Aftershocks (8 page)

Not that she was much of a spy. Her only piece of evidence was missing. At lunchtime she’d checked her car thoroughly, and even casually asked Bert if he’d found anything in the elevator. He’d handed her a paper clip and made some joke about recycling office supplies. Hah, hah.

She’d even phoned Shannon O’Shea to see if the firefighters had picked up anything, though common sense told her they’d have handed the tape recorder over right away if they had found it.

“What have you lost?” Shannon asked.

“Just an earring. It wasn’t valuable, but it has sentimental value.”

“Did you ask Patrick?” Shannon queried, an edge to her voice, and Briana wished she hadn’t bothered phoning. The tape and recorder must be at home somewhere.

Her aunt was delighted to see her. Irene Thomson
was a very attractive woman who always looked elegant. Even her white slacks and sky-blue blouse were dressed up with an expensive leather belt and loafers. She’d let her hair go gray and it was a gorgeous pewter color, stunning against her porcelain complexion and deep blue eyes.

After wrapping her niece in a scented embrace, she insisted on warming up some leftover dinner. “If I know you, you’ve been too busy to eat properly. I know Cecil will be hungry when he gets home.”

So Briana found herself sipping sparkling water and putting a bowl of salad on the already set table when her uncle walked in. He broke into a big smile when he saw her and, after he’d kissed his wife hello, wrapped his niece in a bear hug. “So, you came for dinner after all,” he said lightly.

“I didn’t plan to eat, but Aunt Irene loves to feed me.”

He chuckled. “That she does.”

Over dinner they chatted about the family and reminisced about a holiday the three of them had taken in France and Italy as a present to Briana when she’d graduated from college. By the time they’d finished dinner, they were laughing heartily.

“It was all right for you two, but I had an awful time fighting off the men who went wild over Briana,” her uncle complained.

“I think it was my blond hair,” Briana said, wrinkling her nose.

“Nonsense. You’re too beautiful for your own good. You take after your mother that way.”

“Oh, that was such a good trip. Why don’t I get out the photo albums?” Aunt Irene suggested.

“I was really hoping to talk to Uncle Cecil for a few minutes about a work thing,” Briana said.

“Oh, of course, dear. I’m sure you’ve got lots to discuss.” Her aunt didn’t take an active role in Briana’s deception, but Briana knew Irene felt no compunction about hurting the man who’d hurt her husband. Briana understood that kind of loyalty. She had it herself. The trouble was, as loyal as she was to her uncle, she was fast developing an equally strong loyalty to her boss.

Uncle Cecil took her into his study. The room’s decor was inspired by a traditional men’s club. Burgundy walls, a British India rug, an oversize mahogany desk, leather chairs and even hunting prints on the walls.

She almost expected to be offered a cigar and brandy when she sat down.

“Uncle Cecil,” she said, “I’ve been working for Patrick O’Shea for two months now and he’s never done anything remotely illegal or unethical.”

Her uncle’s eyes hardened and his mouth firmed. “What about inappropriate overtures to his assistant?”

Forcing herself not to blush, she shook her head. It was the truth, after all. She was the one who’d made the overtures in the elevator.

“I see. Well, he’s been busy.” Cecil blew out a breath. “We’ve all been busy with this wretched trouble.”

“I know. I’m just wondering. Uncle Cecil, could it have been someone else who sent that false evidence to the
Sentinel
?”

“Of course not. Who else would bother?”

“I know it sounds strange, but maybe someone who supported his campaign?”

Uncle Cecil leaned back in his chair and regarded the
ceiling, his habit when he was thinking deeply. “You’re suggesting Zirinsky could have acted on his own?”

Max Zirinsky was a good man. It was difficult to imagine him doing something so underhanded. “I’m only saying that it might not have been Patrick O’Shea. And if it wasn’t him,” she hurried on, “then maybe you two could bury the hatchet and try working together for the good of Courage Bay.”

