Until We Say Goodbye

by Jane Drager

  A damn headache threatened to explode his brain matter. Deems finished the last of his water, crushed the lightweight plastic, and tossed the container toward the kitchen, not giving a damn where the bottle landed. “My relationship with Lauren was over anyway, Jan. She hates New York. I’m sure she was thrilled to leave.”

  Jan shook her frizzy head. “I can’t believe you gave up so willingly. She wasn’t going back with Mark, and somewhere in your thick skull, you know I’m right. Yet, here you are, moping around while the woman of your dreams is on a train to Harrisburg.” She studied him. “Sometimes, you can be so stupid. Like how you expect Lauren to make all the sacrifices.”

  Lips tight, he whirled to face her. “What sacrifices? I had everything to give her.”

  “Except your time. You’re too busy making money and running all over the country.”

  Gaze narrowed, he studied his sister. “Money’s keeping you comfortable.”

  “I’m not saying your money is a bad thing. You have more than enough and should be concentrating on settling down. Lauren was perfect. But you’re right. The union won’t work. You’d ask her to leave her family and friends to live in a luxurious condo alone while you work off your butt to make more money.” She fussed with her pant leg then shot him a quick glance. “Have you considered a compromise?”

  He looked at her, one brow raised. “What do you mean? I asked Lauren to stay. Nothing more.”

  Dropping the bottle to her lap, she widened her gaze. “That’s it?”

  “What the hell else do you expect?” He paced behind the sofa. “I don’t have options, Jan. I’m tied to this city.”

  “Like a prisoner.” Twisting her mouth to the side, Jan frowned. “I’ve news for you, brother. Last night, Lauren told me she planned to stay for a little while, but you took Mark’s side and tossed her to the wolves.”

  Deems stopped pacing and stared. “She never said anything to me.”

  “How could she? You ended your affair.” She finished her water and stood, walked toward the kitchen, retrieved his crushed bottle, and dropped both into the recycle bin. She stopped, head bent. “What am I hearing?”

  The hum of a running machine echoed behind his closed office door. “That’s my fax. I’m not in the mood to work.” He wasn’t in the mood to do anything. In fact, he wanted to be alone…then he didn’t. Jan had helped dispel his wallowing-in-self-pity feeling, but the strange tightness remained in his chest. He gave his sister a sideways glance. “What should I do?”

  Jan grabbed her canvas bag and hoisted the strap onto her shoulder. “You had your chance to keep her in New York. I’m not sure what you can do to win her back.” With an unfocused gaze, she stared at the far wall. “Proposing might help.” She met his gaze. “Lauren isn’t the type of woman who’ll be happy living as a mistress.”

  The statement struck him like a blow to the gut. His sister was right. Lauren grew up with church-going parents. How long would she stay without a legal commitment?

  Nearing his side, Jan stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’m leaving, big brother. I know I’m younger with a lot less experience, but I’m a woman, and I know a woman in love when I see one. Lauren loves you very much. Her ex is definitely not in the picture. Whatever he told you was for his own selfish purpose.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t let Lauren go. Trust her enough to know she will never reconcile with a man who stiffed her.” She hugged him before heading for the elevator. After opening the door, she paused and gave him a sideways look. “Being married to your job will become lonely, Deems.” She entered the elevator and then faced him. “Here’s another detail to consider. Do you realize you and I followed the same pattern with our mates? I believed Eric’s word and disregarded Lauren’s warning, and here, you took Mark’s announcement as gospel without allowing Lauren a chance to explain.”

  Holy shit. Jan was right. How could he have been so stupid? He stared at his sister, all frizzy hair and flower clothes, wiser than he ever expected. He inserted the elevator key and waved as the doors closed.

  Throat tight, he wandered about the living room, not at all sure what to do. What the hell is wrong with me? He chastised Jan for ignoring the advice of a mature woman, but when confronted with the same voice of reason, he dismissed Lauren without a second thought. How in thunder had he made a fortune with such a closed-minded attitude?

