One Night in Boston

by Allie Boniface

  Jack flipped through the book, wondering if the centerpieces on page nine were supposed to look different from the ones on page sixteen.

  “They look nice. The lilies, I mean.” He pulled at his collar. Why couldn’t they just fly off to Vegas? Or even some island and swap vows on the beach? Did they really need to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on pedestals and ice sculptures and miniature tuxedoes for her boss’s twin nephews, serving as ring bearers?

  Jack knew he could afford the ritziest wedding the city had seen in decades. More important, he knew Paige wanted it. But unlike his father or his fiancée, pomp meant little to him. Money was useful, certainly, as a tool to carve out a comfortable life. If necessary, it could be a weapon to wield in the world of big business. But on a personal level? Spending hard-earned cash on silly things and material items just to keep up appearances left Jack cold. He didn’t need to release two hundred doves at his wedding to show the city how much money he had. Most of the city already knew. It made no difference to him one way or the other.

  Maybe I am like Mom after all, he thought suddenly. She never needed fancy china on the table. She served steak on plastic plates, and it tasted just the same. Invisible fingertips trailed up his spine. Funny the pieces of you that traced back to your parents. The stuff in the mirror was easy to see. The details under the skin and buried in the soul emerged differently. Jack rubbed his chin, sorry all over again that he wouldn’t dance with his mother at the wedding. God, how he missed her sometimes.

  “You really like them?” Paige looked worried. “But what about the favors? What goes with lilies? Almonds or candles? Or both?”

  Jack’s stomach growled. “Either is fine with me.” Fine. The best he could come up with.

  Paige settled back in her chair as the waitress brought their food. “I don’t know.” She set her napkin on her lap and nibbled at leaves of watercress.

  He took a long sip of clam chowder and burned his tongue. “Ow! Shit.”

  Paige drew her brows together in disapproval and shook her head. Jack suddenly wished he’d ordered a good, strong cocktail, but she probably would have disapproved of that too. Growing up on the outside of Boston’s social circles, Paige had since honed a keen awareness of propriety. Appearances mattered. Behavior mattered. In fact, as far as she was concerned, what you looked like in the public eye counted for just about everything.

  “…so will you have time to stop at the dry cleaners after work today?”

  “What?” Distracted, Jack took another gulp of soup and burned himself for a second time.

  “I was hoping you could pick up my red dress. The Vera Wang.” Paige finished her salad and signaled their waitress to bring the bill. Out came her company credit card, shiny and silver in the half-light.

  “That’s all you’re eating?”

  “It’s all I have time for.” She signed her name with a flourish and looked at Jack with sad, tired eyes.

  His heart melted a little.

  “I told Stefan I’d meet him for a drink after work.” Not exactly true. He’d yet to make the phone call to his best friend from college, though he’d been meaning to for well over a month. “But if you really need me to get the dress—“

  “No, it’s okay. I guess I can have one of the girls at the office run out.” She reached for her coat and stood. At nearly six feet tall in high heels, she struck an imposing figure. The busboy stopped and stared from the next table over, and Jack didn’t blame him. “Don’t forget we’re going to the Deveau Charity Ball tonight.”

  He froze.

  “Oh, honey, you didn’t.” Paige clucked her tongue. “Please tell me your tux is dry cleaned.”

  “It is.” That, at least, was true. “Where is it this time?” The Deveau Ball was held every year on the last Friday in June and had become the premier summer event for Boston’s upper class. Marty Deveau, owner of a multi-million dollar investment company, threw a lavish party each year to raise money for a variety of the city’s charities. Once known as a pompous playboy with too much money, since his marriage a dozen years ago the prestigious Mr. Deveau had become the darling of the media and a hero to Boston’s underdogs.

  “The Hotel Victoria.” Paige wrapped a silk scarf around her hair. “Eight o’clock.” She flipped open her cell phone and scanned for messages, frowning. “But I may be a little late. I have a deposition this afternoon, and I had to reschedule a meeting for six.”

  So maybe I can stall a little, Jack thought. He stood to say goodbye. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the party scene; he appreciated celebrating the warm weather along with the rest of the city. And he was the first person to make donations to charity. It was just that everyone seemed so stuffy at these fancy events, so made up. They postured for the cameras and talked in sound bites, fully aware they were fodder for the next day’s social column. Jack shuddered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an honest conversation at the Deveau Ball or gone home without a blasted headache.

  “I’ll call you,” Paige said, and brushed a kiss across his cheek. Her perfume, floral and familiar, hung in the air over him. For an instant, his groin throbbed with wanting. Jack watched as she pushed open the door, bent her head against the wind, and marched in quick, short steps down the pavement. At the corner she raised two fingers, and a cab stopped at once. She slipped inside and was gone.