Her uncle turned to look at her, and she saw the hurt in his eyes. “Do you think I don’t care about this city? I’ve lived here most of my life. I know these people. I’ve served them both as a banker and as a councilor. It’s my duty to stop some young hothead with dubious ethics and his own agenda from spending us into bankruptcy. I won’t let him destroy this city, Briana. I won’t.”

“Are you sure this isn’t personal?” she asked softly.

“Of course, it’s personal. He ruined my chances of ever being mayor, he ruined my loving wife’s peace of mind for weeks. Now it looks like your precious mayor is trying to ruin my relationship with my niece!”

“I just want to do the right thing,” she said, rising from her chair.

“Then do it. Make that bastard pay for hurting your family.”

“O
KAY
, P
ATRICK
, we’ll be live in five, four, three, two, one and—” The light on the camera blinked and Patrick looked directly into the camera. He didn’t need any speaking notes or other aids from his communications advisor. He was appearing live on KSEA TV station at the time of day when most of Courage Bay was tuned in. The local news was finished and the station had pre
empted some programming to give him a chance to talk directly to the city’s citizens. Patrick knew exactly what he wanted to say.

He’d explained to the head of the station earlier in the day what he wanted to do, and Timeright Communications, the station’s owner, had been more than willing to provide him this public forum. After the day’s regular news, Patrick was on a live broadcast to take his message straight to the people. This would be followed by a live phone-in segment with KSEA’s news coanchor, Andrew Hayden.

“People of Courage Bay,” Patrick began, speaking from his heart to the people he’d seen at yesterday’s ribbon-cutting, to the families who’d lost relatives in the crises of the past few months, and to his neighbors, friends and voters.

“For more than one hundred and fifty years, the people of Courage Bay have been known for their selfless and valiant sacrifices in coming to the aid of their fellow citizens in times of disaster. In more recent months, we’ve seen our own times of crisis. We’ve lost neighbors, friends and loved ones. We’ve seen our police officers, our paramedics, firefighters and ambulance drivers risking their lives to avert disaster and save lives. Our hospital staff have worked countless hours of overtime to treat victims of fires, earthquakes, rare viruses, droughts and mud slides.

“Our emergency services teams are stretched to the limits of their endurance. I’ve repeatedly asked city council for more funding to hire additional emergency personnel and to support the strain on the city’s infrastructure and resources.

“As you may be aware, there is a Courage Bay Emergency Fund with several million dollars in it. That fund was set up almost two decades ago to help pay for any unforeseen, extraordinary expenses that might crop up.

“I believe that we need to tap that fund now in order to hire more emergency service workers, keep our emergency equipment in top shape and shorten emergency response times.

“In order to access the emergency fund, we need a one hundred percent yes vote from city council. If you care about your city, your safety and your future, contact your member of city council and demand their support to free up this fund.

“Last night in an emergency meeting, only two of five councilors voted to release much-needed money. It’s time for your voices to be heard.

“Your city council was elected by you to serve you, the people of Courage Bay. I urge you to make your feelings known. I’ll be standing by for the next hour, taking your phone calls. Please feel free to ask me anything. As your mayor, I’ll do my best to answer what I can, and if I don’t know the answer, I’ll make sure and get it to you within twenty-four hours.”

He paused for a sip of water, reminding himself to keep his voice slow and steady. He thought about his mom and about Mrs. Simpson and pretended he was talking to the two of them. By speaking directly to two women he cared for, and who were caretakers themselves, he felt a sense of calm.

“Too much precious time and energy has been wasted. It’s time to support your emergency crews. Call now.”

The camera switched to Anchorman Hayden, who
said, “Thank you, Mayor O’Shea. Our telephone lines are open. The station number is at the bottom of your screen. At the end of the program, we’ll also post phone numbers, fax, e-mail and snail mail addresses of all the members of city council. Exercise your right to be heard.” Behind the cameraman, the producer held two thumbs up.

“M
AYOR’S OFFICE
.” Briana answered the phone on her desk without glancing away from the television screen in Patrick’s office. He was facing the camera, talking sincerely and powerfully, taking his message straight to the people.

