Mr. Fix-It (23 page)

“I don’t see why not,” Carter said.

“Give me your card and I’ll have my assistant call yours to set up a time for us to meet to discuss the dates and details.” Bradford lazily held out a hand to receive the business card, his eyes still fixed on Khela. “I think I might raise ticket prices since Miss Halliday would be an added attraction on the tour.”

Khela smiled at the compliment. “Please, call me Khela.”

“I don’t have a card,” Carter said flatly, his hand tightening at Khela’s waist.

Bradford finally swung his gaze from Khela’s face. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have a business card,” Carter said.

“That’s no problem,” Bradford said amiably. “Your assistant can call me first thing Monday morning.” He fished two of his business cards from his inner breast pocket. Handing the first one to Khela, he said. “You’re welcome to contact me if you’d care to learn more about the work I do with CRA.” He offered the second one to Carter, who made no move to take it.

“I don’t have an assistant,” Carter said. “I don’t work in an office. I don’t do much of anything but polish banisters and hold onto my lady’s purse.” He turned to Khela, who was shocked by the sudden change in him, and pushed her purse into her arms. “Have your people call my management team if you want to use my house for your tour, Mr. Sullivan.” With a grim nod, Carter turned and started for the front door.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Sullivan,” Khela said before setting her tea on a music table and rushing after Carter. Politely nodding to the guests as they cut through them, she caught Carter by the arm and steered him into the rear garden. If she hadn’t been so concerned about his behavior, she might have spent a moment appreciating the bountiful color and variety of the garden.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” she said once they were well out of earshot of the house.

“Then don’t say anything,” Carter replied. “Just let me call a cab and we can get out of here.”

Dismayed, Khela backed a few feet away from him. The angles of his beautifully symmetrical face were hard, and the sparkle that ordinarily lived in his pretty eyes was gone. His brow seemed to have lowered to hood his eyes, making him look that much more fearsome.

“I can’t leave.” Her voice broke over the hard lump that had formed in her throat. “I agreed to stay until five.” She took his wrist to look at his watch. “Can you wait another twenty minutes?”

“Can’t you leave twenty minutes early?”

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I just need to leave.”

“I made a commitment to these people, to this event,” Khela insisted. “I can’t just go for no reason.”

A tiny muscle in his jaw jumped. Then he said, “I’m tired of holding your purse.”

She tried to swallow the lump lodged in her throat, but it wouldn’t budge. “I never asked you to do that.”

“But I did it, and now it looks like that’s all I’m good for.” He laughed bitterly. “Well, that and being your man candy.”

“I never—”

“Yes, you did,” he said over her. “At the convention. I didn’t mind so much because things were different then.”

“Different?” She shook her head in confusion. “How? That event was business, same as this one.”

“The difference is that I was only a prop at the convention,” he said. “I’m not a prop anymore. If you need to stay, then stay.” He cupped her face briefly, then turned to walk away. “But I’m goin’ home.”

“Carter, wait!”

Her shout stopped him, but he didn’t turn around.

“You’re leaving because of my purse?”

The emotion in her voice tugged at his heart, reeling him back to her. He embraced her, pressing his lips to her crown. “I love you, Miss Halliday. I really do.”

Tears seeped from her eyes and wet his shirtfront. “I love you, too, you country-fried dumbass,” she laughed.

“I want to be a part of your life,” he said into her hair, kissing her temple. “I read your books so I could learn to love what you love.”

She held him closer. “Did it work?”

“Yep.” He kissed her then, tenderly touching his lips to hers. “That’s why I have to go.”

“Carter,” she gasped, drawing away from him. “What is going on with you?”

“When I figure it out, darlin’, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Miss Halliday?” a woman called from the glass doors. “We need you for photos.”

“Not now,” Khela responded sternly without looking at the woman. “Please,” she added, softening her tone.

“Go on,” Carter said. “I’ll be okay.”

She stepped closer to him and whispered, “I won’t be! I need to know why you’re walking out on me.
Again
.”

“Miss Halliday,” the woman persisted, a touch of anxiousness in her voice now. “Everyone is waiting on you. The photographer, the volunteers, your fans—”

“You’ve got all these people in your life, Khela,” Carter said, his voice cracking. “I don’t just want to be someone you love. I want to be someone you respect. I want to be your hero.”

“You are.” Her eyes searched his, her tears striping her face.

