Until There Was You (19 page)

Gretchen had lived in a glittering apartment in one of the sleek and shiny Trump buildings along the Hudson River. As Elise suspected, it was littered with celebrities.

Shilo stretched, hitting Posey on the side of the head with a massive paw. “So you were spending more than you were making,” she said.

“Well, yes, Posey, I suppose if you put it that way, I was. Look. I’m a celebrity, okay? There are certain expectations of me that you don’t understand. All those appearances, all those…things.”

“Like opening that Kmart?”

“People expect a television personality to look rich. You have no idea, Posey. So, yes, I spent more than I made. Big deal. Everyone does it. Even Donald Trump declares bankruptcy once in a while.” She flung her braid over her shoulder and took a defiant sip of cocoa.

Posey said nothing. There was no arguing with Gretchen when she started comparing herself to the rich and famous. After a minute or two, Gretchen sighed. “Look, Posey, I know you think I’m a big phony. And I was stupid, I admit that. I started playing blackjack— I dated this guy who had a share in a casino in Atlantic City, whatever, and at first I won. It was
amazing
. You have no idea what it’s like, winning a thousand dollars, or even two.” Her face took on a soft, dreamy look. “There’s such a rush. I mean, you walk in with what, four, five grand, and you can double your money in an hour.”

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t be broke if it was that easy,” Posey said.

Gretchen ignored her. “One time, Pose, I won seven thousand dollars in one night.”

“How long did it take you to lose it?”

Slowly, Gretchen seemed to come back to earth. “That’s the thing,” she admitted. “You get hooked. You lose six rounds, then you win one and you think ‘Oh, I’m on a roll now, I’ll get it back,’ and then even if you do, you can’t help wanting more.”

Sensing that someone needed a kiss, Shilo rolled off the couch and went over to Gret and licked her knee. For once, she didn’t push his big head out of the way, just reached out and gave him an awkward pat. Jellybean, disgusted that Gretchen’s attention had gone to a lowly canine, jumped off the couch and stalked away.

“I didn’t quit the Cooking Network,” Gretchen said, so quietly Posey almost couldn’t hear. “They fired me. I’d borrowed money from a not-very-nice person, and when I couldn’t pay it, he went to the network and said he’d make it public. So they paid it, but they fired me.”

“How much was it?” Posey asked.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Oh, Gret.” Posey closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” That dopey show had been everything to her cousin.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, a hard edge to her voice. “They didn’t know anything. Marketing practically ignored me. I was, like, how am I going to get a million viewers an episode if you put me in this slot? Against Rachael Ray, who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter? And who’s gained fifteen pounds this year alone? Don’t get me started on that scrawny tramp, Giada.”

“Okay, let’s just skip over all of the glaring hyperbole and let me ask you this,” Posey said. “Gret, if your whole life has collapsed because of a gambling problem, why were you at the casino tonight?”

“Because! You think I like living here with you in this freezing-cold house? Listening to Max and Stacia tell me—me!—how to make a linzer torte?”

“Whoa! Stop right there, princess! I don’t recall inviting you here, and as for my parents, you should be kissing their feet and scrubbing their toilets. So don’t go there, okay?”

Gretchen looked at her hands. “I just want to get my life back in gear,” she said in a quieter voice. “I thought if I could win a few thousand dollars, I could…start over.”

“Where’d you get the money to gamble?”

Gretchen didn’t answer for a minute. “From your parents. From what they gave me for the renovation.”

“Gret! You can’t do that!”

“Well, I did! It was stupid, but you don’t understand!”

“How much did you take?”

“Two grand.”

Posey took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’ll pay that back, too. But here’s the deal. You’re going to pay me back. All five thousand, because guess what? You cleaned me out, Gret. I’m not rich, you know.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” She cocked a perfect eyebrow.

“And guess what else, Fraulein? You can start by helping out around here. Painting, window glazing, moving some of this stuff…”

“I don’t know how to paint. Or glaze a window.”

“Well, how about this, Gretchen? You can learn.”

S
IX TWENTY-THREE
on Wednesday night of a long weekend. He could work. Or eat. He could make dinner, then eat, then work. Also, maybe watch some television.

