Starting from Scratch (20 page)

L
ife looked different to her now.

Every so often, she had to stop and just take stock of all the changes. Like now, in the middle of her busy day. She pulled a not-so-empty second to herself and took a long breath.

Every moment of the day was still filled, but it amazed her how much more she could cram into a day than she had before. She was a “homemaker” now, a parent. There was no time to lie awake at night, with that soft refrain echoing through her head, whispering, “Is that all there is?” in Peggy Lee's husky voice. When she went to bed at night, she was asleep before her head found the pillow, waking up only when the alarm insisted on rousing her the following morning.

Her priorities in the last few months had shifted. Her workload had not. Despite Rocky's promise to lighten her responsibilities, work continued to pile on. Elisha didn't mind. She liked what she did. Enjoyed it even when the pace threatened to destroy someone with a lesser ability to cope with stress. She'd even approached a movie icon she knew about writing a book. The man told wonderful, complex, entertaining stories and she'd suggested hooking him up with a professional ghostwriter to help him along through his first attempt. When he'd agreed, she'd turned the project over to Carole Chambers. Her former assistant had accepted the gift warily.

“Why would you give this to me?” she'd asked, smiling so wide she could have given
Alice in Wonderland
's Cheshire cat a run for his stripes. The emotion behind the smile was just as genuine as the feline's had been. But that had no bearing on Elisha's decision. Logic had brought her to it.

“Because I think you're more suited for this project than I am. I have my mystery authors. That's my niche. This is straight fiction. More your forte,” she'd added, then said with a smile, “Have fun with it.”

When she had walked out of the befuddled editor's cubicle, she'd felt good about what she'd done. Not insecure, not uneasy, but content. She hadn't even gone to the ladies' room after that to check for stab wounds in her back. It didn't hurt to have Carole completely thrown off guard in the bargain.

Of course, the final decision rested with Rocky, but Elisha felt fairly confident that he wouldn't oppose it. Almost as dear to him as profit were peace and tranquillity. The project would keep Carole busy for some time. And out of everyone else's hair. Besides, Rocky trusted her judgment. If she thought Carole was suited to the endeavor, then so did he.

Moving from her chair, Elisha approached the window that had sold her on this corner office. She wrapped her arms around her waist as she stood there, looking down at the city below. It had snowed last night. More than just a fair dusting. From this height, everything appeared to look warm and cozy. The fresh blanket of white hadn't turned to slush yet, hadn't begun to turn gray from all the exhaust it continually absorbed.

It looked picturesque. Like the cover of an old-fashioned greeting card.

Christmas was coming soon, she mused. She'd already begun shopping for the girls. There were so many more details to remember this year than before. Lists littered her life now.

She'd always loved Christmas, always celebrated the holiday at Henry's place. Even when she and Garry were together, she'd always considered Henry's house home and spent both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there.

This year, Christmas was up to her.

Turning away from the window, Elisha went back to her desk and sat down. She was going to make it the best Christmas she possibly could for the girls. It wouldn't be easy, but she was determined. She owed it to Andrea and Beth. And herself.

And Henry, she added silently with a bittersweet smile.

She wasn't going to go there yet. She missed Henry with her whole heart. The wound was still raw. She knew it would be for some time to come.

Elisha glanced at her desk calendar. There was a notation in red marked in around noon.
Lunch with Sinclair.
She grinned. Around this time of year, little children began approaching him, asking if he was Santa Claus in disguise. It never failed to tickle him.

The author was busy working away on his new book and from all indications it was going very well. There had been very few emergency phone calls from him since he'd begun. This time around, his insecurity had toned down considerably. He'd gotten it under control faster than she could ever remember. When she'd mentioned it, he'd told her that was her doing. When she'd returned to be his editor again, he'd been so relieved, he'd suddenly felt inspired.

That had been more than two months ago. Two months and he was still firing on all four burners. Obviously he'd found a way to make his inspiration last indefinitely. She hoped it remained with him until he was finished. He was far less stressed this way. And so was she.

Baby steps, she thought fondly. Sinclair was taking baby steps.

They were all taking baby steps, she amended. All but Ryan.

Her mouth twisted into a smile. The man probably didn't think he needed to make any changes, but he had. Consciously or unconsciously, he'd begun to bend rather than remain inflexible. They fought passionately over her final corrections to his latest book, but even so, she won more than a handful of the skirmishes.

When the manuscript had finally gone into production, it bore more than a few of her annotations, and he had made changes in the manuscript. Most notably to his main character. The man had become not just an action figure but someone with a soul.

That was due to her, she liked to think. She wondered what Ryan would say if he knew she'd sent his book off to be reviewed by several of the more notable critics. She was fairly certain that his comments would definitely not be G-rated.

She'd half expected him to stop inviting her over for the weekly poker games now that the manuscript was no longer a bargaining chip between them, but he hadn't. She was still included. Had grown accustomed to being included. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe that was setting herself up for a fall once the invitations dried up.

