Pres leaned forward. "You lived there even when Chuck was alive? But I thought—" He stopped himself.
She gazed out at the yard. Her voice was matter-of-fact as she answered his unspoken question. "Right after we were married, right before Zander was born, Chuck made some really bad investments. He lost everything." She turned to look at him. "That's what you wanted to know, right?"
Her normally sparkling blue eyes were sharp with bitterness and her soft lips were a tight, grim line.
"You want to ask me about Chuck's mistress too?" she asked.
Molly had shocked Pres. She could see from the look on his face that this was that last thing he'd expected her to say.
But somehow he managed to hold her gaze. And his voice sounded so gentle when he spoke. "Do you want to tell me about Chuck's mistress?"
Silently, she shook her head no. And then she nodded yes. "In some ways it's not really as awful as it sounds. In others, it's worse. He was brilliant, you know? His stories were"—she shook her head—"beyond compare. I met him when I was doing an interview for my college newspaper. He wasn't a very talkative man—in fact, he was practically silent. And that added so much mystery to him. I had this fantasy of marrying him and having him finally talk to me. I wanted to know what he was thinking, I wanted to get inside his head."
She leaned her head back against the stair railing, briefly closing her eyes. Pres just waited for her to continue.
"So I married him. But he never really talked to me—not the way I wanted him to." She took a deep breath. "And then, after he died, his agent called me and said Chuck's editor needed my permission to publish a collection of letters. I didn't know what he was talking about, so they sent me a copy of over four hundred letters—four hundred letters—that Chuck had written to a woman who lived in Paris. She was married to a friend of his and ... I guess he must've loved her. He never actually slept with her, but I can't think of her as anything but his mistress. He loved her. He wrote to her for years—starting before we were married and continuing right up until he died. Those letters contained all of his thoughts and dreams. They were what I'd wanted from him for all those years we were married. Instead, he talked to me about the laundry and what to have for dinner and which bills absolutely needed to be paid. After nearly seven years, we were still strangers. I was really nothing more than live-in domestic and nursing help. I worked two jobs just to pay the bills and he didn't even make his own damned lunch."
She shook her head. "I don't mean to sound so bitter and awful. The truth is, I really wouldn't have minded so much if he'd shared even just a little bit of himself with me. I wanted to know his soul, his essence, his intellect. But he gave that to someone else."
"Molly, why did you stay with him?"
"Because I loved him." She looked up to find Pres watching her. "At least I did at the beginning. I was only nineteen when I married him. He was so . . ." She glanced away, embarrassed.
"He was what?"
"He was a lot like you."
Pres was silent, and Molly tried to explain.
"He was rich and powerful and famous. He was perfect."
"I'm not perfect."
"Fantasy Man magazine thinks you are."
Pres snorted.
"And they're right," Molly insisted. "Look at you. Gorgeous hair, perfect teeth, that body . . . And you're sweet and generous and funny. No, you're definitely perfect."
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the step above them. "If I'm so perfect, why did you call me this morning and ask me to meet with you so you could give me a standard letdown speech?"
Molly shifted uncomfortably, and Pres knew he'd read her phone call correctly.
"That kiss last night was a mistake, right?" he continued. "Things got out of control. Wherever we were heading—it's not going to happen. You don't want to be anything more than friends. What else? Did I leave something out?"
"No, you touched on everything."
Pres nodded. "Everything but the reason why. I thought you just said I was perfect."
"I don't want perfect," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. But I do hope we can be friends."
Pres felt a surge of frustration. Damn, he needed a cigarette. He was dizzy and nauseated and exhausted and disappointed as all hell. He didn't want to be friends with this woman. He wanted to kiss her the way he'd kissed her last night. He wanted to carry her up to her bedroom and bury himself inside of her. He wanted to make love to her, nonstop, for two weeks.
But she wanted to be friends.
"I don't know if I can just be friends with you," he admitted. He lowered his voice. "I want to be your lover, Molly."
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.
"I'm not Chuck," he persisted.
She finally looked up at him. "I know that."
"Then why are you pushing me away as if I were?"
She couldn't—or wouldn't—answer. Pres resisted the urge both to search frantically through his pockets for a cigarette and to scream. He stood up. "I'm sorry about last night—the picture in the paper, I mean. Not the kiss. I'm not sorry about that." He took a deep breath. "I'll keep a security team over here until things die down."
Molly nodded. "Thanks."
Pres made himself walk away. He walked around the side of the house, turning the corner that would bring him toward the front, but then stopped short.
There were half a dozen TV vans waiting out by the front gate, near where his car was parked. He quickly started to duck behind a shrub bedecked with cloyingly sweet flowers, but he was too late. They'd already spotted him.