“I’m a super, not a superhero,” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Halliday,” the woman said, scurrying toward them, “but I really must insist—”

Carter took Khela by her shoulders and pulled her in for a quick, hard kiss. “Go,” he said, giving her a little push toward the woman, who took her hand and started dragging her back into the house.

“Will you wait for me?” she called over her shoulder to Carter.

He gave no answer other than a somber wave as Khela disappeared into the recesses of the Dorian S. Fielder House.

Chapter 14

“How far past an ending can you claim a new beginning?”

—from
A Runaway Romance
by Khela Halliday

One of Llewellyn’s colleagues volunteered the use of his home in Wakefield for the wedding ceremony and reception and, from her position on the dais facing a wall of French doors, Khela truly appreciated the beauty of the Colonial Revival home and its view of Lake Quannapowit.

Twenty-five guests sat in the solarium, an addition to the original blueprint of the 130-year-old home. Sunlight warmed the deep-mustard walls and bright white moldings, but a trio of white ceiling fans gently circulated the air coming through the open windows. The September breeze off the lake cooled the room more effectively than air conditioning would have, and Khela found it very comfortable in the ivory satin, knee-length Watters & Watters dress Daphne had chosen for the sunset ceremony. The A-line style of the garment and its simple tie at the Empire waist complemented the shape and style of Daphne’s gown.

Khela’s gaze went to Daphne, who sat beside the nattily dressed Llewellyn in seats of honor, just to the right of the dais. Daphne wanted no gift from Khela other than words, a reading penned by her best friend, maid of honor and favorite queen of romance.

Khela had kept the news of her bust-up with Carter to herself, so as not to distract or upset Daphne so close to the wedding. Daphne, Llewellyn and their guests had no idea that Khela Halliday, the reigning Torchbearer for romance, had failed yet again when her love was tested.

The reading had been one of the hardest pieces of writing Khela had ever attempted. It had been so difficult to put to paper words celebrating love when her own had crumbled around her. Two weeks ago, she had stood in the garden of a house every bit as beautiful as the one she was in now. Carter had explored the Fielder House, studying its details with an appreciation she respected but could never truly understand. She knew that, had he come to the wedding with her, Carter would have admired the architectural details of the Wakefield house as well. She entertained the sad possibility that Carter cared more for buildings than he did for people.

He certainly hadn’t cared as much for her. By the time she had finished the photo shoot at the Fielder House, Carter was gone. He had left her for the second time, and this time Khela refused to be the one to initiate contact.

She gave her head a little shake, clearing it of her thoughts of Carter, and gazed at Daphne. The Yoshioka dress exquisitely complemented Daphne’s skin tone and her hair, which had been intricately arranged in an upswept do styled around a gift from her new husband, a delicate, Cartier-produced replica of an emerald and diamond tiara designed by Prince Albert for Queen Victoria in 1845.

The jewels matched Daphne’s eyes perfectly yet were no match for their beauty and sparkle as she gazed at Khela, Llewellyn’s hand in both of hers and her heart in her lovely eyes.

Khela cleared her throat, but the lump of emotion plugging it refused to budge. She mustered a weak smile, one meant to put herself and her patient audience at ease, but all it did was make her feel as though her face was cracking. It had been fifteen days since Carter had stood sadly waving to her at the Fielder House. He hadn’t just vanished from the garden. With no calls or e-mails from him, he seemed to have disappeared from her life entirely. The worst blow came a few days ago; she’d come home from Calareso’s and found some overweight stranger in a Dickie’s jumpsuit polishing the marble tile of the foyer.

She knew that it was unreasonable and immature to think that Carter had given up the care of his beloved brownstone just to avoid running into her…but that was exactly what she thought.

She cleared her throat again a bit louder, and then she smiled a bit wider. Taking a quick deep breath, she looked down at her note cards.

“I don’t know what pornography is, but I know it when I see it,” Khela began.

Daphne and Llewellyn, their guests, the officiate and the four members of the hired quartet all looked a bit taken aback. Some sat up straighter, Daphne’s grandmother’s mouth dropped open, her grandfather—who hadn’t changed the batteries in his hearing aids—bellowed, “Did she say something about pornography?” and Daphne’s cheeks went five shades darker than her angel’s blush gown.

“Even though I’ve made something of a name for myself as a purveyor of the stuff, I don’t know what love is,” Khela continued. “But I know it when I see it, and I see it there before me, between Daphne and Llewellyn.”

