The Way They Were (15 page)

“How did you find out?”

“Mr. Dupree called this afternoon and said he’d made a huge discovery and had to see me right away.” She waited for Angie’s rage and disappointment, but neither came, which was actually worse. “Just say it. Tell me what a screw up I am, how I dishonored my husband and my marriage. Tell me how I should have kicked Rourke Flannigan out the second he walked through this door.”

Angie shrugged and clutched Kate’s hand. “You love him and that gives him the power, because he doesn’t feel that way about you.” Her voice turned brittle. “Oh, he’ll tell you he does and right when he’s got you believing it, he’ll use you, just like he did last time.”

“Is your mother here?” Maybe he should have called first, but he hadn’t wanted to risk Kate telling him it wasn’t a good idea, because of Julia, or the town, or who knew what. He needed to see her tonight, needed to push Len Slewinski’s words out of his head.

“She’s out back in the garden.” Julia peeked behind him and frowned. “Where’s Abbie?”

“Watching re-runs of
Bewitched
with Maxine.”

He glanced at his watch and said, “If she can get here in the next ten minutes and not change clothes fifteen times, then yes. It’s going to be dark soon and I don’t want her out on the streets.” Good God, he sounded like a father.

“Thanks! Go through the kitchen.” She pointed behind her and took off up the stairs.

“Thanks.” Rourke glanced around the living room, a cozy, suburban family nest, and nothing like his house in Chicago with twelve-foot vaulted ceilings and surround sound. Given the right occupants, his place could house a family and that’s what he’d come here to work on.

When he reached the kitchen, he took in the tiny windows over the sink and wall-to-wall appliances—gas range, refrigerator, dishwasher, built-in microwave, all by Kenmore. The entire kitchen would fit in his pantry. What would Kate say to an imported stove from Italy and a sub-zero refrigerator? The thought of her in his life again made him restless. He’d never been one to sit back and let things happen in due course. That strategy belonged to laggers and losers, and he was neither. Rourke believed in action but he didn’t want to scare her, so for now, he’d wait and hope nature would move quickly and Kate would realize just how much she wanted him in her life. He glanced out the back door and spotted her mounding dirt at the base of a rosebush. He had his hand on the knob when she grabbed a pair of red-handled trimmers and hacked at the bush with sharp, uncontrolled whacks, chopping until nothing was left but a stump with jagged clusters of green. When she finished, she heaved the trimmers across the lawn and slumped forward.

What the hell?
Rourke yanked open the kitchen door and ran across the lawn. “Kate?” He wanted to scoop her in his arms and comfort her but Julia was too close to chance it. “Kate? What’s wrong?”

Slowly, she lifted her head but made no effort to turn toward him. He could tell she was crying by the way her breath quivered when she inhaled. Obviously, she didn’t want him to see her crying. Didn’t she know she didn’t need to hide from him? That the sooner they both owned up to their feelings the better for all of them, even Julia?

“Look at me, Kate.” When she didn’t turn, he walked around to face her. In the pinkish light of passing dusk, she formed the perfect backdrop of beauty and pain, her face splattered with tears, her lips and eyes swollen, a streak of dirt smearing her cheek. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Rourke knelt beside her and smoothed a piece of hair from her face. “What’s wrong?”

This wasn’t quite the way he’d planned it. He’d hoped for dinner and flowers, maybe a candle or two, not hunks of soggy earth clinging to his shoes and half the neighborhood within eavesdropping distance. “Okay. You’re right. Abbie wasn’t my only reason for coming to Montpelier.” The faint gleam in her eyes unsettled him but he plowed forward. “I came to see you.” His voice dipped but when he leaned forward to touch her cheek, she lurched away. “I needed to see you again,” he continued, “needed to find out if the magic was still there all these years later.” She stared at him. He forced out the next words. “And you know what? It is.” There. He’d said it. Finally.

“Liar.”

Scores of women would barter their personal trainers to hear those words, but he’d had the horrible luck of falling for one who apparently didn’t believe them. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to get a confession out of me? Is that what you want?”

“Go to hell! I know all about you, Mr. Rourke Flannigan owner of Reese Construction.” She twisted in his grasp and tried to get away, but he grabbed her other wrist preventing her escape. “When were you going to tell me you owned the company that killed Clay? That you’d come here to broker a deal so I wouldn’t sue you?”

“Kate—”

“Tell me!”