He braced himself for the onslaught and headed toward his car, ignoring the questions and shouts of his name.
Hating every moment of it, he stopped next to his car and waited for a half-dozen microphones to be shoved into his face.
"I'd like to take this opportunity to repeat the statement I made last night," he said. "I wasn't telling the truth when, several days ago, I said I was engaged to be married. I was hoping you all would believe me and just go home and leave me alone."
"Ms. Cassidy is not and has never been my fiancee. Yes, I find her incredibly attractive. Yes, I've kissed her—you've all seen proof of that. But the fact is, Molly Cassidy and I are nothing more than friends."
Pres turned away and got into his car. He'd told them the truth, but this time he honestly wished it were another lie.
Pres left his office well after six and nearly ran directly into Hayden Young in the resort lobby.
"Hey, Pres, what's up?" the bigger man said cheerfully.
"What brings you out this way?" Pres crossed his arms, trying to squelch the slow burn of jealousy he felt. Hayden had stayed at the Kirk Estate long after Pres had left there that afternoon. Hayden would be going back next week, to work with Zander. Hayden would see Molly too—she'd probably smile at him as she opened the door and welcomed him into her home. Hayden was one lucky sonuvabitch. But with his cheerful smile and serene easygoing attitude, the man was impossible to dislike.
"My parents are down on the key for a visit," Hayden told Pres. "They're staying here at the resort. We're having dinner in just a few minutes at your restaurant. Tell the chef to go wild."
"I will." Pres paused. "How'd the speech session go with Zander today?"
Hayden made a so-so motion with his hands. "The kid was tense about a lot of things: getting his hearing aids wet, all those reporters outside his house. . . . None of that helped. And school starts next week—he's going to be the new kid. That's got to be scary for him. New friends to make, new teacher to deal with ... I didn't feel like I had his full attention all afternoon. In fact, we ended early today."
"What exactly do you do with him?"
"Mouth-and-tongue-placement exercises. It's not easy for him. Can you imagine having to learn to make a sound that you can barely hear? S, sh,f, th. They all sound the same to him. The kid's doing really well, considering." Hayden grinned. "Of course, the fact that he talks all the time means he
gets a lot of practice."
Pres smiled. "Yeah, Zander does make for a lively conversation."
"Most of the time he works hard. He seems to have a really good understanding of the fact that it's important for him to learn to speak clearly now, while he still has some hearing."
Pres felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. "While he still has some hearing?"
"Zander's condition is degenerative." Hayden looked puzzled. "Didn't Molly tell you?"
Pres could barely breathe. Degenerative. "No."
Hayden shook his head and backed away slightly. "I shouldn't be talking to you about this then. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. I mean, it's no big secret, but I feel funny discussing it if—"
"Degenerative as in Zander's hearing is getting worse?" Pres asked. He knew that's exactly what it meant, but he needed it spelled out.
Hayden nodded. "Yeah," he said, compassion darkening his expressive blue eyes. "Tough break, huh? All signs indicate that the kid's going to be profoundly deaf by the time he's twenty years old."
Pres felt sick. Zander was going to be profoundly deaf. Suddenly it all made sense. The sign language, the word a day, the music. Molly and Zander listened to a new CD every single day—because in a few short years Zander wasn't going to be able to hear music anymore.
I wish I could be an opera singer when I grow up, the boy had told Pres. I love music more than anything in the world.
Pres felt tears stinging hotly against his eyes. "Oh, God."
"Zander's actually pretty lucky," Hayden said.
"Lucky?"
"A degenerative hearing condition can be really tough to deal with. Most people don't have the kind of support Zander gets from Molly."
Molly. How could she stand it? How could she be so optimistic and happy when her beautiful son was losing his hearing bit by bit, piece by piece, a little more each day? Who, Pres wondered, was supporting Molly?
How did she handle those long nights all alone, while Zander was fast asleep? Did she mourn quietly, or angrily curse out the fates for making her child walk this path? Did she try to strike a deal with the Creator, offering him everything and anything in return for her son's precious hearing?
And Pres knew in a sudden flash that he had found Molly's price. He knew without a doubt that she would sell him the Kirk Estate in a heartbeat if he could offer her a way to restore Zander's hearing.
There had to be some kind of operation or medical technique that was revolutionary and probably outrageously expensive. But outrageously expensive wouldn't stop Preston. Not when it came to Zander. Or Molly.
Forget about buying the house. The house was nothing. It was insignificant. It no longer mattered. What mattered was Zander. And Molly.
"Excuse me," Pres said to Hayden, turning away.
Dom was still at the front desk, waiting for the evening shift to arrive, but Pres walked right past him, heading out to the back lot where his truck was parked.