A loving chuckle escaped Daphne, and with tears in her eyes, she blew Khela a kiss from her fingertips.

“Theirs is a true romance because it proves everything I know, in my professional opinion, to be true about love. It comes out of nowhere, like a force of nature. It won’t be ignored, no matter how much you might want to. And it isn’t static. It grows, day by day, and love changes as the people sharing it change. True love, real love, doesn’t just wither and vanish in the face of adversity. On the contrary, adversity is the soil in which love thrives, growing stronger and more beautiful with each challenge it overcomes.”

She paused, blinking moisture from her eyes. She looked up and beyond the guests seated on their fancy rented chairs, hoping a glimpse of the placid lake would ease the tightness growing in her chest.

Instead of the lake, Khela spotted Carter.

Dressed in a classically tailored ecru suit with a white shirt and tie, he stood outside the wall of French doors, hardly concealed by the narrow frames between the pairs of doors. His hands shoved in his pockets, he stood in profile, staring at his wingtips with one ear tipped to the door.

Khela wanted to call out to him, or even better, run to him. But with Daphne, Llewellyn and an assortment of their friends and relatives staring at her, Khela finished her remarks.

“Love is the most powerful and enduring commodity in the world. It is the currency that buys the only things we truly need in this life: companionship, respect, devotion and faith. True love, real love, is not the love I write about. It’s what two people share, moving through each day as he rinses out the half-filled coffee cup she leaves in the sink, and she picks up the socks he puts on top of the hamper instead of lifting the lid and putting them inside.”

Light chuckling from her audience accompanied Khela’s wrap-up.

“Love isn’t easy.” She glanced up once more, and Carter was staring at her. “But it isn’t hard, either, not if the people involved really mean it.” She raised the flute of champagne at her right hand. “To Daphne and Llewellyn, and their once upon an ever after.”

To warm applause, Khela left the dais and accepted kisses from Daphne and Llewellyn and handshakes from the guests seated nearest them. Her remarks had closed the wedding ceremony, so all the guests were now queuing up to congratulate the newlyweds.

Fighting her way through them, Khela crossed the big room to get to the French doors. She tossed open the middle pair and dashed onto the rear deck. The purple and magenta candy-colored light of the sunset bounced off the surface of the lake. The sight was so beautiful it almost erased Khela’s pain at discovering that Carter had disappeared. Again.

* * *

Detrick shouldered his way between two patrons at the crowded bar and slid a twenty-dollar bill across its damp surface. “A roll of quarters, please,” he told the bartender, speaking loudly to be heard over the din of pulsating music, conversations, video games and pool cues striking multicolored balls. “You can keep the change.”

Spurred by Detrick’s generosity, the bartender hastily traded the twenty for a $10-roll of quarters. Detrick thanked the black-clad woman, and inwardly cursed Carter for his bad timing as he left the bar and passed a group of young women stuffing themselves into an instant photo booth.

“Hey, you!” one of them called, a Latina with sparkling black eyes and a smile that could have seduced Detrick into burning down an orphanage. “Wanna take a photo with us?”

Wincing at the sight of the young woman’s tiny waist and massive bosom, which was barely contained by her form-fitting, scoop-necked top, Detrick kept walking toward the rear exit. “I’m so sorry, baby, but I’ve got to go help my friend out.”

“You know where to find me, okay,
papi
?” She turned, and gave him a saucy thrust of a hip that made the very most of what Detrick determined to be her best asset.

“I’m gonna kill you for this, Carter,” Detrick swore under his breath as he hurried down a narrow flight of stairs, opened the service door and emerged into the loading area behind the club.

Carter was only vaguely aware of Detrick’s arrival. The last punch he’d taken had left him on one knee, his head spinning crazily. He’d scraped a hole in the knee of his suit, and blood oozed from a cut underneath it. The cut on his knee was the little pain that distracted him from the bigger one in his face. The gorilla-sized Boston University football player who had invited him outside had dropped him with a right cross to his mouth. Carter’s lower lip had blown up to twice its normal size.

The big blonde Terrier grabbed a handful of Carter’s hair and pulled his head back, to better position Carter’s face for another blow. “It’s always the pretty ones that start fights they can’t finish,” the oaf said to his two friends, who laughed and sipped their beers.