But there wasn't anything she could do about that and she knew it. Somehow or other, she'd slipped into a brand-new world here, as well. And she liked it. Liked being with him.

More than liked it.

She was working without a net and she knew it.

Her natural optimism warred with reality, striking up a compromise. She didn't go as far as thinking of him as her lover, but they had gotten together a number of times since that first time. And to her astonishment, each time had been better than the last. For her.

For him as well, she would have liked to believe. But she couldn't be sure. He never came right out and said anything. Once the moment was over, once their clothes were back on, a mask would descend over his face and a fence would go up around him. Keeping her out.

But at least it was a wooden fence, not a brick wall. Fences could be more easily breached. And she was all for breaching, Elisha thought with a smile. She'd even bring the wood chipper.

Her private line rang. The line that Rocky had agreed to have put in for her when she'd returned to Randolph & Sons full-time. The only ones who had the number were Beth and Andrea. For emergencies.

Her heart beat a little faster.

Terminal optimist my foot. You're always anticipating disasters.

Motherhood had done that to her. Having the welfare of two children exclusively in her hands had made her think differently about everything. It was both a blessing and a curse. As she picked up the receiver, Elisha struggled to keep the anxiety out of her voice. If this was Andrea, the teenager would accuse her of overreacting. And she'd be right.

“Hello?”

“Aunt Lise.” It was Beth. “I need a shepherd costume,” the little girl declared.

Elisha grinned as relief came flooding in. Six months ago, she would have found the request unusual. But six months ago, she wouldn't have sat up all night reacquainting herself with the sewing machine she hadn't used in years. She'd made Beth a sheep costume, a standard requirement if you were playing a sheep in the elementary school's annual Christmas pageant.

“You got a promotion?” Elisha guessed.

“Marilyn Hotchkiss is sick with the flu and Mrs. Allen said I could do her part.” Beth was trying very hard not to sound joyful at someone else's misfortune, but it was fairly obvious that she was thrilled.

“Any dialogue?”

“I say, ‘Hark,'” Beth told her with no small pride.

“‘Hark' is good. It's a start. When do you need the costume by?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer.
Yesterday, right?

“Tomorrow. Mrs. Allen said because you have to hurry, it didn't have to match the others, but she wants it to be dark brown. I've got a picture.”

“That's good.”

A pattern would have been better, but she would take what she could get. Saying goodbye to her niece, Elisha hung up the receiver. It looked as if it was going to be a long night filled with pins, pinking shears and words she didn't ordinarily say muttered under her breath.

Yes, Elisha thought as she made a note to herself to buy three yards of dark-brown fabric, her life was very full. Any fuller and it would begin to overflow. She wondered how Sinclair was going to feel about topping off their lunch date with a quick stop at the craft store for three yards of dark-brown material and matching thread.

T
here was a single red rose on her desk when she walked into her office the following week. The light from the window hit the cut-glass vase at just the right angle to create rainbows along her desk. It was the first thing she noticed when she crossed the threshold.

She could use a few rainbows today, she thought.

The train into the city had been delayed because of some malfunction along the track. The trip in had taken twice as long. Consequently, she began her morning running late.

Being late never put her in a good mood.

But like a red light at an intersection, the sight of the rose stopped her dead in her tracks. And made her smile.

She'd gotten flowers before. Bouquets, carefully crafted arrangements, celebrating a book's success, an author's gratitude. The last bunch had been from Rocky, celebrating her return to the publishing world. He'd almost turned her office into a garden. And Sinclair always sent her flowers for her birthday. But she'd never received just one single, perfect red rose before.

The rose stood at attention in its tall, slender vase. It certainly had all of hers.

Elisha looked around the bottom of the vase, then lifted it to look beneath it. Nothing. There was no note.

She rang for the assistant who'd signed for the gift in her absence. When the dark-haired, lively-looking woman appeared, she asked, “Trina, where did this come from?”

Trina looked at the vase, not at her. The expression in her eyes was borderline dreamy. “The florist delivered it about half an hour ago. Pretty, isn't it?”

“Was there a note?”

Trina shook her head. Tight, black little curls bounced around her face before returning to their place. “None that I could see.”

Elisha had a sneaking suspicion she knew who'd sent the rose, but she needed to be sure. That meant getting to the source. “Who was the florist?”

Trina frowned as all her features were absorbed in the act of thinking. And then her small, round face brightened.

“Capriani's,” she declared as if she'd just come up with the million-dollar response in a game of Jeopardy. “It was written across the back of the guy's jacket. I noticed it because the name was Italian,” she explained.

Elisha's mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. Trina was currently seeing someone who was Italian, so she was suddenly aware of everything that might have something to do with the country.

It never ceased to amaze her how things managed to arrange themselves the way she needed them to, Elisha thought.

“Thanks,” she said, turning toward her computer.

Trina continued to look at the flower wistfully. “Want me to get the number for you?”

“No, I can do it myself.”

With a nod, Trina slipped out again, closing the door behind her.

