Public Relations (33 page)

Was
that
all?

Peter stared at his phone a moment before putting it back to his ear. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah. I think I am.” Carl sounded tentative, maybe even a little relieved. “For the first time in a long time.”

“Then I’m glad.” Sadness that Carl hadn’t felt he could confide in him added another five pounds to Peter’s heart. “I wish you had felt like you could’ve come to me.”

Ice clinked in a glass. Probably Carl sipped at his drink. “Me too. About a lot of things.” The cryptic statement hung in the air before Carl said, “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t get too caught up in work.”

“I’ll call you next week,” Peter said.

It was a promise he swore he’d keep.

“Merry Christmas,” Carl said again.

“Merry Christmas.” Peter thumbed the Off button and dropped his hand to his side.

Back in the living room, his family had already dug into breakfast and had torn open all of Georgia’s packages. All but one. Presumably his own. Liam held John Mayer’s CD. The one with “Why Georgia” on it, Peter guessed. Kevin, the complete
Raiders of the Lost Ark
collection. Ma had a book on recipes to make with preserves, and Da a new clamp for his models. This one tightened and released with a push of a button.

She’d nailed every single gift, and as he’d asked, she hadn’t spent much money. Nothing was ostentatious. Everything struck him as personal. Meaningful. Hesitant, he took the gift Niall handed out to him.

He didn’t want to see this, but he didn’t want to tell his da what had happened either. Choosing the lesser of two evils, he stood by the tree and tore open the paper on his gift before opening a wooden box. Carefully crafted, the latch was closed with a wooden pin on a brass chain. Inside, in a specially made compartment, were three of the tools he’d need to handcraft his sailboat.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Niall and Peter shoved mountains of wrapping paper into plastic trash bags. The scent of a roast and sound of quiet conversation drifted from the kitchen. Ribbons and other Christmas leavings littered the space around the living room chairs, some of it sticking from beneath the coffee table. Peter bent low and scooped up another handful. He and Niall stood at the same time.

The energy in the room seemed to change as Peter met his brother’s eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” Niall crammed more paper into the bag.

“No, tell me.” Sick of the entire family tiptoeing around him, Peter invited the brewing confrontation.

Nobody had discussed Georgia’s gifts, and he knew damned well they were all thinking he was somehow responsible for the breakup. He’d be damned if he’d not take a little piece out of Niall, at least, for the silent recriminations he’d suffered all morning.

White trash bag dangling from one hand, Niall pinned Peter with his perpetual acerbic stare. “You really want to know?”

“You want to tell me.” Peter cinched his own bag with a jerk, the plastic ties biting into his fingers. “So why don’t you?”

“You used her.”

“What?” In his wildest imaginings he hadn’t predicted those words would leave his brother’s mouth.

“Georgia. You used her. She deserved better.”

“I? Used her?” Peter released the bag, and it fell over as it hit the ground. “She wrote that gossip column, Niall. Was probably pumping this entire family for fodder for her next piece of pseudo journalism.”

A frown flickered over Niall’s face, but Peter’s momentary surge of victory died when Niall shook his head. “Did you know that? Who she was? When you brought her here?”

“Have you lost your mind? Of course not!” As if he would’ve let the woman within ten feet of his mother if he’d known.

“Then you were using her.”

Peter wanted to tear his hair out. He’d settle for Niall’s if his brother hadn’t stepped behind a chair and clutched the back. Nostrils flaring, Peter crossed his arms and silently dared his brother to continue.

“You weren’t dating her. You lied to all of us. To your family.”

“I—” The observation caught him off guard, and Peter momentarily forgot the real purpose of the argument. “How did you know?”

“Oh please, Pete.” Niall rolled his eyes and rocked backward on his heels before returning to a flat-footed stance. “You think any of us believed a woman would actually date you so soon after that column came out? I’m afraid of what I’d catch sharing a glass with you, never mind a bed.”

Peter growled. “I always,
always
had my…partners tested.”

“That’s just gross.”

A vein leaped in Peter’s temple. He refrained from lunging at his brother, but barely. “You know what? I don’t know why I bother talking to you.”

He snatched up the trash bag and turned to leave.