As sorry as she was that he’d taken this step without council’s knowledge or approval, she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame him.

She shifted her attention from the TV screen to listen to her caller. “Is my daddy there?” a young voice asked.

“Is this Dylan?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Dylan. Your daddy is at the television station right now. He’s on TV. If you turn on your set, you’ll see him.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. Then, “When will he be home?”

“Maybe another hour or two. Is everything okay?”

“I guess. I was hoping he’d be home now.”

Her heart went out to Dylan. He was obviously upset about something and wanted his dad. Maybe there was something she could do to help, Briana thought.

“Did something go wrong at school today?”

“No.”

Well, something must have happened. Had the baby-sitter punished him? Mrs. Simpson had seemed like a decent, caring woman the one time Briana had met her when she brought the kids by to see their dad, but Dylan struck her as a sensitive boy who could be easily hurt. Briana had a feeling that, even though she was younger, Fiona was the tougher one emotionally. Of course, she’d been younger when they lost their mother. Briana was guessing it had hit Dylan hardest.

“Did something happen with Mrs. Simpson?”

While she spoke with Dylan, she kept an eye on the television. Patrick was as appealing on television as he was in person. She had a feeling Dylan would grow up to look similar. Both had the black hair and blue eyes.

“I think maybe it did. She’s not here.”

Her gaze immediately snapped from the TV screen to the phone as though she could see through it. “What do you mean she’s not there?”

“When we were dropped off at home by the car pool, Mrs. Simpson wasn’t home and the door was locked. I had to use the secret hidden key.” His voice held a touch of pride.

Briana would be smiling at how cute he was if her heart weren’t pounding so fast.

“Did the car-pool mom drive away before you and your sister were in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone? You and your sister?” Alarm spiked through her, but she kept it from her tone. They were awfully young to be alone, and she imagined Patrick would have a fit if he knew.

“Yes. I told you. Mrs. Simpson wasn’t here when we
came in the house. I don’t know where she is. She didn’t leave a note.”

Cursing the woman for abandoning her young charges, Briana grabbed her purse and pulled on her navy linen suit jacket. She could try calling Patrick’s mother, or the children’s aunt Shannon, but that would only waste time and she suspected she was geographically closest to the children. She couldn’t stand to think of those kids alone. “I’m going to come over and sit with you until your dad gets back. Would you like that?”

“I guess.”

He tried to sound tough but she heard the relief in his voice.

“I’m leaving the office right now and I should get to your house in about fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Make sure the doors are locked. Do you remember what I look like?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What’s Fiona doing right now?”

“She’s in the den watching SpongeBob SquarePants.”

“That’s great. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t open the door until you know it’s me. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Normally, Briana wasn’t one to speed, but today she couldn’t get to Patrick’s children fast enough. Her heart pounded and her stomach was in a knot. Maybe she was overreacting, but a nine-year-old and a five-year-old seemed way too young to be on their own. And the poor kid had sounded as if he felt that way, too.

As she neared Patrick’s house she noted that some
of the stoplights were out, so she was forced to slow down and take the intersections with care. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and was in fact twelve minutes, she pulled up in front of Patrick’s house.

She went to the front door, figuring Dylan would be on the watch for her and would already have spied her through a window. She knocked.

“Who is it?”

Smart kid.

“It’s Briana Bliss.”

The door opened. Her first instinct was to hug Dylan, but she squelched it. He wasn’t hers to hug, and she suspected nine-year-old boys weren’t big on hugs.

They locked the door behind them and he took her into the den, where his sister was watching a sitcom rerun that didn’t look very age appropriate.

“Hey, do you guys want to watch your dad on TV?”

P
ATRICK WHISTLED
as he drove home. He wasn’t normally a big one for whistling, but the occasion seemed to demand it. The phone-in TV program had been a bigger success than he’d dreamed possible. It seemed that almost every citizen of Courage Bay had called. The phone lines had stayed jammed and the station had to end the broadcast without having a chance to hear from everyone with something to say.

