The Billionaire Next Door (26 page)

Six weeks later, Billy O’Banyon sat in a lawyer’s office in Southie and wanted to be just about anywhere else on the planet. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help Sean out with settling their father’s accounts and whatnot. He just hated being around all the books and the paperwork and the kind of people who were confident with writing and reading.

The printed word and him were not friends and anytime he got into situations like this, he always felt like the stupid idiot his father had told him he was.

But whatever. He was going to be out of here and back in the gym within the hour. As their father’s will was uncontested and going through probate quickly enough, this wasn’t going to be a long meeting. All he had to do was deliver some unpaid bills to the lawyer who was the estate’s executor and discuss how the deed transfer and house vacating were going to go.

Actually, being here was his own fault. He could easily have mailed the stuff or dropped it off, but he was a man with a mission. He wanted to run into Lizzie Bond and this was the only acceptable excuse he had.

Sean had been in a bad way for the past month and a half, ever since those two had broken it off. Naturally he wouldn’t talk much about what had happened, so Billy wanted to see how the other side was doing. If Lizzie came in looking as if she’d been run over by a John Deere, as well, he was going to get involved. The pair had been good together and sometimes people needed a little nudge to get back on track.

Just call him a romantic. Who happened to be able to bench press five hundred pounds.

“The other party is on their way.”

Billy looked up at the voice. The guy who walked into the room was dressed in a gray suit and had a lot of files in his hand. The glasses he wore were more practical than stylish, but they made him look intelligent. Then again, he probably looked that way with contacts, too.

Billy shook the hand that was offered to him and the attorney sat down. With utter nonchalance, the guy started flipping through a file, his eyes scanning text quickly.

Billy watched with envy. Man, what was that like, to easily read what was on a page? To him, words were more like jumbled patterns, abstract shapes without meaning.

The lawyer scribbled something in a margin and looked up. “So you’re a football player, I guess.”

Billy nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

“For the Pats.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never been into football, but I’ve heard about you.” The tone was vaguely censorious and Billy was used to that. It had been years since he’d grabbed headlines for being a hard-partying playboy, but people didn’t forget. At least not in New England.

“I’m really all about the game now,” Billy said.

“Which is, of course, why they pay you all that money.” The lawyer flushed as if he’d let the words fly without thinking.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a woman said. “Work emergency.”

Billy glanced over. In the doorway, a handsome African American woman dressed in a bloodred suit was standing just outside the conference room. With her kind, smart eyes, she looked like the sort of person who could run the whole country.

Or should be running the country.

Was she Lizzie Bond’s attorney?

“Not to worry,” the lawyer said. “This won’t take long.”

The woman came forward and extended her hand to Billy. “Hi, I’m Dr. Denisha Roberts, the executive director of the Roxbury Community Health Initiative.”

Billy got to his feet and leaned across the table. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Do you have the power of attorney?” the lawyer asked Dr. Roberts.

“Right here.” The woman took some papers out of her briefcase and sat down.

“I’m sorry,” Billy cut in. “Isn’t Lizzie Bond supposed to be here?”

Dr. Roberts smiled as she pushed the documents over to the lawyer. “No reason for her to be. I have to say, this is a really generous thing she’s doing.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Giving the community center the house. It’s going to be the basis of our endowment—” Dr. Roberts’s eyes popped. “Wait…Are you one of his sons?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s okay. We don’t want the house.”

Which, evidently, Lizzie didn’t, either. God, she was just giving the thing away?

The lawyer looked up from reviewing the power of attorney.

“This is all in order.” He glanced at Billy. “Do you have the final bill from the hospital stay when he passed?”

Billy blinked. He couldn’t believe Lizzie was giving an entire house away.

Dr. Roberts leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “I want you to know that your father’s going to be remembered at our health center. The endowment is going to be called the Edward O’Banyon Fund. At Lizzie’s request.”

Son of a bitch.

Later that afternoon, Lizzie had all but finished packing up her apartment. As she wasn’t officially moving out for another three days, she left her clothes in the dresser and in the closet, but pretty much everything else was in boxes.

She couldn’t wait to get out of the duplex.

Her new place was on the dark side of Beacon Hill, a stone’s throw from Mass General, where she’d found a job as a floor nurse in the surgical intensive care unit.

Like the studio apartment she’d rented, her new job was going to be fine. She knew a couple of the folks she’d be working with and they were good people. Also, her supervisor had an excellent reputation and had seemed really great throughout the interview process. Of course, she’d much rather have stayed with the community center, but she hadn’t lost that connection. She volunteered there on Saturday mornings.