“I had no idea it was you when I made the decision to visit the man’s widow.” Christ, right now, he wished he’d never come back. “And then I saw the file and heard he was from Montpelier and I asked myself how many demolition contractors were from a town the size of a grapefruit. I was going to tell you as soon as I got here,” his voice faltered as he pushed past the memory of seeing her again, “but once I saw you, I couldn’t tell you. Not right then. But I was going to, just as soon as—”

“As soon as I gave you my lawyer’s entire game plan. What a fool I was, asking for your advice on Clay’s case. You must have had a good laugh at that one. Advising me how not to sue you.”

“I didn’t find anything humorous about it.” This was past disastrous and getting worse. “I did give you my honest opinion on the case.”

“You killed Clay. He’s dead and it’s your fault.” The accusation clung to the thick, night air. “Now you’re trying to cheat us out of what little solace we can gain from his tragic loss.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. You’re a businessman. It’s about bottom line, isn’t it? What’s one lowly demolition contractor when you own eight other companies?” She sneered at him. “Mr. Dupree prides himself on his investigative abilities, especially when big business is involved, and you’re big business.”

As soon as Rourke released his grip, Kate tried to bolt toward the house. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her to the ground, smothering her with his weight. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“According to your financials, you’ve got lots of it.” Her eyes glistened with anger and something he refused to think of as hatred. “We were a real family, something you might not understand. We liked our Sunday afternoon barbecues and playing Frisbee in the backyard, and driving to Mel’s for a tastee freeze. We didn’t need glitz and newspaper reporters and ten thousand dollar gowns to tell us we were happy.” Her voice rose until it pinched his brain. “You stole it from us, you and your company that demanded work get done faster than humanly possible and Clay did it because he wanted us to have a better life.” Her voice cracked and she turned away, sobbing until her shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry.” The truth sliced him—she’d loved Clay. She might have given him her body these past few days, but it was out of need and loneliness. Clay Maden was her real love and Rourke had taken him from her. “I’m sorry,” he said again, stumbling to his feet.

“Go away. Please. Just go away.”

Whatever shred of hope he’d harbored for a future together, died with her words. She’d never forgive him. “Good-bye, Kate.” His gaze lingered on the gloss of hair touching her neck. A few hours ago he’d buried his face in its silkiness, kissed it, whispered words of love into it. Now it was all over.

Rourke turned and headed for the back steps. He’d scoop up Abbie and head back to Chicago as soon as possible. He was so busy trying to figure out a way to deflect his niece’s impending anger he didn’t notice the figure standing just inside the screen door. “Julia?”

“You killed my father.”

Chapter 18

“
Well, are you really going to leave Mrs. Maden behind?”—Maxine Simmons

Journal Entry—May 4, 2004

I dreamed of you again last night. We were sitting on our deck and you’d grilled steaks for us. I’d made a coconut cream pie.

It was so relaxing, it felt like a meditation. Then I woke up.

Since I found that picture of you in
People
last year, I’ve been imagining us together. Before I saw that magazine photo, when I thought of us together you were always still eighteen. After the photo, I realized the truth in glossy print—you’re a powerful man who takes what he wants, though most people, especially women, probably never even make you ask. I hate writing that but I know it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?

Are you still with the blonde from the picture? Was she your girlfriend then? Your friend? Maybe not even that?

I wish you could see the model dollhouse I built. It is so perfect and has everything we wanted for our own home, down to the ceiling-to-floor stone fireplace in the master bedroom and the turret washed in lavender. You would love it.

I think.

I wonder sometimes if I could see you again, say you were standing in the next room and all I had to do was open the door and step over that threshold, knowing once I did nothing would be the same, would I do it?

I promised myself and God that you’d be relegated to once a year reminisces in a red, velvet journal. And I’ve been so good, but that picture has tormented me. I almost did an internet search the other day, just to see what might come up. Thank God Julia came in the room before I typed your name.

Where are you?

Why can’t I stop loving you?

***

Was that sympathy peeking at him from behind those cat-eye glasses? That was the last thing he wanted. “Fine. We’ll have to make due.”

“Yes, sir.”

Today was only Thursday. He’d been in hiding since the grand blowout Tuesday night. He hadn’t ventured near her house or her shop. Hell, he hadn’t even been to Sophie’s for a cup of coffee. But in two and a half days, he’d emerge and never have to worry about running into Kate again, except maybe in a courtroom.