  Once again, the fax machine hummed. The lawyers were still in Salt Lake and promised to keep him updated regarding the fines and civil suits. Thanks to the inept manager, the building required a massive overhaul, and the company’s reputation in the area sank to an all-time low. So much work ahead. At least, High-Rise International was a private corporation without a board of directors breathing down his neck.

  With his muscles in knots, he swung his arms in wide circles to loosen the cannon-ball effect in his chest and then headed for the office. After grabbing the papers from the fax machine, he skimmed through the sheets. The majority came from Salt Lake. One, however, caught his eye. Dan Williams, Mark’s boss, sent a fax from Buenos Aires in Argentina.

  Mr. Lambert, what gives with Mark Jordan? Did you fire him? He sent a fax from Belize, saying he won’t return and stated you and he had insurmountable differences. He wrote of some cockamamie bull about self-preservation. I should think I’d be informed of your decision, and to be honest, I’m confused. I sent an impressive evaluation of the man. I’d appreciate some type of explanation. Yours truly, Dan Williams.

  With heat flushing into his cheeks, Deems read and re-read the fax. Mark never had any intention of turning himself in to the authorities. What a friggin’ idiot. Crushing the paper within his fist, he wanted to kick the damn fax machine right out the window. All this time, Mark played him for a fool, and billionaire, Deems Lambert, fell for the oldest trick in the book. But Mark’s statement about self-preservation hit a little too close to home. Deems had gone to Salt Lake to preserve the reputation of the company and, in doing so, ignored the woman who’d made him happier than he’d ever been. He had his team of lawyers along. They performed all the work. He stood by as a figurehead. Why go at all when he had competent people on his payroll? Wasn’t it high time to stop?

  Compromise.

  Funny how the word never entered his mind where women were concerned. He certainly had a give-and-take attitude with potential clients, mostly men. But compromise how? The company was too big to move, and his international operations used New York as its central hub. What the hell can I do?

  He yanked his office phone from the receiver and dialed. “Jan, get your ass back here. I need help!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lauren dragged her feet as if she wore iron clogs, complete with ball and chain strapped around her ankles. Finding a food server job was the easy part, but for the past month, she lived with the smell of muscle rub. Damn, she was tired. With a vengeance, tourist season hit Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and the influx of morning patrons into the restaurant flowed through the doors like Greta’s Restaurant was the only place in town. Of the seven food servers, each waited on ten tables. She’d bet her measly bank account she’d gotten the crankiest and the can’t-pull-it-together-without-coffee crowd. No sooner had she cleared a table when another group slipped in to keep the seats warm.

  She’d signed on for the breakfast shift to allow time to run over to her parents and use her brother’s computer. Every week, she sent resumes to school districts, but with budget cuts across the state, she had little hope of remaining in Pennsylvania.

  After working seven days a week since she started, she finally accumulated enough cash to move out of her parents’ garage and into a cheap apartment in the heart of Arendtsville. She had no furniture yet. Just a mattress and frame with some sheets, a few of her mother’s old pots and pans, some leftover dishes, glasses, and utensils, and a used coffee maker. Life couldn’t be better.

  Jo-Jo’s so-called effort to return her money amounted to an account opened with the minimum bala
nce of fifty bucks, a token gesture to appease his boss. He made no further deposits. To maintain her sanity, she forced her New York adventure out of her mind. Hard as hell, of course. The image of one particular man would be imbedded into her memory forever.

  While happiness filled her to be home and on familiar ground, she always struggled with a lump in her throat whenever her thoughts drifted to Deems. She missed him so much, and then, she’d remember how they ended. Master salesman Jo-Jo successfully screwed her one final time, and Deems believed him. That realization, more than anything, hurt the most.

  “Lauren!”

  She had just slid her employee badge through the time clock when her boss waved her toward the kitchen. Please don’t tell me you have a call-out. Her feet were killing her now, and she couldn’t possibly cover another shift.

  With her purse swung over her shoulder, Lauren approached Big Greta, a rotund woman who tasted one too many of her dishes. The poor woman was so obese, she’d be dead from a heart attack or stroke within two years, but Greta’s Restaurant was the place to stop if one had a hearty appetite. She fed her patrons until they exploded.