Regular citizens had phoned in, guys who pumped gas and packed groceries, teachers from the local schools, a cook from the Courage Bay Bar and Grill, homemakers and office workers, retail clerks and business owners. More than ninety percent had supported him in his plea to get that money released. There were some sad phone calls and some downright tragic ones, including a distraught call from Lee Harper, whose wife, Francine, had been killed in the convenience store collapse.

People who’d lost loved ones phoned to plead for the money so others might be saved in the future. Four firefighters called in, some nurses, a doctor or two, an ambulance driver.

The two councilmen who had supported him in
last night’s meeting both phoned in to make their positions clear.

Councilman Cecil Thomson didn’t call and neither did his two cronies. Patrick didn’t believe for a second that they hadn’t sat glued to their TVs as they faced public humiliation. He was sorry the funding crisis couldn’t have been resolved in a less public way, but damn, he was glad to be finally getting somewhere. The message to the three hold-out councilmen from their constituents had been loud and clear: Release the money or face a citizens’ uproar.

So Patrick whistled. He had the windows open in the car, and he sure hoped no one could hear him, since his whistling was totally off-key—but he had to do something to celebrate.

He pulled in to his garage and cut the engine. He didn’t cut the whistling, though. He kept that up as he entered the house, pleased to note that he hadn’t missed a chance to see the kids before they went to bed. In fact, if Mrs. Simpson had been watching him on TV with the kids, he probably hadn’t even missed dinner.

S
URE ENOUGH
, something smelled good when he walked in. His mouth watered. It didn’t smell a lot like Mrs. Simpson’s usual cooking, which tended to include a lot of casseroles that relied heavily on cans of soup tossed over some kind of meat with crushed potato chips on top.

He wondered if she’d been watching one of those cooking shows on TV. There was a definite gourmet odor to his kitchen. The table was neatly set with three places, as per usual, but instead of the regular vinyl table mats, she’d used the good ones from the dining
room. That was weird. Was there some special occasion today he’d forgotten about?

Patrick stood stock still for a moment while he ran through all the special days he could think of. His first panicked thought that he’d forgotten one of the kids’ birthdays was soon gone. Dylan would turn ten, but not for a couple of weeks yet. They’d already talked about taking some of his buddies to a batting cage and then returning to the house for a family barbecue.

Fiona was a summer baby, and wouldn’t be six for several months yet. Mrs. Simpson wasn’t big on celebrating her own birthday, but he always gave her a nice check with a card in October.

Stumped, he continued down the hall to the den. “I’m home!” he called out.

“Hi, Daddy!” Fiona shrieked and came flying out of the den in her favorite pink OshKosh corduroy pants and the purple shirt with pink stars on it. Her hair sported little plastic star barrettes. “Hi, Fiona,” he said, holding out his arms as she barreled down the hallway for a hug. He swung her up in the air, and she said, “Guess what?” Her eyes were dancing and her chubby little face was pink with excitement.

Before he could attempt a guess, Dylan called to him, “We’re in here, Dad.” His son sounded so serious, almost as though he were acting the grown-up. Patrick was intrigued. Something was definitely up.

But nothing could have prepared him for the surprise that greeted him when he got to the doorway of the den and saw Briana sitting on the floor, obviously in the middle of a game of Junior Monopoly with the kids. “Surprise,” she said softly.

“Is it ever,” he admitted, feeling too stunned to consider how he felt about seeing her here in his home, with his kids. “Where’s Mrs. Simpson?”

“She had a car accident,” Dylan said, his eyes round.

Briana rose, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “That’s right. One of the nurses phoned a little while ago. Mrs. Simpson’s in the hospital. Some of the stoplights are out in the area.”

He nodded. “I think it’s more damage from the aftershock.”

“Well, she was driving through the intersection on her way here and someone hit her car. She was knocked unconscious and taken to hospital. She woke up, more worried about the children being alone than about her own health, and couldn’t rest until a nurse phoned to make sure there was someone here with the children.”