The search engine Elisha used had her connecting to the florist's shop in less than two minutes.

“Hello, this is Elisha Reed. I received a single rose from your shop within the last hour—”

She'd gotten the owner of the independent shop on the other end of the line. He cut in before she could get any further.

“Somethin' wrong with the flower, lady? 'Cause our flowers are perfect. I pick 'em out myself, so—”

“No, there's nothing wrong with the flower and yes, it is perfect. But there was no card.”

She heard papers being shuffled. It was several minutes before the man responded, “That's 'cause he didn't want no card.”

He. Okay, she had a gender.
I'll take names for two hundred, Alex.
“Did this ‘he' have a name?”

The owner's tone grew sharp. “Lady, everybody's got a name.”

Coffee, she thought, she needed coffee. And a boatload of patience. Obviously the florist didn't live off his charm. “And what was his?”

The huge sigh on the other end was of gale proportions. She heard more shuffling as the owner unearthed the paperwork for the order again. “Southland.”

“Sutherland?” she corrected.

He made some kind of noise, as if he was considering her suggestion, then said, “Could be. Art took the order. The guy's got handwriting like a chicken dipped in ink, walkin' across a road.”

“Very colorful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Hanging up, Elisha lost no time in dialing Ryan Sutherland's home on the island. A machine picked up and a gruff instruction from Ryan told her to leave a message. Hanging up, she tried his apartment with the same results. Frustrated, she tried his cell phone.

After five rings, someone snapped, “What?” in her ear.

Elisha smiled. The man was charming as ever. “I just got your rose.”

“And I was just about to hit the showers.” She thought she heard someone bang something metallic in the background. “If I wasn't getting a fresh set of clothes out of my locker, I wouldn't have heard the phone.”

His locker. That meant he was at his gym in the city, she thought. He had a full gym at his disposal at the house on the island. If he was hitting the showers, he'd just finished working out.

Leaning back in her chair, she let her mind drift, picturing Ryan wet and sweaty, his muscles pumped up and sculpted.

The smile on her lips deepened.

“I've always been lucky that way,” she quipped. “By the way, it's usually customary to send a note when you send flowers.”

“I'm used to not leaving behind any evidence.”

You could take the man out of black ops, but you couldn't take the black ops out of the man.
“What's the rose for, Ryan?”

There was a long pause on the other end. She wondered if he was debating lying to her. She imagined that he told lies and the truth with equal aplomb.

“Have you seen the review?”

She didn't have to ask what he was referring to.
Black January
was due out in two and a half weeks. Advance copies had been sent to a number of reviewers weeks ago. The first that returned with a column was the literary critic at the
New York Times.
She'd held her breath until she'd read it in its entirety.

Score one for the home team, she congratulated herself. “Roland Thomas thought this was your best book so far. Or, to put it in his words, ‘the first book worth his time.'”

She heard Ryan snort. “Little snot.”

That could well be true and probably was, but she focused only on the important aspect.

“He liked your book, Ryan,” she pointed out. “I believe he said that ‘for once, the hero had dimension and reasons for his actions.'”

“What did you do?” Ryan asked, “Memorize the damn thing?”

“No, but I always remember things that prove me right. So that's what the rose is for?” She lightly glided her finger along a velvet petal. “To say I was right and you were wrong?”

“I wasn't wrong,” he informed her tersely, then his tone relented just a little. “I just wasn't as right as you were.”

She laughed. Drawing the vase closer to her, she leaned over the rose and inhaled. Ryan had managed to find one of those rare roses that looked beautiful and had a fragrance, as well. He must have driven the florist crazy until he'd gotten just the right specimen.

“I'll remember that argument the next time we have a difference of opinion,” she promised. And then, because she'd been waiting in vain for an opening for the last few days to ask, she forged ahead. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Probably playing poker with the guys. You want in?”

“No. I…”

For a second, her courage flagged. This was personal. To her. But it wasn't as if she was about to ask him to marry her, or even to move in with her. She was asking him to spend the holiday with her and the girls. The fact that it was a very special holiday to her wasn't really the point.

“Is this a hard-and-fast thing, about playing poker on Christmas?”

“No. Just something that's happened the last couple of years.” She could have sworn she heard his tone hardening. “Look, Christmas is no big deal. It's just another day on the calendar.”

Elisha had a feeling his philosophy, if he actually subscribed to it, had come about after years of being on the outside, of watching people in the foster homes where he'd been placed exchange gifts and affection with one another, leaving him completely in the cold.

“But it is a big deal,” she insisted. Dammit, where was her way with words when she needed it most? She felt as if she had cotton in her mouth. Ryan respected the direct approach, she reminded herself. So she was direct. “Would you like to come over and spend it with the girls and me?”

He'd been over to the house several times now. The girls liked him more each time he appeared. Because he treated them the way he treated everyone else. Like responsible adults.

So when Ryan gave her his answer, it left Elisha stunned for a moment.

“No.”