“You made her pose as your
lover
. She was your secretary or PA or whatever, and you forced her to prostitute herself to your family and to you.”

Peter nearly choked on his own spit. He’d done nothing so base. So vile. Georgia had been willing. Probably even too willing—all because she wanted to get more dirt on him and his—

“And she was in love with you. That’s the sickest part of all.” Niall jabbed a finger in his direction. “She loved you. And you used her. So in my book? That would’ve made you even.” He came around the chair to stand nose-to-nose with Peter. “Except at least she wrote that
honest
column about a man she didn’t know. You used a woman who trusted you, Pete. You fucked her good and then hung her out to dry for your own mistakes.”

“You don’t know jack about—”

“I don’t?” Niall’s hot breath hit Peter’s face, making him blink. “Don’t you think I know how you operate? How you leave when things get difficult?” A hard finger jab at Peter’s sternum emphasized the question. “How you’d abandon your own family rather than face down the hard stuff?” Niall shook his head, disgust curling his lip. “You’re a coward. I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”

A decade and more of pent-up anger busted through the careful control he had managed until that moment to keep duct-taped together despite Niall’s constant battering. Peter’s right hook snapped his brother’s head up and his body followed in an arc that lifted him from his feet and sent him crashing onto and over the coffee table. Stunned silence and heavy breathing preceded the sound of scraping chairs and running feet from the direction of the kitchen.

“I never abandoned you, you ungrateful shit.” Peter stared down at his youngest sibling, who struggled to lean on one elbow. “I left so I could find a way to provide for you.” It was his turn to jab a finger in Niall’s direction. “So you could have all the fucking balsa-wood gliders you wanted and a full fucking stomach.”

Crippled by memories of coming home to a family he barely recognized on each school holiday, Peter sat. He’d given up everything to scrape together a life for them. Then, when he’d found the secret formula to success, he’d practically cut open his own veins to give his brothers the opportunity to live the dreams he’d always wanted for himself. Now Niall dared to call him a coward? When he’d faced down every fear he’d ever had, conquered it, and won? Did his family think leaving home that young had been easy?

Niall wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came away with blood. He stared at it before meeting Peter’s gaze.

“I never wanted the gliders,” he whispered with a lisp, his lip already fattening. “I wanted my big brother.”

Niall had missed him? The thought kneecapped him, and he sank back against the sofa cushions as his mother shooed everyone but him and Niall out of the room.

“You had two other older brothers.” The quiet denial rang false to Peter’s own ears. “What did you want me for?”

“I needed you. You’re the only one who made me feel like I’d be okay. That everything would be okay.” Wrapping his arms around his shins, Niall tried to rest his chin on his knees, but winced and lifted his head. “I believed you when you said it. You always seemed so sure, and you never talked down to me.”

They stared at one another over the coffee table’s polished wood surface, every moment of the past fifteen years seeming to play out in Peter’s mind. All this time, all the good he thought he’d done…it had all been for nothing? He swore he was going to puke.

“I just wanted to make it right.” Peter broke Niall’s gaze, too ashamed to look his brother in the eye. “What I did to Da? To all of you? I had to fix it. And yet”—he gave a self-deprecating snort—“they let you pay off the house.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall said.

Peter snapped his head up. “What are you sorry for? You’re the good son. Ironically.”

“The gambling suits me. I like my freedom.” Niall addressed the unspoken insult.

Peter had never made any secret of his abhorrence of Niall’s chosen career, but in the cold light of day he had to admit what his brother did took guts and no small amount of brains. He shook his head, no longer able to fathom anyone or anything, least of all himself.

“You’re intelligent,” he said by way of explanation. “You could do anything.”

“Not and be around for them when they need me.” Niall jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.

“But I could—”

“No. You couldn’t. You can barely get here for a birthday. You never answer your phone. What if one of them needed medical care?” Niall winced and dug in his mouth for a minute before grabbing a paper napkin from the floor and wiping blood and tissue off his finger. “I’m not saying you haven’t done well for yourself. What I’m trying to say is you did it for you. Not for us.”

Peter couldn’t breathe. He wanted to beg Niall to shut up, to save the rest of the well-deserved shaming for another day, but he couldn’t form the words.