“But how did you know they were alone?”

Briana smiled at Dylan and he almost saw his son’s chest puff with pride. “Dylan phoned me at work and explained the situation. We decided it would be a good idea for me to come over.”

“Good work, Dylan.”

“Anyway,” she said, rising from the floor, “Dinner’s in the oven. Oh, and it looks like you’re going to have to find another sitter for the next couple of days. Mrs. Simpson bruised her ribs in that accident and she has a slight concussion.”

He nodded, feeling thick and off center. Briana didn’t live in this part of his world, she lived in the work part, and yet in the past forty-eight hours she’d definitely spilled over into his personal life.

The scary part was how much he liked having her
there. As dangerous as it was, he let himself imagine, just for a second, what it would be like to have Briana in his life permanently. In two months of working together, they’d discovered a lot of common interests. They both liked traveling and hadn’t done nearly enough of it. They both liked
The West Wing,
but also never missed
The Simpsons.
They both liked the outdoors, and although she was a little vague about her family, he sensed they shared a strong attachment to their loved ones.

Briana was a little more organized than he was, and his math was better than hers. They were a good team at work. A fantastic fit physically.

He could so easily imagine what it would be like to walk into the house and find her in casual clothes, the fantastic smell of her cooking wafting through the house. A special expression in her eyes that she saved for him alone.

Sure, he was getting ahead of himself, but at nearly forty years old, he knew when his feelings for a woman were serious.

If she hadn’t taken to his kids, he wouldn’t indulge such a fantasy even for a moment, but what amazed him was the way she’d acted on Dylan’s phone call almost like a mother. She hadn’t messed around or tried to find someone else. She’d dropped everything and sped over to sit with his children.

“I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there today,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

He took a step forward, and she took a step forward, and then they realized at the same moment what they were doing and stopped.

“Well,” she said, “I should get going now you’re home.”

“No,” both kids cried at once. “We have to finish the game.”

“Please?” Fiona said, disentangling herself from Patrick’s legs and giving him the pleading look that always turned him into mush. “Can we finish the game?”

“Can she stay for supper, Dad?” Dylan piped up, more enthusiastic than Patrick had seen him in a long time.

“Oh, I don’t—”

“Can she stay for a sleepover?” Fiona asked loudly, not to be outdone by her older brother.

He bent to ruffle Fiona’s curls, giving Briana a moment to recover her composure. He wasn’t going to be the one to say no to that one. In fact, he thought Fiona had a fine idea there.

They were saved by Dylan, who told his sister, “Grown-ups don’t have sleepovers.”

Well, Dylan had pretty much let Briana know he didn’t have women sleeping over on a regular basis, so that was good. And he’d saved both adults from having to comment on Fiona’s idea.

Patrick glanced up finally to see that Briana’s color had subsided from tomato to more of a watermelon tinge. “Stay for supper. You cooked it. We can at least feed you.”

“That’s okay, really. I love to cook, and since I moved here, I haven’t had a lot of opportunity.” She shrugged. “I was happy to have free run of a big, fully equipped kitchen.”

“I’m not sure how fully equipped this one is anymore. I’m no gourmet, and Mrs. Simpson’s recipes aren’t exactly cutting edge. Our pantry runs more to chicken noodle soup and Cheerios than cilantro or lemongrass.”

Briana laughed. “That’s okay. I used some canned stuff and there were lots of spices in the walk-in storage cupboard. Well, I do want to talk to you about the phone-in show.” She smiled hugely. “You were great.”

Fiona, who’d been waiting impatiently for a pause in the adult conversation, tugged at Briana’s skirt. “Can we finish the game now?”

Briana glanced at Patrick, half-laughing, half-shy. “If you’re sure you don’t mind me staying for dinner…”

“Absolutely sure,” he said. “I’ll go change while you finish the game and then we’ll eat. Sound good?”