  Jack sat back down and checked his watch. Almost two. An entire afternoon stretched out before him, filled with telephone calls he didn’t want to make and meetings he didn’t want to schedule. To top it all off, he had to end the day by sticking himself into a monkey suit and making small talk. Great. Just great. With one hand he punched buttons on his cell phone until he found the right number.

  “Stef? Hey, it’s Jack. Yeah, yeah, I know. So how ’bout tonight? I don’t know—say five-thirty at Cecil’s Pub?” He watched a young couple stop for a kiss on the corner. Arms wrapped tightly around each other, they leaned in, closed their eyes, and ignored the whistles of people walking by. Jack shook his head. He’d never been one for public displays of affection. He couldn’t understand why people couldn’t save the pawing and groping for the bedroom. He turned away as Stefan came back on the line.

  “Good. I’ll see you then. Yeah, you owe me a game. Better practice up.”

  *

  “So that’s it, then?” The man with the graying temples and muscular forearms signed his name and pushed the paper back across the table. “You’ll start next week?”

  Dillon checked his calendar. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Either my partner, J.J., or I will be here Wednesday morning. Maybe Thursday, depending on the weather.”

  Thunder rattled the windows of the library where they sat.

  Ellis Casterline snuffed out the end of a cigarette and shook his head. “Not your partner. I want you. Don’t care how good your buddy is. You’ll be overseeing the work.”

  “Well, sir—” Dillon began, careful of his words. He didn’t want to blow a job that looked to net several thousands of dollars in profit, but he also had a business to run. Since that last radio interview, seemed like everyone wanted Dillon himself on site at all times. He did his best to please, but sometimes that couldn’t happen. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be in two—or four or six—places at one time.

  The man held up a palm. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. You’re the one I read about in the Globe, the one Cassie and Ronald Weinberg recommended. If it takes more money for you to be here in the flesh, then so be it. I want the best.” He leaned in and Dillon could smell tobacco mixed with some kind of cologne. Jabbing a finger into the air, Casterline went on. “And you’re the best, from what I’ve been told. Let’s not play games and pretend you have to work me in to some kind of schedule. My wife is throwing me a retirement party in four months. I want these grounds looking like the White House. Better, in fact. Can you do that for me?’

  Dillon glanced down at the long list they’d generated over the las
t hour. Custom paved walkways, ornamental trees, pond with waterfall…

  “Yes, sir,” he said, erasing any doubt from his voice. He held out his hand, which the guy shook, too hard. “You’ll see me later next week. I’ll call and confirm the day before.”

  “Very good.” Ellis Casterline lit another cigarette. “I’ll look forward to it, then.” He picked up his telephone, and Dillon took that as the cue to leave. He made his way past shelves of books, all coated in a fine dust, and hoped he could find his way back to the front door. Jesus, but these mansions had more hallways and side rooms than their owners knew what to do with.

  As soon as he pushed open the library door, the redhead appeared again. Must have been waiting right around the corner, Dillon thought. She cocked her head and sent him a smoldering look. White shorts showed off tanned legs. Ample cleavage peeked from beneath her bright yellow polo shirt. Willow, she’d said earlier as an introduction, as she slipped her warm hand into his and purred the word up at him. Like the tree.

  “I’ll get you back to the front door,” she said. “Unless you’d like a tour of the rest of the house.” She paused and let innuendo fall from her words.

  Dillon cleared his throat. Last thing I need is for Casterline to think I’m after one of his little girls. “Um, no, just the front door would be fine. Thank you.”

  She shrugged and tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow just the same. “Suit yourself. Maybe next time.”

  They paused on the front porch, watching as splatters of rain began to fall. Dillon checked his clipboard and was about to take off when a beat-up Dodge Shadow rattled by the house and pulled into the driveway next door. He raised his eyebrows as the car belched to a stop. That guy selling something? Or just lost? He couldn’t imagine a vehicle that looked more out of place on Regency Way and meant to say so when Willow whistled at the tall, slim man that unfolded himself from it.

  “Hi, Taz!”

  She knows him?

  The guy didn’t say much, just “Hello yourself” as he flashed a grin from a full-bearded face. He loped up the steps of number Fifty-Nine, a slightly smaller version of the brick estate where Dillon still stood, and disappeared through the front door.

  “He lives there?”

  Willow nodded. “That’s the Majors’ place. They’ve been there forever, twenty years at least. They were one of the first homes in this development.” She sighed. “That was Taz. He’s the youngest.” Her eyes cut back toward the driveway and she ran a finger along her bottom lip. “God, I always had such a crush on him.”