“You can’t just sweep in with grand gestures, Pete.” Niall hauled himself to his feet and plopped down on the opposite end of the couch. “You have to be there for the small stuff—and the hard stuff. Then and only then do you earn the right to help with the big stuff. Otherwise?” Reaching out, Niall briefly rested a hand on Peter’s knee. “It’s charity. And we both know Da doesn’t do charity.”

* * * *

Wandering the hushed Central London streets around Piccadilly Circus, Georgia tried not to think of another city across the ocean, or the man she wished walked beside her. London’s answer to Times Square, Piccadilly Circus’s more intimate confines hosted a bevy of foreign and domestic advertising in loud, red neon. The signs flashed ridiculously, with no one here but herself to watch.

On Christmas Day little traffic—pedestrian or otherwise—traversed the empty streets. Gray clouds muted the daylight, but at present no rain fell. In New York there might have been snow. Was Peter opening gifts with his family now? It was early there. Perhaps not. Was he awake? Thinking of her? Or had he forgotten her as easily as the other women with whom he’d briefly shared his bed? Shaking herself from her morose thoughts, she followed Regent Street as it turned toward Pall Mall.

It’d been years since she’d been in this part of the city. Not since she’d attended a performance of
Les Miserables
with her friend Iona von Shumaker’s family had she so much as glimpsed this area of London. She had to have been, what? Twelve? Thirteen? She recalled the glorious stage lights and atmosphere of the evening. Everything had felt so exciting and new, as if she were on the precipice of adulthood.

Away for over a decade, she no longer had friends or even any real acquaintances in the city. Even at her father’s London house, she had only recognized one or two of the servants. Everything felt foreign and empty. God, she was lonely. Heartsick and lonely. A perfect way to spend Christmas. If she’d known how much worse things could get, she’d never have thought ill of the bland holidays she’d shared with her father or the servants.

Her father…

Without thought, she drew her cell from her jacket pocket and took off her mitten to dial Sid’s landline. After two rings, he picked up.

“Hey, Georgie! Merry Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, Sid.” The automatic response felt cloyingly artificial. “Did I wake you?”

Sounds of holiday music and dishes clinking in the background said she hadn’t, but she asked out of politeness and for lack of anything better to say. Now that she’d dialed him, she had no idea why she’d done it. Stupid girl.

“Nope. Just finishing up breakfast.” Rustling noises momentarily obscured Sid’s voice as, Georgia guessed, he switched the receiver to his other hand. “Then Carl and I are taking a walk along the Hudson. We’ll probably go to the movies later.”

Picturing the lapping waters of the Hudson River and the paved trail that ran along its bank, Georgia withheld a sigh of envy. Perhaps she should take her own river walk along the Thames? She hadn’t been there in ages either.

“Georgie?”

“Yeah.” She pressed the cell more tightly to her ear. “Sorry, Sid. Daydreaming, I guess.”

“That’s okay— No, those go in the upper right cabinet.” He spoke first to her, then to Carl before asking, “How’s your father doing?”

Panic swept her as the knowledge she’d been avoiding on her wanderings crashed through the paper-thin wall of denial she’d built.

“My plane landed at nine this morning, and I went straight to the hospital.” In British stiff-upper-lip form, she kept the statement steady and crisp. “He passed away last night.”

“Shit. Georgia. I’m… Are you okay?”

No, she wasn’t okay. She wanted to cry. To rail for everything she’d missed and everything she’d never had. Most of all, she wanted Peter’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, as she sobbed out her empty grief—grief that didn’t make sense given she’d never really known or admired her male parent. Peter would smell like that spicy-brisk shampoo of his, and his stubble would catch in her hair as he rubbed his cheek at her crown, soothing her with small gestures and understanding words.

She came to a bus-stop enclosure and sank onto the bench. Knowing Sid awaited her reply, she opened her mouth to say
I’m fine
. What came out instead was a choked sob and “My God, Sid. I miss him so much.”

A pause preceded Sid’s careful “We’re not talking about your father anymore, are we?”

“How can it hurt this much?” Her breath came in little gasps, each one threatening to tear her ribs apart. “I—I can’t be in love. Not with him. Not so quickly. And yet…I just want to die. I hate myself for what I did to him.”