  The establishment had an excellent location off the main drag leading into the heart of Gettysburg and sat in the middle of a large complex with two hotels flanking both sides. Since neither of the hotels had their own restaurant, the breakfast crowd consisted mainly of foot traffic. The majority of the lunch and dinner patrons drove in as they took breaks from sightseeing.

  Greta stood before the stove, stirring a large pot of soup for the coming lunch crowd. Grunting softly, she glanced at Lauren. “One of your patrons left an extra large tip at the register. I’ve authorized Cindy to give you the money before you leave.” She used a small spoon to taste the soup and immediately crinkled her nose then turned to the soup chef. “Put in more salt.” She tossed the spoon into the wash bin and faced Lauren. “What’d you do that was so special?”

  “I don’t know which patron, Greta. Any hints?”

  “Nay. See if Cindy knows.”

  Lauren welcomed any tip, large or small. Extra large probably meant five bucks. The usual for the breakfast crowd was maybe one or two dollars. From the kitchen, she returned to the dining area and approached the cash register.

  After finishing with a couple’s tab, Cindy waved goodbye then turned to Lauren. “The tip amount will blow your mind, dear. He paid in cash, and I almost dropped into a faint.” Opening the register, she extracted a clipped wad of bills from the cash drawer. “When he first walked in, he requested you as his server and actually waited for one of your tables.” After removing the clip, she handed over the bills. “I’ve heard of people leaving tips because of a sob story but never this much.”

  Counting quickly, Lauren stared at the wad in her hand and gaped. Gripping the counter for support, she shifted her gaze from the money to Cindy. “Fifteen hundred dollars!”

  “That’s what he left, dear. He paid cash and said to be sure you received the full amount. He was adamant.” She pointed at the bills. “I checked them for counterfeit.”

  Lauren wouldn’t know a fake bill unless Abe Lincoln wore sunglasses. Shaking herself, she stared at Cindy. “What did he look like?”

  Cindy smirked. “A mousy-looking guy. Small. Thick glasses. Dressed like a tourist in Bermuda shorts and T-shirt. I didn’t get the impression he rolled in dough.”

  The French toast and eggs-over-easy guy? Eyes wide, she jerked back. “He hardly said two words to me. I figured he wasn’t awake yet.”

  “Well, the money’s yours, hon. Enjoy.”

  A man eating alone sometimes left a larger-than-normal tip, but large gratuities came from the dinner crowds at the higher-end restaurants where booze flowed like water. Greta’s was more a family environment with black coffee as the strongest brew. Stunned beyond explanation, she thanked Cindy and exited the restaurant, burying the money deep into her purse.

  Wow. Truly an unreal morning. Maybe she was dreaming, but her grip on her car door handle snapped her to reality. The metal was hot as hell from the overhead July sun.

  If she wasn’t so dog-tired, she’d do her usual routine and head to her parents’ house to use the computer, check on any responses to teaching jobs, and send out another resume to keep the flow going. But not today. She wanted to put up her feet and rest, maybe paint a little, and revel in a man’s generous tip. She hopped into her SUV and headed for home.

  Millie and Phil Costanzo lived in their seventy-year-old colonial situated right in the middle of the main drag in Arendtsville. They rebuilt their attic into a two-bedroom, income-producing apartment with its own entrance and advertised for a tenant to replace the one who vacated.

  The place was small with angled ceilings in every room, but Lauren couldn’t beat the price nor the location. She supported herself again, and such a simple accomplishment created a tremendous sense of pride. Now, with fifteen hundred bucks in her hand, maybe she should go out tomorrow and buy some furniture. She stopped for a red light.

  Traffic was its usual horrible gridlock. Tourists visited from around the country to see the battlefields of Gettysburg where America’s Civil War fought its biggest battle in the town’s backyard. To reach Arendtsville, she had to pass through the heart of Gettysburg, crawl around the town square where people on foot created more gridlock, until finally driving beyond all the tourist shops, eateries, and hotels. On a good day, the ride took twenty minutes.

