Maybe This Time (9 page)

She tried to shake the top pane but it was tight, stuck, not rattling at all, so she dropped her hand to the lower pane and then froze, looking down at the ground two stories below.

North stood there, his hair white in the moonlight, staring up at her.

Andie caught her breath, blindsided by the fact of him, looking at her with the same intensity of their first night, the night they'd made love until dawn, starving for each other, and he was down there now, she couldn't believe it,
he was down there now.
He'd asked her if she wanted him to come, and she had, but she'd said no, but maybe he'd known, maybe he'd come for her, the way he'd crossed the bar all those years ago to meet her, maybe—

A cloud scudded across the moon and everything went dark, and when the moonlight lit the lawn again, he was gone.

This is still a dream,
she thought. She was losing her mind. She was almost engaged to another man. She didn't even want North. It was because she'd taken this job, with these two kids who didn't want her. She should get out of there, she should run—

Tell him to come to you.

She closed her eyes and thought about rolling in his arms again, the weight of him bearing her down, the push of his hips and the surge of him sliding hard into her—

Call him!

Andie jerked back from the window and looked around. Somebody had said that, somebody must have said that, but there was no one in the room but her.
This is a dream.

Yes, it's a dream, you're dreaming of him. Call him. He's the one. Bring him here.

Andie shook her head to clear it, dizzier than ever now. And cold, so cold that she climbed back into bed shivering. She pulled the comforter up over her, and thought,
No more dreams,
and then sank down into the pillows and eventually into a fretful sleep, ignoring the voice that whispered,
Who do you love?,
and then dreamed of making love with North.

 

North had been sitting at his desk, working late to figure out a way to keep the next day's jury from noticing his client was a total waste of space and air, when his mother opened his office door without knocking and walked in, elegant and annoyed, and said, “We need to talk.”

Oh, hell, not now.
North stood up. “Hello, Mother. How was Paris?”

“Loud.” Lydia sat down, every platinum wave in place, the pearls around her throat in regimented rows.

North sat down. “The little people talking in the streets again?”

Lydia ignored that. “I assume Sullivan has been in.” She sat with her back straight and her arms along the arms of the chair, symmetrical and unbending.

“Yes,” North said and waited to cut to the chase so he could get rid of her.

“And?” Lydia said and waited.

“He's looking well.”

“He always looks well. He's my son. What did he say?”

“He said you were in good health.”

Lydia smiled, her lips curving in the tight little half circle that had sent opposing lawyers scurrying to offer settlements for forty years. “This is amusing, North, but I don't have the time. What did Sullivan tell you?”

North leaned back. “That's privileged. I'm his lawyer.”

“North—”

“What do you want, Mother?”

Lydia drew in air through her nose, her patrician nostrils flaring like a Derby winner's. “He's found another woman.”

North nodded. “He does that.”

“Or should I say, she's found him.”

North nodded. “They do that.”

Lydia's brows snapped together. “You are not being helpful.”

“I don't want to be helpful.”

“He's your brother—”

“Which is why I don't want to be helpful.” North straightened. “Mother, he's thirty-four. And although you may not have noticed, he has a cheerful cunning that has kept him single and solvent through adulthood.”

“Only because we were watching him,” Lydia snapped.

“I never watched him.”

“Well, you should have.”

North smiled back at her, the same tight smile she'd given him,
the one Andie had called “the crocodile smile.”
Has the same sincerity as crocodile tears,
she'd told him once in the middle of an argument.
Just less emotion.

He twitched his lips to get rid of it now. “Southie's fine, he always has been. Leave him be.”

“Southie?” Lydia said, suddenly alert.

“Sullivan.”

“You haven't called him Southie in years.” Lydia narrowed her eyes. “What's going on?”

North sighed. “Mother, go away.”

“He's seeing that woman from Channel Twelve. The one obsessed with children in jeopardy who browbeats the people she interviews.”

“Imagine that,” North said, meeting her eyes.

“I do not browbeat people.”

“Mother, you've made a career out of browbeating people.”

“Witnesses,”
Lydia said.
“Lawyers
. Not
people.”

“Thank God you have standards.”

Lydia glared at him. “Are you telling me that that woman is like me?”

North pictured Kelly O'Keefe in the last interview he'd seen her do, the one where the woman she was haranguing cried so hard she threw up on camera. “No.”

Lydia sat very still for a few moments and then said, “I have heard it said that men either marry their mothers or their mothers' opposites.”

“Well, they'll say anything.” North smiled at her, a real smile this time. “Mother, you are not like Kelly O'Keefe. Sullivan is not interested in her because he thinks she's you. Neither of us is Oedipal.”

“Oh, please,” Lydia said. “Andromeda was exactly like me.”

North lost his smile. “I beg your pardon.”

Lydia frowned at him again. “Aside from her teeth and those damn peasant skirts, she was practically my twin.” She thought for
a moment. “Except for the baking. I don't bake. I haven't had decent banana bread since she left.”

“No,” North said, showing what he thought was remarkable restraint. “I never looked at Andie and saw you.”

“Not consciously, but a weak, silly woman would have bored you to tears.” She nodded once at him. “You picked a ballbuster, just like me.”

“Excuse me,” North said. “I'd like to continue this conversation but I find myself in need of a therapist.”

“Kelly O'Keefe is a stupid woman. She thinks bullying people will make her look tough. Instead, she just looks like a sociopath.” Lydia stared angrily into space. “I think she is a sociopath. They're often very successful, you know.”

“I know. I've defended several. Well, this has been—”

“I'm going to call the McKennas, have them look into her. She's hiding something. And of course, she's using him.”

