Authors: Mary Campisi
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General, #Family & Relationships, #Death; Grief; Bereavement, #Parenting, #Single Parent, #Dating
The Way They Were (9 page)
“I never lecture, Rourke. If I did, you wouldn’t listen.”
He laughed. “You make a horrible victim. Leave the antics to the weaker sex.”
“What are you doing there and why is it taking so long?”
“Tying up loose ends.” What an understatement
.
She sighed her impatience. “You’re opening yourself up to tremendous exposure every day you stay in that town. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“I’ve got it handled.”
“What if the widow finds out you own Reese Construction?”
“Her name is Kate.”
She ignored him. “Miles agrees with me.”
“So, the two of you have been discussing me? I thought you were negotiating a huge deal.”
“We are. We’re also trying to protect our biggest asset.” She paused, then added, “You.”
***
Kate changed her shirt three times. The first revealed cleavage, the second was too tight, and the third had a paint stain on the sleeve. She yanked a fourth from the hanger as the doorbell rang, signaling Rourke’s arrival. She hastily buttoned the lavender cotton, smoothed her hair, and raced down the steps.
When she opened the door, Rourke stood there, looking cool and handsome in slacks and a navy silk shirt. She doubted he’d ever suffered clothing indecision, or any indecision for that matter. His gaze swept over her and a smile slid across his lips. “In a hurry?”
She glanced down and spotted a scrap of skin and pink lace where she’d missed a button. She jerked around and rushed toward the bathroom, propelled forward by the low rumble of Rourke’s laughter. Once inside, she buttoned her shirt and sucked in several breaths.
He’s just a man. Stay calm.
Kate found him standing in the living room by the fireplace mantle. The silk shirt pulled across the muscles of his back and she wondered what he’d look like minus the shirt. She cleared her throat. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Chardonnay?”
Kate blinked. “I haven’t had any in years.” So what if it was a lie? She wasn’t about to dig it out of her closet and offer him a glass.
His eyes glittered with feigned innocence. “Neither have I, but I find that since I’ve returned to Montpelier, I have a sudden desire,” his gaze narrowed on her lips, “to taste it again.”
Damn him, he knew it was the wine they’d shared the night they’d—
“No,” she shook her head, “I don’t care for it anymore.”
Another lie.
“Really?” He settled on her couch and crossed his long legs.
Rourke looked so different than Clay had sitting in that same spot. Clay preferred to hunch over a crossword puzzle or toy train magazine, hands fisted under his chin. When he’d exhausted his mind, he’d slide back onto the couch and stretch his compact frame flat out.
In contrast, Rourke sat like a king, chest expanding, head high. If he deigned to lie down, his feet would dangle over the edge. They wouldn’t be double cotton, moisture-wicked stocking feet either but silk clad, Italian woven. She’d never be able to sit on the couch again without the image of Rourke Flannigan attacking her brain. And if she considered him stretched out on the plaid print—
“Kate?”
…with her body on top of his…
“Kate?”
Dear Lord.
“Yes?”
“Water’s fine.”
“Oh. Yes. Water.”
This seemed to be a night where she was bound to make a fool of herself. At least Julia wasn’t here to witness her mother’s rapid brain cell deterioration. Rourke’s secretary had taken both girls, under protest of course, to the movies, though Kate wasn’t sure who’d been more uncomfortable.
She’d been able to postpone the inevitable one more day—but soon, Rourke
would
meet Julia.
Kate returned from the kitchen with two waters and sat on the Lazy Boy opposite him. He took a sip and flipped open the folder resting in his lap. “Clay was contracted by Reese Construction to head up the demolition crew for the renovation at,” he glanced down, “4528 Harvest Glen in Syracuse, New York. On the morning of the accident, he was working alone, presumably before starting time. The accident report theorizes he slipped and fell fifty feet.”
Her heart still ached when she thought of the fall. The coroner assured her Clay’s death had been quick and painless, but what about the second or two before he hit concrete? Had he known he was a dead man?
“Kate?”
She met Rourke’s gaze and willed him to understand the sacrifices Clay had made for her and Julia. “He was so excited to get this job. He said even though it was almost an hour away, there would be top pay and lots of overtime. He wanted to buy me new carpeting and a washer. We’d hit some rough spots financially. Julia was hospitalized last year with pneumonia and Clay’s insurance wasn’t the best.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a tough time.”
“Clay used to say tough times built character. He never complained, just went to work, day after day, bad back and all.” She shrugged. “He’d just taken out loans to buy more equipment so he could bid on bigger jobs like the Harvest Glen one. Lot of good that did him.” She sniffed and said, “Know anyone who needs a crane and a dump truck?”
“I might.”
“I’ve got to move forward and do what’s best for Julia. It’s what Clay would want.”
“Money.”
“Only if it’s money that’s due us,” she corrected.
His gaze narrowed. “According to whom?”
“The lawyer. People in town. Everybody.”
Rourke set his glass on the mug rug Julia had made in technology class last year. His whole demeanor shifted and it was easy to picture him in a boardroom negotiating multi-million dollar deals. “I’ve reviewed the reports from OSHA and the insurance company. They’ve both determined Clay’s death was an accident. I’m sorry, but nothing I’ve read indicates negligence on the company’s part.”
“Mr. Dupree said they’re still responsible because it happened on their property.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. Clay’s dead. They should be responsible for something, shouldn’t they?”
“Because he chose to enter the property unsupervised?”
“He was only trying to finish faster,” she blurted out. “For the company, and…” she could hardly get the words out, “for me.”
“Of course you wouldn’t want him gone from home,” he said in a tight voice.