  A short time later, she glided her car into her usual spot in the Costanzo’s driveway and cut the engine. A metal staircase at the rear of the house led to her apartment door. She started toward it when Millie stepped from her backdoor and hailed.

  Her landlady was a short, little woman, always in a flowered dress covered by an apron. Her husband, Phil, wasn’t any taller, but they were the nicest couple—old farmers who’d sold their forty-acre cornfield to retire in town.

  Millie approached with a smile. “I have your mail. Came early today.”

  She handed over several envelopes and also a folded sheet of paper.

  Curious about the paper with no envelope, Lauren tapped the sheet. “What’s this one?”

  “Read and enjoy.”

  Cocking a brow, Lauren opened the letter and read. Her mouth fell open, and she stared at Millie.

  Millie’s grin stretched across her face. “Your rent’s been paid for the rest of the year.” She slipped her hands into her apron pockets. “Some guy stopped by today and gave us a check plus interest. Can’t tell you who he was.”

  First, a fifteen-hundred-dollar tip and now a year of fully paid rent. Coincidences of this magnitude didn’t happen every day. “Can you describe him?”

  “Oh, sure. Small guy, thick glasses, kinda mousy-looking. No taller than Phil.” She tapped the letter in Lauren’s hand. “He paid with a cashier’s check from a Harrisburg bank.”

  Only one man had money to throw around, and he certainly wasn’t Jo-Jo. Heart thundering, she refolded the letter. The man had to work for Deems. Why would Deems make her life easier when he wanted nothing more to do with her? Shaking aside the thought, she looked at her landlady and smiled. “Thank you, Millie. If he comes around again, please call me.” She ran up the metal flight of stairs to her door.

  With confusion flooding her brain, she entered the kitchen and threw her purse and the rest of the mail on the metal card table where she ate her meals. Re-opening the letter, she reread. Yup, the rent’s paid all the way to January. She refolded the letter and clutched it to her chest. She should feel anger at a man paying her bills, but she’d been up to her eyeballs with debt for so long, she felt a flood of relief. Why, though? That question was the big one. After placing the letter onto the kitchen table, she headed to her bedroom.

  The rest of the mail could wait. The first order of business was to open every window and allow the scant breeze a chance to circulate. The apartment had no air conditioning, and being an attic, the temperatures reached uncomfortable levels by late
afternoon. When sleeping, she used a small fan, but now, she had the cash to buy a window air conditioner at the home improvement store. Damn, what a lucky break. She kicked off her shoes and let them fly.

  Returning to the kitchen, she sorted through the rest of the mail. Well, what do you know. Her first credit card finally arrived. The limit wasn’t high but sufficient to reestablish a credit score. A mural project helped repay her parents’ loan, and the earned tips from Greta’s finalized a few outstanding bills. So, except what she owed the church, she had slowly reduced her debt to a manageable level. Because every prospective employer completed a credit check these days, her chances of being hired by a school district were nil without an impressive financial background. Somehow in today’s screwed-up society, credit had become more important than qualifications.

  She opened a handwritten envelope from the church. Probably an update on my balance owed. Reading quickly, she felt her heart stop, and she flopped onto a metal chair. Her largest loan had been paid in full plus a generous donation to cover the planned expansion project! For the first time since the breakup of her engagement, she was totally debt-free. The weight of so many torturous months was gone. She could concentrate on her art and teaching career and bank whatever money she accumulated.

  To control a mounting sob, she sucked in a hard breath and stood to retrieve a bottle of water from her small refrigerator. What she really needed was a bottle of wine, but until this moment, wine was an extravagance she couldn’t afford. Closing the fridge, she unscrewed the water bottle and took a long swig.

  Should she call Deems and thank him? But why would he bother? He hadn’t made any attempt to contact her. More than likely, he hopped on his jet to handle another crisis and wouldn’t take her call anyway. Oh, hell. Time to relax and slip out of her work attire of black slacks and white shirt, but first… She loosened the hair band holding her hair off her shoulders—a work requirement—and leaned forward to shake and scratch her head.