Nicole was at yet another sleepover, as school was closed tomorrow for a teacher-development thing, then on Friday as well for Founders’ Day Weekend. It was her third sleepover since they’d moved. This was either good, in that she was making friends, or very bad, in that she might at this very moment be guzzling vodka and doing Ecstasy with a bunch of boys, after which they’d get in a car and all end up dead.

Granted, he’d dropped her off twenty minutes ago, spoken to both Emily and Chris Carlisle at length, ensuring that both parents would be home all night. They seemed perfectly responsible, but still. He’d left his phone number (home and cell), and his address, just in case. Nicole had given him the Slitty Eyes of Death, followed by a hard elbow to the ribs, which still hurt a little, thanks to Cordelia Osterhagen trying to kill him.

And by the way, that whole hospital aftermath…that was oddly vague. The pain meds had knocked him flat, but there was something he should remember there. He and Cordelia had bickered at the hospital, he remembered that. She drove him home with the giant dog…but something else had been flitting at the edge of his brain for days now. Irritating.

Well, at any rate, Nicole had promised to text him at nine and eleven and call in the morning, then threatened suicide if he dared to call the Carlisles to check up on her. “Bye!” she said. “Have fun! Get out of the apartment, okay? You’re not dead yet.”

So here he was. In the apartment. Home alone, a widower picturing his child’s misdeeds…not so much fun. Work held no appeal; he’d just come from there to take Nicole to the party. No. He should get out of the house, be with other people. Life was changing, and Nic was right. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. He picked up the paper and got lucky.

A little while later, Liam pulled up in front of the adult education building. The ad had said walk-ins were welcome, so here he was. Granted, learning to design a website wasn’t high on Liam’s list of priorities, but he guessed the garage wouldn’t hurt by having an Internet presence. Besides, it sure as hell beat out singles cooking or, God forbid, ballroom dancing.

Speaking of, there were the dancers. And oh, crap, there was Taylor Bennington of the talented teeth. Her face lit up at the sight of him, and Liam gave a terse nod, then continued down the hallway.

The smell of garlic slowed him down. A chorus of laughter came from that room, and Liam glanced in. People were paired together, chopping and tasting, and the smell was fantastic.

Cordelia Osterhagen was in there, opening her mouth for a spoonful of whatever her partner—a man—was feeding her, and Liam had an abrupt flash of Cordelia over him, and he could practically feel her mouth on his, that lush, beautiful mouth—

“Hi there.”

Liam jumped. A man in his thirties stood in front of him. “I’m Jonathan White, your daughter’s home-ec teacher? We met the other night at Rosebud’s.”

Liam nodded, offering his hand. “Nice to see you again.” This guy was related to Cordelia somehow, he remembered.

“Nicole is such a great kid. I wish I had twenty of her. You hungry? Want to join us?”

“I’m starving, actually.”

“Come on,” the teacher said, smiling. “We eat at the end of the class. If Posey doesn’t cut off someone’s finger, that is.”

“I wish I could take credit for that,” Cordelia said, turning. “But it was just luck.” Her smile fell as she saw Liam, and her face flushed. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey,” Liam said. Oh, yeah. There was something about that mouth, all right.

“Gang, this is Liam, the dad of one of my students. You don’t mind if he hangs out, do you? We always have too much food as it is.”

“Hi, Liam!” Kate Ellington called, and Liam gave her a smile. She was with an older man who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her rack, not that Liam could blame him. It was nice there.

“Let’s put you with Ginny, shall we?” Jon said, leading Liam over to a woman in her fifties.

“Oh, wow, thank you, Jon, I owe you,” she blurted.

“Hi. Liam Murphy,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Wow,” she repeated. She wiped her hands on her T-shirt, which showed the werewolf kid from the vampire movies.
Team Jacob,
the shirt proclaimed. “I’m Ginny. Hi. Yeah. You are gorgeous.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, grinning. They were next to Cordelia, who was studiously ignoring him, and her partner, a rather odd-looking man wearing a fur hat with earflaps.

“My ribs are doing just fine, thanks for asking,” Liam said to her.

“Of all the cooking classes in all the world, you had to walk into mine,” Cordelia muttered.