North was tempted to argue the “of course, she's using him,” but of course, she was. And of course, Southie was using her, too. It seemed fair. “No, you will not put a private detective on Kelly O'Keefe.”

“Then I'll have to meet her.” Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “You should meet her, too. Your judgment is very good.”

“I don't even like watching her on television. Was there anything else?”

“Yes,” Lydia said, exasperated. “I want you to stop Sullivan from seeing that woman. I don't want teeth like that on my grandchildren.”

“I doubt very much that Kelly O'Keefe will give birth.”

“Which is another problem,” Lydia said. “Sullivan is my only hope for grandchildren. I don't want all my genes in Kelly O'Keefe's egg basket, especially if she's not going to use them.”

North raised his eyebrows. “Leaving aside Kelly's . . . basket, Sullivan is your only hope?”

“Well, you're not going to give me any. You'll never stop working long enough to procreate.”

North opened his mouth to disagree and Lydia ran right over him.

“We have to stop this, North.”

“Mother, leave Sullivan to his dentally challenged newscaster. He won't marry her. If he does, it's his life and his choice. The umbilical cord was cut thirty-four years ago, stop trying to haul him back by it. You don't do that with me, give Sullivan the same respect.”

“I can't do that with you. You bit through yours at birth.”

“And now I'll be canceling dinner.”

“I have heard that she's asking about Archer House. She's asking about the children and the house.”

North considered how much to tell her. “She's interested in the ghost stories.”

“She's not asking about ghosts. She's asking about you and the children. That's her specialty, stirring up outrage about children. I don't like it. I especially don't like it with all the trouble we've had keeping nannies. How's the new one doing?”

“She quit. I don't see how Kelly O'Keefe can use the kids. They're not being starved or beaten. What's her hook going to be?”

“That they're down there alone in a haunted house?” Lydia snapped. “I think if she got hold of that last demented nanny, she could make a story out of that. You've got to get somebody else down there—”

“Already did,” North said, seeing danger ahead. “Very competent. Not a problem. You're looking tired, Mother. I'd make it an early night if I were you.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Would you? That's very thoughtful. Where did you get this nanny? From the same service?”

“No.” North picked up his pen. “Anything else?”

Lydia's icy blue eyes met his. “Are you going to tell me what's going on now, or do I have to sit here all night and stare at you until you break?”

North put the pen down. “I sent Andie.”

Lydia's face went slack with surprise, which was some reward, North thought. It took a lot to surprise Lydia.

“Andromeda?”

“Yes,” North said. “You remember her. Dark eyes, curly hair, smart mouth, about this tall”—he held his hand out at about ear height—“used to be married to me.”

“Andromeda is back?”

“She called and asked to see me two days after the last nanny quit. She was free, and I asked her to go down there and straighten things out, and she said yes.”

“Are you going to resume the relationship?”

“No. Now I have work to get back to—”

“It wouldn't hurt you to see her again. It's been ten years, she's probably dressing like an adult now—”

“She's engaged,” North said flatly.

Lydia lost her smile. “Why?”

“I assume because she'd like to be married again.”

“Who could she find that would be better than you?” Lydia said, outraged.

“I think ‘better' is subjective.” North picked up his pen and tapped it on his legal pad. “And now I really have to work.”

Lydia looked at him, exasperation plain. “I gave birth to idiots. My oldest son can't keep his wife, and my youngest son is chasing a woman that's mostly teeth and hair.”

“We blame you,” North said.

“Are you going to see Andromeda again?”

“No.”

“Are you going to keep that harpy away from your brother?”

“No.”

Lydia lifted her chin. “Fine, I will handle things myself.” She stood up and tucked her purse under her arm. “But if the future face of the Archer line is ninety-nine percent tooth enamel, it'll be your fault.”

Of course,
North thought as she walked out.

He tried to go back to work, but his mother had broken his concentration.
She's probably dressing like an adult now,
Lydia had said, and Andie had sat there in an awful suit jacket, acting like an adult. If they got back together, he was burning that damn jacket—

They weren't getting back together. She was marrying somebody else.

She's a bolter. Even if she marries this other guy, she won't stick.

Unless she'd really changed. Unless she'd found somebody she wanted to stick to.

That was the worst thought he'd had in a long time, so he shoved it out of his mind and went back to work.

 

The next morning Andie went downstairs, made breakfast, and put French toast in front of Alice and Carter.

“Cereal,” Alice said, clutching her pearls, her locket, her shells, her Walkman, and her bat as if the French toast was going to contaminate them. She'd put her hair up in a topknot on her own, and it was sliding down the side of her head, but Andie was willing to let that go if Alice was going to be proactive about grooming.

“Try the French toast,” Andie said while Mrs. Crumb sniffed.

Alice shrank back. “No, no,
no,
NO,
NO
—”

“It's good,” Carter said without looking up from his book.

Alice stopped shrinking, leaned forward, and took a tiny, cautious bite.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAGH.”

“Fine,” Andie said, and took the plate away.

Alice pushed her chair back and went and got her cereal and ate a big bowl of it. She was scraping the bottom loudly when they heard a loud, sharp rapping echo through the open door to the hall.

“That's the front door,” Mrs. Crumb said, surprised.

“Right,” Andie said, remembering. “That might be a cable company, and there's also a team of housecleaners coming in to clean—”

“What?”
Mrs. Crumb said, her eyes protruding even more in her shock.

“I'll get the door,” Andie said, and went out into the small hall, through another door, across the Great Hall, through the stone arch into the entrance hall, and finally arrived at the heavy front door. “Sorry,” she said as she opened it. “It's a real trek to get here.” Then she stopped.

There was a crowd on the doorstep.

“We're the Happy Housekeepers,” the woman in front said cheerfully. “Where do you want us?”