The American Lifestyles van was lying in wait, and Pres knew it would follow him all the way to Molly's. But for once, he didn't give a damn.
NINE
"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"
"It didn't come up."
Pres lowered his voice, aware of the sound of music drifting downstairs from Zander's room. "Zander's going to be totally deaf in less than ten years, and it didn 't come up?"
"It's not as if we've had that many conversations," Molly pointed out. "And it's not something I usually mention upon introduction: Hi, how are you, I'm Molly Cassidy and this is my son, Alexander, who's hearing-impaired with a degenerative condition that will render him profoundly deaf sometime within the next decade."
Pres closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's just ... I wish you had told me."
"There's a chance the degeneration will halt," Molly said, lifting her chin. "It's not likely, but there have been other cases where—"
"What are the odds of that happening?"
She looked away from him. "Slim to none."
"And still you hope." There was such wonder in his voice.
"Of course I hope." Molly looked up at him, but had to look away again. The sad gentleness in his eyes was too much to bear. She cleared her throat, trying not to cry. "And even though I hope, we prepare for the worst."
Pres moved toward her, and she stepped back, away from the dangerous lure of his arms. He shouldn't have come here, screeching to a stop in the driveway as if he'd driven from the resort like a bat out of hell. A news van had followed him, and Molly knew they had gotten it all on tape—the way he'd run to the front door and pounded until she'd opened it. If they wanted the news media to believe there was nothing between them, this wasn't the way to do it.
He shouldn't have come here, and above all else, he shouldn't take her in his arms and kiss her. She knew far too well that once they started, she wouldn't want to stop.
"I want to buy Zander a music collection," Pres told her. "I want to take him over to the mainland and have him pick out all the CDs he wants. All the Mozart and what's-his-name . . . ?"
"Alan Menken."
"Right. And anything else he wants. The Beatles. Garth Brooks. Coolio. Anything."
But Molly was shaking her head. "That's too much. We couldn't accept that kind of gift."
"Why not?" He was standing there looking at her, wearing an expensive-looking turquoise polo shirt and beige shorts that had been hand-tailored to fit him disgustingly well. He was wearing that watch of his that had probably cost more than her used car. He didn't understand why they couldn't accept his gift. He honestly didn't get it.
"It's too much," Molly explained. "He's ten years old, Pres. He wouldn't pick out just one or two CDs. He'd pick out two hundred. More."
"But that's the idea. Let him have what he wants. Hell, I'll buy him two thousand if he wants 'em."
"You're talking about spending tens of thousands of dollars!"
"So?"
"So? That's insane!"
"No, it's not. Molly, in ten years it'll be too late. Let me buy the CDs for him now. Please."
"Can you imagine the field day those news magazines will have when they find out you bought a twenty-thousand-dollar gift for my son?" Molly asked. "Pres, I can't let you do it."
His jaw tightened. "Screw the news magazines. Let 'em say what they want. Let 'em think we're getting married. I don't care anymore. I'm just going to say 'no comment' until they go away."
"That's easy for you. You didn't just spend the entire afternoon on the phone with the elementary-school principal trying to figure out what to do if these damned reporters follow Zander to school on Monday."
Pres froze. "Mother of God. I never thought of that. I'll . . . I'll go to school with him."
"Oh, that will really help him fit right in." Molly rolled her eyes in disgust. "Maybe all the kids will bring along their mothers' billionaire lovers."
"I'm not your lover. Although, believe me, I'd like to—"
"You, me, and Zander are the only three people in the world who know that you're not. The other forty-seven trillion—"
"Can think what they want. And I think you're wrong. I think a lot of people believed me when I said we weren't engaged or even involved." Pres smiled ruefully. "And they're all single and female and staying up at the resort."
Molly was temporarily distracted. "Really?"
He nodded. "There's been an incredible run on rooms."
"Poor baby," she said, snorting. "Must be tough with all those gorgeous, available women walking around the lobby in thong bikinis . . ."
"I hid in my office all afternoon. Now, if it had been you walking around the resort lobby in a thong bikini," he continued, "I would've come out of hiding."
"Me in a thong bikini?" Molly laughed. "Dream on, Seaholm."
"I will," he murmured. "I have been."
Molly felt her cheeks heat with a blush and she turned away. Pres must've realized he'd gone too far, because he brought the conver
sation back to safer ground.
"Well, what did Zander's principal suggest? What are we going to do to keep the media away from the school?" he asked.
We. Molly tried not to like the sound of that word too much. "I don't know. We have the weekend to come up with some kind of plan."
"Or to defuse the situation." Pres shook his head. "Molly, I truly feel awful about getting you and Zander involved in this."
"Maybe . . ." Molly said.
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