For the next half-hour, Liam flirted with Ginny, who was full of sighs and giggles. The class was actually kind of fun…they were making a Bolognese sauce, and the smell was thick and spicy. Liam was a pretty fair cook himself, but it was nice, being out with grownups. People joked and laughed and swapped insults. Everyone except Cordelia, Liam noticed, who seemed awfully quiet. When they all sat down to eat, pushing two tables together, Liam made sure he was across from her.

“I’d think you were already a pretty good cook,” he said, taking a bite of the pasta.

His foot touched hers accidentally, but she jumped as if he’d slugged her. “Excuse me?”

“Since your parents own a restaurant,” he said. Granted, people didn’t really go to Guten Tag for the food, but still.

“Um, right. I cook a little.” She didn’t look at him, and Liam smiled.

“She’s lying,” the teacher said, coming over and putting his arm around her. “She’s my sister-in-law, and even though I’ve been with her brother since the dawn of time, I can say that Posey here has never made me anything more than a Newman’s Own pizza.”

“Which was excellent,” she retorted.

“Well, I’m sure she has other skills,” Liam murmured, and bam, her cheeks went nuclear. She shoveled in a bite of pasta and chewed, still not looking at him. She wore two flannel shirts, but both were unbuttoned a few, and Liam could see a little camisole thing underneath it. Girl clothes, in other words, and Liam had the sudden urge to peel off those layers of flannel and see what lay beneath.

Well, well, well. Granted, it had been a while, but here he was, picturing Cordelia naked. Might be a nice little package under there. Compact. Petite. The word
spitfire
came pleasingly to mind. As if reading his thoughts, Cordelia laced her hands together and stretched out her arms, cracking her knuckles and staring at him with narrowed eyes. The Slitty Eyes of Death, Osterhagen-style. Liam grinned at her and took another bite of the spaghetti Bolognese.

“It sure has been nice meeting you,” Ginny said, and Liam stood up.

“Same here,” he said and kissed her on the cheek. “I had a great time.”

“I’m going to relive that for quite some time,” she said, and he laughed and kissed her again, then took his seat once more.

Most of the people were trailing out, he noticed. Jon was leaning in the doorway, laughing with a student. Only Cordelia and he were still eating—she might pretend not to notice him, but here she was—and Liam realized he really didn’t want to go home just yet.

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked.

“N— Um, yes.”

“No, you don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes again—pretty eyes, now that he noticed. Brown. He’d always liked brown eyes. “What makes you so sure I don’t have plans, Liam?”

“Do you?”

Another blush. “Jon, we’re having drinks tonight, right? At Rosebud’s?”

Jon paused, his eyes going from Posey’s face to Liam’s. “Uh…yes?”

“Mind if I tag along?” Liam asked.

“I… Posey?”

She set down her fork and glared up at him. “Okay, Liam, fine. I don’t have plans other than going home and watching a movie with my dog and cats. Okay? Happy now?”

Liam cocked his head and studied her face. “Are you mad at me?”

“Nope.”

“You seem mad.”

Jon’s phone rang. “Oh, there’s Henry. Bicker away, young lovers. I’ll call you tomorrow, Posey. Nice seeing you again, Liam.”

“Same here. Thanks for letting me stay.”

They were the only ones left in the room. She was clearly pissed, but why? And why wouldn’t she just tell him, since he’d asked and everything? Women. They were the least straightforward creatures in the universe. “So,” he said. “Back to your bad attitude. Are you always this grouchy?”

She shoveled in a huge bite of pasta. “No,” she said thickly. “You just bring out the worst in me.” She pursed her lips, and there it was again, that not-quite memory.

“So, how about it?” he asked. “Want to grab a beer? Or a coffee?”

Her face flushed. “Liam, I’m betting at least two dozen women have come on to you since you got back to town. I bet women have to take a number just to stand close to you. Why don’t you call one of them?”

“Why don’t you want to go out with me?”

“On a date? You want to take me on a date, Liam? Because don’t forget, this is a singles cooking class, and only desperate people sign up for these things. I’ve never been married, I’m thirty-three years old, I have three cats, my mother already has an entire roomful of toys for my unborn children. You really want to take me out for a beer? Because you know I’ll read into this and start shopping for a wedding dress.”

He bit down on a smile. “Is that a yes?”