So it had all worked out.

For the most part.

Unfortunately, no amount of positive news got her mind off Sean. Memories of him were shadows that lurked in her thoughts. She remained angry and frustrated, but there were other things she felt, too. Sadness. Loneliness.

Except she had to let it all go, let him go. There was no getting over what he’d said to her or what he’d assumed she’d done. No healing that breach of trust. Besides, he had walked away without looking back. She needed to do the same.

It was so hard, though.

When her phone started ringing, she picked it up. “Hello?”

Her mother’s voice was curiously level. “Lizzie?”

“Hi, Mom.” When there was just silence on the other end, she frowned. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“Yes, Lizzie-fish. It’s just…the oddest thing has happened.”

“What?” Oh God. “Mom? You there?”

“Someone likes my pottery.”

Lizzie deflated from relief. And exhaustion. “That’s great, Mom.”

“They really like it.”

“I can see why.” Unlike a lot of her mother’s “work,” the pottery was gorgeous, both decorative and functional. The vases were all flowing, organic lines; the mugs wistful and quirky; the plates uneven and charming. When Lizzie had seen some of it during her overnight trip to Essex, the first thing she’d thought was that the objects were just like her mother: beautiful and fey and somehow not of this world.

“Well, the someone wants to sell them, Lizzie.”

“Boy, wouldn’t that be great.” A little extra money was always good. “Is it the little craft store next to the grocery?”

“It’s the Mason Gallery in Boston. On Newbury Street.”

Lizzie’s eyes popped. “What?”

“Mr. Mason was up here buying antiques with his wife and I happened to be taking a stroll with my morning coffee. He saw my mug and when I told him I made it and had others they came back to the house. He liked what I did and wants to send a truck to pick up fifty pieces.”

Good…Lord. The Mason Gallery specialized in selling one-of-a-kind objets d’art to the high-rent crowd in Boston. Lizzie had only ever walked by the window because she knew the prices inside were way out of her league.

“What should I do, Lizzie?”

“Well, do you want to sell your work?”

“I think so.” There was a slight pause and then her mother’s voice grew soft, almost ashamed. “But, Lizzie, you know I’m not good with money. Will you take care of all that stuff? I mean, I am not…good with money.”

Lizzie closed her eyes, knowing there was so much more in that comment. Her mother was rarely self-aware, but in this moment, she was totally present and obviously clear about her mental deficiency.

The shame was painful to hear. And so very unnecessary.

“Mom, don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll tell you what we have to do.”

There was sigh of relief. “Thank you. Because you know what? I really like pottery. I could see myself doing this for a long while. I think I’m not just inspired, I think I’m good at it.”

Lizzie blinked away the tears that pooled in her eyes. “That’s wonderful, Mom. I think that’s wonderful.”

“You know, Lizzie…you take such good care of me. Except I was thinking last night, I kind of wish someone would take care of you. Or don’t you want that?”

Lizzie had to rub her eyes. “I don’t know, I’m pretty self-sufficient. I do well on my own.”

Like a cheerful bird call, a dinging sound rang out in the background. “Oh, Lizzie…I must go. I have some mugs ready to come out of the kiln now. They’re so pretty. Bright blue like a summer sky on the outside, white as clouds on the inside. The rims are sunshine-yellow. I’m calling it my July series.”

Lizzie thought back to the morning she and Sean had walked out into the sunlight and both seen the same beauty in the day.

In a raw voice she said, “That sounds lovely, Mom. Just…lovely.”

When Lizzie hung up the phone, she replayed the conversation in her head to try and keep herself from thinking of Sean.

She’d only ever heard that serious tone of voice from her mom a couple of times before. The subject had been her love for Lizzie’s father—the one constant in the woman’s life. So chances were good this interest in pottery was going to stick.

Lizzie put the phone back in the charger and went into her spare bedroom. She’d put the majority of boxes in here to keep them out of her way, and as she looked at her things, she counted the times she’d moved in her life. Out of home to college. Dorm changes. Nursing school. First apartment. Then this one.

She would like a home, she thought. A place to be permanent in…where the front door and the interior rooms were a constant through the seasons of the years.

But she was probably going to be a vagabond for a while yet.

As she glanced at the boxes, she thought, yeah, she and U-Haul were going to be dating for a couple more years. Vagabonds needed to take their stuff with them. And that meant boxes and bubble wrap.

With a long exhale, she went over to the closet and figured she might as well pack up the winter clothes that were stored there.

As she opened the door, she saw something on the floor inside that brought her to a halt.