He watched as the three of them settled back to Monopoly. Fiona, he noticed, kept shuffling closer to Briana until the two of them were hip to hip. Briana put an arm around the little girl and looked down at her fondly. Dylan stayed in his own spot, but his eyes never left Briana’s face. It seemed to Patrick that Dylan was experiencing his first full-blown crush.

“Get in line, son,” Patrick muttered to himself as he headed down the hall to his own room.

Since he was hot and sticky from a long day at work and the lights in the studio, he indulged in a quick shower, then pulled on his usual postwork uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. He thought about shaving for a second time today, but he didn’t want anyone—especially himself—getting the wrong idea about tonight.

He left his five o’clock shadow, knowing there’d be no after-dinner nooky with a woman who worked for him. Unfortunately.

By the time he made his way back to the den, he saw that his children were cleaning up the game, so quietly and cooperatively, he wondered for a second if some
pod-kids had swapped places with his own. Then he realized they were trying to make a good impression on their guest.

He walked on and found Briana in the kitchen, one of Mrs. Simpson’s aprons wrapped twice around her slim waist. She’d taken a casserole dish out of the oven, filling the room with truly heavenly scents.

“That smells fantastic,” he said, his stomach beginning to rumble appreciatively.

“Thanks. It’s a superquick version of chicken cacciatore. I hope your children will like it.” She glanced at him with a worried expression. “I thought I’d serve it over pasta. Kids like pasta, don’t they?”

He had a feeling she could serve Dylan and Fiona nothing but leafy dark-green vegetables and liver and they’d be as excited as though they were eating hot dogs and potato chips. “They love pasta. Thanks again for doing this.”

He leaned against the counter and watched her competently serve up four plates of food.

As much as he enjoyed the show, he couldn’t stop a frown from forming between his eyes. “I’m going to have a talk to the car pool. I can’t believe those women drive off before the kids are inside the house.”

She nodded. “I thought the same thing myself. But I’ve never been in a car pool with children, so I don’t know what the protocol is.”

“The protocol is safety first, or it should be,” he answered shortly. “Whoever was driving today didn’t even check to see that Mrs. Simpson’s car was out front before leaving a nine-year-old and a five-year-old to fend for themselves.”

“The kids did really well, though,” Briana reminded him. “Dylan was very responsible. When Mrs. Simpson didn’t show up, he called you. And he wouldn’t let me in the house until I’d identified myself.”

Patrick smiled in spite of himself. His son was plenty responsible, thank God.

“It was bad luck that Mrs. Simpson had that car accident,” Briana continued. “Things like that don’t happen every day.”

“Around here it seems like they do. Damn lights.”

“I was thinking about that,” she said, turning to him, the ladle in her hand. He watched a single drop of rich, red sauce plop to the counter. “Do you think the lights could be related to the aftershock?”

He nodded. “Maybe. The point is, I need a better backup system for the kids.”

She turned back to her task, and there was a moment’s silence. Finally she said, “I’d be happy to keep a list of alternative caregivers and all their emergency numbers if you like.”

He squeezed the countertop behind him to stop himself from going over there and taking her in his arms. “Briana, I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, sounding almost guilty.

He took a step toward her, and she ducked her head again, her color mounting. What was that about? Surely she could take a simple compliment. Or maybe because she didn’t have kids of her own, she felt that somehow she wasn’t to be trusted. “I do, Briana. I trust you.”

If anything, she looked even more uncomfortable. He would have called her on it, but he heard the unmistakable sound of four young feet pounding toward the kitchen.

“Wash your hands for supper,” he called out, stopping them in midstride. The pounding retreated and both kids headed for the bathroom before reappearing a few minutes later with clean hands. Dylan, he noted, had even brushed his hair.

Dinner that night was the best meal he’d eaten in his own home in ages. It wasn’t just the food—though a woman who could whip up anything that tasted this good, and do it so fast, deserved a medal—but the atmosphere. The four of them had fun being silly. Dylan told some juvenile joke he’d heard at school, and Fiona told Briana about something she’d learned on
Sesame Street
, then when it was clear their dinner guest didn’t know the entire cast of the show, his daughter happily enlightened her.