She tossed down her fork. “It’s a no.”

Well, color him shocked. He wracked his brain for a memory of the last time he’d been turned down and came up empty. “Okay. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Truck.”

“Whatever.”

The smell of rain was in the air, and a damp wind blew from the river. Liam sighed. Guess he’d be sitting home alone after all tonight. Well. At least he’d gotten out a little.

Cordelia’s hair fluttered in the wind, and she hugged her thick jacket more closely around her as they approached her truck.

“Liam,” Cordelia said abruptly, then stopped. She sighed and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Do you really want to get a beer with me, or are you just jerking my chain?”

He looked down at her; she was staring at her truck door. “I’d love to get a beer with you, Cordelia.”

“Why?”

He hesitated a second. “Because I’m a lonely widower who doesn’t want to go back to his empty apartment and stare at the walls.”

She folded her arms and scowled at the pavement. When she looked up, her expression wasn’t nearly so fierce. “Okay. But only because you pulled the widower card.”

“At least it’s good for something.”

Then she smiled, just a flash, and something moved in Liam’s chest. Something warm, and something he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Meet you at Rosebud’s,” she said.

Then she jumped in her truck. Turned the key. He heard the click of a dead battery.

“I’ll drive,” he said, grinning.

“Shoot,” she said. “I need a jump.” She glanced dismissively at his car.

“My battery won’t have enough juice for a truck that size,” he said.

“I’m aware.” She pursed her lips, and he found that he
really
wanted to get that beer with her.

“How’s this?” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow and jump it with the truck from the garage. I can drive you home tonight. Good enough?”

“Okay,” she said after a pause.

“Great,” he said, and as he opened the passenger door of his car for her, Liam found that he was smiling.

As he started the car, however, Liam glanced at the dashboard clock—crap. It was 9:20.

He’d missed Nicole’s call. “Hang on one second,” he said as Cordelia buckled herself in. He dug his phone out. No missed calls, no messages. He typed a quick note.
Having fun? Text your dear old dad.
Waited a beat— Nicole, like every teenager he knew, practically had her phone implanted in her palm. She’d answer back within seconds.

Except she didn’t. “Come on,” he muttered.

“Problem?” Cordelia asked.

“Um…not yet.” He’d call her. She hated when he called, but she’d missed their check-in, so she’d have to deal.

“Hi, you’ve reached Nicole Murphy’s voice mail! Sorry I’m not around, you know what to do.”

“Nicole, it’s your father. Call me,” he growled.

“‘Nicole, it’s your father,’” Cordelia mimicked in a low voice, smiling. “I bet she knows your voice by now.”

“It’s not funny,” he said. “She’s at a party. They said no boys were coming, but you know what? I bet there are boys.”

“Why don’t you call the parents?”

“Good idea.”

Unfortunately, the Carlisles seemed to have an unlisted number. Very suspicious. He should’ve asked for their number when he dropped Nicole off. He’d left his numbers, sure, and obviously Nicole had her own phone. Why hadn’t he asked for the Carlisles’ number? Furthermore, why hadn’t they offered it, when he was reciting his own? Huh? Because maybe they didn’t want him to know it, that’s why. That’s what you’d do if you were a drug dealer, right? And drug dealers relied on children getting hooked, and Nicole was in fact a child and therefore a potential client for a drug dealer, and even if that was a little far-fetched, you never knew.

“We’re just gonna swing by their house, okay? Just to check on them,” Liam said, the tires screeching as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Great. Another fun night stalking Liam’s daughter,” Cordelia muttered. “Can you let me out at the corner? I left something on the stove, I just remembered.”

He didn’t answer. Best-case scenario, Nicole was simply being a teenager, forgetting to check in with him, even if that rule was carved in stone, damn it. Worst-case scenario? Vodka. Ecstasy. Boys. Cars. Dismemberment and/or death.

They turned onto Lighthouse Avenue, where the Carlisles lived—okay, yes, they screeched onto Lighthouse Avenue. “For the love of Elvis, slow down,” Cordelia said, clutching the dashboard.

Liam didn’t answer, too busy sweating. The downstairs curtains of the house were drawn. On every window. That was not cool. In fact, it was really, really suspicious. He stared at the house, his hands clenched around the wheel.