pushed through Retreads’s door. Bri appeared startled to see her. Then again, she was surprised just about any time her shop door opened; Retreads did a bang-up business on the
Internet, but had little foot traffic, except from the local drag queens.

Bri was wearing a classic red Chanel suit with an orange, belly button-bearing stretch top under the jacket. For some inexplicable reason, the combination worked. As far as Cara could tell, Bri O’Brien had never outgrown the “dress-up” stage. Back when they were seven years old and attending Longfellow Elementary School, they used to rummage through their mothers’ closets and see who could come up with the dumbest-looking outfits—admittedly no big task in 1980.

While Cara had slogged her way through law school, Bri had gone into fashion merchandising with a big department store chain and quickly moved into the ranks of the up-and-coming. Even while Bri scaled the heights of corporate America, she had kept her own sense of style.

Then, about two years ago, she had walked away and opened her own vintage clothing shop. While Cara simply didn’t get this abandonment-of-career-and-success thing, she had to admit that her friend appeared happier.

“Ready for a pity party?” Cara asked.

“Wait a minute,” Bri said, pushing a hand through her shoulder-length, curly blond hair. “This can’t be possible.” She walked to Cara, tentatively reached out one finger and touched her on the shoulder. “Okay, so I’m not hallucinating,” she said with a nod. “I can think of one other possibility.” She opened the door to her shop. “Hey, guys,” she called to a group of high-school kids in letter jackets. “Is this still planet Earth?”

“Yeah,” one of them shouted.

Bri ducked inside. “Okay, that takes care of the
‘sucked into an alternative universe’ scenario, which leaves the question…why the hell aren’t you at your office?”

Cara set her packages on the broad stainless-steel work table Bri had inherited from the now-closed restaurant next door.

“We’ll get to that in a minute. Just so you know I haven’t stooped to whining and mooching at the same time, I’ve brought all the necessary food groups for my party. Chocolate.” She held aloft the box. “Grain, or maybe this is starch since it started life as a potato,” she said, pulling the vodka from its bag.

Cara was fuzzy on this food pyramid thing. Her major requirements in food were that it came conveniently frozen and could microwave in less than five minutes. In the office kitchenette, of course.

“And fruits,” Bri said, completing the inventory as the cranberry juice emerged from the bag.

Bri went to her back room and returned with a couple of Mason jars that Cara recalled last seeing full of buttons.

“What, no coffee mugs or anything normal?” she asked.

“Since when do I do normal? Besides, these should work. I hope the juice is chilled because I don’t have any ice.”

“Just so happens it is,” Cara said.

“So, before we get down to some serious drinking, wanna tell me why we’re doing it?”

Cara gave her a brief of the situation.

“Rat bastard,” was all Bri said.

Cara didn’t bother asking whether she meant Rory or Howard, since the term applied equally well to
both. “You know,” she said, “this day was fit for a visit from the do-over gods.”

“The
who?
”

“Those gods up there on Olympus or wherever, who keep us for their source of daily amusement.”

Bri opened the vodka and began mixing their drinks. “I think you’re messing with a few commandments, here. Normally, I wouldn’t complain, but with Seth’s and my wedding in August, I don’t want to be struck dead at the altar if God’s aim is off with that lightning bolt.”

Cara smiled. Bri’s world was always an entertaining place. “It’s not like I really believe they’re snickering up on Olympus, but on a day like this, a do-over wouldn’t be such a bad deal.”

She sat on the tufted, plush red velvet fainting couch—complete with gold fringe—that reminded her of a turn-of-the-century New Orleans cathouse.

Brianna deposited a drink in her hand. “Tell me if it needs more cranberry.”

Cara took a sip and winced as it burned its way down. “Perfect,” she wheezed. “Now if I could just mainline the truffles.”

She set the drink where it would be within easy reach, then toed out of her black pumps and lay back on the lounge. Frowning, she contemplated the black acoustic tile ceiling, complete with a spinning disco ball. Bri didn’t turn up her nose at any era, no matter how alien it had been.

Her friend’s face superimposed itself over the disco ball. Cara went a little cross-eyed watching as Bri bent over her and placed a neat row of truffles down the buttons of her wrinkled silk blouse.

“Eat your way through those,” Bri said, “and I
guarantee you’ll feel better. I’ll be back. I just need to change the music.”

Cara popped the first truffle into her mouth. The rich, dark chocolate complemented the tangy cranberry of her drink, even as overpowered by vodka as it was.

After a moment, the sounds of The Clash gave way to Aretha Franklin. God, that woman could sing, Cara mused as she ate the chocolate from button number two. Bri reappeared and stole the sweet from button number three. Cara grabbed number four before her friend could filch it. She sat up, checked the level of her drink, and then lowered it.

On impulse, she asked, “If you could have a do-over of one event in your life, what would it be?”

“I don’t know. With the exception of the joy of making rent each month, I’ve been pretty lucky.” Bri popped a truffle, followed by a vodka-and-cranberry chaser. “Wait… Remember back in eighth grade when Robby Hanes stuck his hand under my skirt during assembly?”

“Yeah, you got suspended for two days and he got off scot-free.”

“Not to mention probably getting off,” Bri muttered as she tidied a rack of vintage bowling shirts. “If I had another chance I would have kept on slugging him—even after he blubbered about his stupid bloody nose.”

“Works for me.”

“Okay, so how about you?” Bri shot back.

“That’s easy. I wouldn’t have dumbed down for Mark Morgan.” Cara gave herself a mental head-slap when she realized what she’d said.

“Who?”

“This guy back in law school. I might have mentioned him,” she added as a way of covering herself, even though she knew she’d never spoken about Morgan to anyone—not even Bri. It was too damned humiliating, the way she’d flouted every one of her beliefs. Since she knew there was no way her friend was going to let her off the hook, she gulped a little more of her drink before continuing.

“We had this bizarre relationship…kind of a subliminal flirtation that verged on being more. Lots of verbal sparring in class… The kind of argument that can get you real hot—in more ways than one.”

Bri snorted. “Arguing about stuff like contract clauses? I’ll take your word for it.”

“Okay, so beneath this rumpled yet glamorous exterior beats the heart of a total geek. But, Bri, he was gorgeous.” She couldn’t help the easy smile sliding across her face at the recollection. “He had thick, dark hair, brown eyes and a smile that pretty much said he was going to give you the best sex of your life.”