Kate looked away. “Of course not.” Clay thought if he worked bigger jobs, he’d buy her a bigger house, a fancier car. He thought it would make a difference. “I don’t want to take advantage of a company just because they have the assets to make my life more comfortable. Nothing will bring Clay back, but maybe I can get what he wanted us to have, especially for Julia.”
“Didn’t he have life insurance?”
“Some. Clay was old school. He believed hard work and honesty would carry him through rough times. We’ll get social security and worker’s comp, but that’s it. I hate to think that’s all Clay was worth.”
“I’m sorry Kate, but he was a fool for not taking care of his family.”
“He took care of us, Rourke, more than most men would.”
He didn’t leave us behind.
“How much is the lawyer asking?”
She hesitated. “He thinks we should ask for four million and settle for two.”
“Have you ever been cross-examined?”
“Mr. Dupree said it would never go to trial. He said the company would settle out of court.”
“He’s guessing. What if the owner believes your Mr. Dupree is just trying to bilk money from him? What if he believes it’s his duty to do right and fight the case?”
“He probably doesn’t even know somebody on his site was killed. Unless it’s going to get him bad press, then he’ll be trying to execute damage control. Or he’ll send his publicity minions to shore up any leaks. I’m actually surprised no one’s come snooping around here. Mr. Dupree said they might.”
“Hmmm.”
“But no one’s come here except you.”
“So your lawyer’s theory may not be exactly accurate.”
“It could still happen. Don’t you think?”
His gray gaze darkened. “It could.”
“I’d spot them in a minute.”
“You think they’ll wear a big G for Guilty on their foreheads? They could look just like you or me.”
“No.” She shook her head with new-found certainty. “I would absolutely know.”
Chapter 11
“
You knew my mother.”—Julia Maden
Journal entry—May 4, 2001
I graduated from Montpelier Community College last Saturday. Magna Cum Laude. Not bad for a mother with a five year old. Julia was there, sitting in the third row with Clay and his family. Clay’s father has emphysema and has to wear one of those oxygen masks and carry that little cart around with him everywhere he goes. They don’t expect him to be here next Christmas.
You must have graduated by now, too. Princeton? Or did you change your mind and head to Dartmouth? I have absolutely no clue where you are or what you are doing, other than making a huge success of yourself.
I always knew you would go places, but there was a time I thought I’d be going there with you.
***
He’d been watching the girl for ten minutes, captivated by her tumble of black hair and the intense concentration blanketing her small face as she bent over a sketch pad. Aside from the obligatory christenings and random birthday parties of his clients’ offspring, Rourke avoided children. Abbie was the first one he’d actually conversed with and only out of necessity, if one could call her monosyllabic responses peppered with sighs, a conversation.
The girl with the black hair appeared to be about the same age as Abbie, but taller, thinner, quieter. He’d come upon her during a morning jog when he’d stopped at the stone fountain for a drink of water. He’d spotted her hunched against a monstrous oak, oblivious to the passing cars and shrieking children on the nearby swings. He’d behaved the same way at her age. His mother once said the whole world could collapse around him when he was sketching his buildings and he’d never notice.
Just then, an ambulance whizzed past, its siren and horns blasting through the morning din, but the girl with the black hair didn’t flinch. Curious, Rourke jogged toward her and stopped a few feet away. “What are you drawing?” The girl didn’t respond, not even a change of expression. Was she deaf? Is that why a siren screaming down the street didn’t bother her? He moved closer until his shadow passed over her Nike tennis shoes. She jerked her head up and her slate gray eyes sent a jolt through him. He managed to find his voice and rasp out, “Who are you?”
The gray eyes widened as the girl clutched her sketchpad and inched away. “Get away,” she snarled, “or I’ll scream.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped back, repeated in what he thought was a calmer voice, “What’s your name?”She didn’t answer. Clearly, she thought he was some psycho-sexual pervert come to attack her. “Look, I’m new in town. I used to sketch all the time when I was a kid. I just wanted to see what you were drawing. That’s all. Really.”
She wasn’t impressed. No doubt she’d pinned him for a serial rapist and this was his standard line. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
Those gray eyes narrowed to silver slits. “Like you’re some kind of psycho,” she bit out.
“You’ve watched too many episodes of CSI.” Now he was getting annoyed. No female had ever accused him of behaving as less than a gentleman, unless of course, they asked him
not
to behave as such.
“Get away, right now, or I swear I’ll scream and I know the police chief personally.”
“Look, just relax, okay?” She opened her mouth. Rourke hesitated. Children were like hieroglyphics—he’d never understand them. And teenagers? They were worse than interpreting a Rorschach test.
“Julia!” His niece’s voice blasted him from behind. Rourke turned to see Abbie running toward them, her usually pale face red and sweaty. “Rourke?” she panted when she reached him, “What are
you
doing here?”
“Julia?” He looked at the girl who’d pegged him for a rapist.
“Rourke?” The girl stared back at him.
“You’re Kate’s daughter.” He continued to stare at those eyes.
She relaxed a little. “
You’re
Abbie’s uncle?”
Damn those eyes. Slate. He wondered if any of the Maden clan could lay claim to those eyes. The Madens he’d known had eyes the color of wet mud and Kate’s were blue.
“You knew my mother.”
A true understatement. “I did.”
Her expression turned curious, then hopeful. “Did you know my father, too?”
Rourke yanked the towel from his neck and wiped his face, avoiding her eyes. “I knew your dad. He was a good guy.”
But he didn’t have your eyes. Where did that little aberration come from?
A slow queasiness filled his gut as he considered the possibilities.
“My dad was a
great
guy.” Julia’s voice wobbled. “Really great.”
He continued to stare at her. Kate had some serious explaining to do, starting with photo albums of the Redmond and Maden family tree. And they better damn well be in full-blown color.