The blond drew back his fist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Detrick peeled off his jacket, an Italian wool cut on the bias for an exceptional fit. He handed it to one of the Terrier’s friends. “Don’t let this touch the ground,” he commanded with a stern point of his finger.

“Gimme a minute,” the Terrier grinned, looking every bit like a prize-winning hog at the Topsfield fair. “Let me finish with him and I’ll deal with you.”

Detrick shrugged his shoulders in wide circles and gave both sides of his neck loud cracks. “You gon’ deal with me
now
, boy,” he said, reverting to the ’Bama tongue of his youth. “Let ’im go.”

The football player released Carter’s hair, and Carter slumped forward on his hands and knees. The Terrier took three hard stomps toward Detrick, prepared to do the same thing to him that he’d done to Carter. He threw a hard right, which Detrick dodged. His left hand wrapped around the roll of quarters, Detrick launched his hammer hand in an uppercut that caught the big linebacker directly under the chin.

The Terrier’s jaw snapped close, clipping the tip of his tongue. He squealed in pain and Detrick just managed to avoid the accompanying spray of blood before landing his second blow, a right hook to the Terrier’s jaw that sent him spiraling to the greasy, grimy cement.

“Give me that,” Detrick directed the friend who’d been holding his jacket. He gave the boy the roll of quarters as a tip, then spent a moment carefully turning the jacket inside out before he went to Carter and helped him to his feet. The Terrier’s friends stood over his groaning, dazed form on the ground. Giggling, one of them poured beer on his face. Roused, the big Terrier growled and lunged for his friends, who ran off laughing. Wiping beer from his face, he stumbled after them.

Detrick spent a longing glance at the rear door of the club, somewhere behind which was a gorgeous young girl who had wanted to take a photo with him. Instead, he was half carried, half dragged Carter to his car.

“You know,” Detrick grunted as he tumbled Carter into the front seat of his Jag, “I thought I’d like it if you started getting dolled up when we go out, but actually, I don’t. We looked like Charlie Babbitt and Rainman when we got here.” He buckled Carter’s seatbelt around him. “Now we look like Charlie Babbitt and Crazyman.”

Detrick got into the driver’s seat and started the car, but he didn’t pull away from the curb. “You were a Terrier,” he said quietly. “You had to know what would happen after you told that big BU boy that Northeastern had a better defensive line this season than the Terriers.”

Blood trickled from one of Carter’s nostrils and his swollen lip impaired his speech as he said, “I was stating my opinion. No harm in that. I wasn’t gonna back down from that kid.”

Detrick snatched the handkerchief from his breast pocket and angrily thrust it at Carter. “No, you just stood there and let him get his licks in.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t fight anymore,” Carter said. “I didn’t.”

“I get it, you can’t beat yourself up, so you got some dumb kid to do it,” Detrick said. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, still too angry to trust himself in traffic behind the wheel of his car. “I don’t care how upset you are about Khela. If you’d just manned up and taken your silly ass to that wedding, you could have made up with her instead of ruinin’ my night.”

“What happens after that?” Carter asked, his voice oddly nasal because of the blood clotting in his sinus cavities. “She’ll still be the best-selling author, and I’ll be Mr. Halliday, holding her purse.”

Detrick’s bald head whipped around so fast, the glint of the streetlight off his dome stabbed Carter’s eyes. “Is that…You started a fight over…Man, have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?” shouted Detrick. He grabbed the steering wheel and stared upward. “Please, Jesus, tell me this dumb cracker boy is not really this stupid!”

“You wanna go a round?” Carter turned in his seat to face Detrick. “I didn’t have it in me to beat that Terrier’s ass, but I’ll give you a run if you call me ‘cracker’ one more time.”

“I read one of her books,” Detrick confessed, changing the subject. “
Teacher’s Pet.
”

“I was wondering where that one went,” Carter said. “I haven’t seen it since your last visit.”

“Yeah, well, I needed something to read on the plane back to Mobile,” Detrick said. “And once I started it at your place, I couldn’t put it down. The girl can spin a tale.”

“Don’t I know it,” Carter said. “She doesn’t think that’s enough, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“ ‘From what we get, we can make a living; what we give, however, makes a life.’ ”

“Beg your pardon?” Detrick said.

“Khela’s got that quote framed in her condo,” Carter explained. “Arthur Ashe said it. Khela’s got her own version of it. She believes you get what you give. She uses her writing to help other people because she’s gotten so much from writing.”