  Dillon stifled a laugh. Who didn’t you have a crush on?

  “Then there’s Will, Aaron, and Jack. Four boys. Jack’s the oldest. He’s…God, probably over thirty now.”

  “What kind of name is Taz?”

  “Short for Tanzili. A family name, I think.” Willow’s voice dropped a little. “We used to see them a lot, when we were kids. My two older brothers played ball all the time with Jack and Aaron.” She shrugged. “After Mrs. Major died, things changed.”

  Dillon shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

  “She was so nice,” Willow went on before he could make a move to leave. “Everyone on the block liked her. She was the one, you know, who’d always be home during the day, who’d be making cookies for all the kids. She helped us build a fort in their backyard once. And she had the coolest stories about animals and princesses and the stars and stuff.

  “When she got cancer, all the boys just fell apart. Taz and Jack especially. She died—I guess it’s been four or five years ago, now. Mr. Major changed after that, got really depressed and wouldn’t talk to anyone for a while. It’s too bad.”

  Dillon shook his head. He supposed everyone had sadness in their past, troubled memories that bided their time and rattled the bars of their cages occasionally to let you know they were still there. “Well, guess I’ll be going.”

  Willow slid her gaze from Dillon’s brows to the tips of his work boots. “I’ll see you around,” she said. “Next week?”

  Dillon nodded instead of answering. Crossing the yard in a few giant steps, he leaped into his truck. He shook the water from his hair and stuffed the damp paperwork into his folder. Damn. Women get bolder and bolder these days. What happened to a little bit of subtlety? He wiped his face. Best thing he could do was put the truck in gear and leave, pronto. He ran his fingers over the gearshift. It wasn’t Willow’s overt sexuality that had his pulse racing. It was the way she reminded him of someone else. The way she’d not only started up the rattling of a cage but nearly torn the lock right off it.

  Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was in the house. I swear I didn’t…

  Dillon shook his head, hard. He glanced at his watch and then up at the windshield, where rain now beat mercilessly. With this weather, there was no way he’d be able to start on the Mercer property across town. One thing about the landscaping business, you couldn’t outsmart nature or make deals with the devil, no matter how many deadlines awaited you. He turned the key and the truck’s engine roared to life. Back to the office, he thought. At least there I can catch up on some invoices and make some calls. And maybe if he got far enough away from this house, and the young woman standing on its front porch, he could forget about the redhead from the past she reminded him of.

  He reversed direction and headed for the highway. He turned up the radio and tried to sing along. He counted the seconds between thunder and lightning. He listened to a commentary on the sorry state of the Red Sox. But none of it worked. Despite his best efforts, Dillon’s mind returned again and again to his stepsister and the last time he’d seen her, with anger flashing in her eyes and that hair flying everywhere. As if even the ends of her curls radiated emotion. Now, even years removed from the moment, it caused him such guilt and regret that he had to remind himself that it hadn’t been his fault. Not really. Her illness, her operation, her loss had stemmed from someone else’s mistake.

  But I could have stopped it, he thought. If only I’d known, I could have stopped it from happening in the first place. I could have saved her, protected her the way I was supposed to. Blood related or not, brothers are supposed to do that for their little sisters. No, Dillon hadn’t been the real villain all those years ago, but he’d stood by while it happened. In Maggie’s mind, he knew, that was the same.

  2:00 p.m.

  Maggie stared out the back window of her workroom as she chewed on a thumbnail. The heads of her poor flowers bowed under the storm, petals damp and crushed, leaves lost. She wished she could hold up their tender blossoms and funnel them strength to withstand the wind and the rain. Hell, she wished she could do that for herself, right about now. She looked back at her desk and the list of landscaping businesses that Neve had found online. Ninety-eight listed just in the city of Boston. That didn’t include any of the suburbs. Ninety-eight? Maggie wanted to cry.

  She sank to a seat and drummed her fingers on the desk. Her gaze fell on a bright red Christmas card, one she’d pulled from the back of a file drawer the other day. The scrawl inside she knew. Too well. He’d signed her birthday cards with that same squiggle, autographed the tree fort they built together one summer, forged a note to school so she didn’t get in trouble when she skipped and went to the mall. She’d recognize that handwriting anywhere, the way it swooped to the left at the beginning of words and tailed off at the end to nothing. A lump grew in Maggie’s throat until she had to turn away to draw a breath.

  I should have kept in touch with him. It would make the next twenty-four hours a lot easier. This holiday card from almost six years ago was the only reminder she still held of her stepbrother. She couldn’t believe she’d kept it after all this time, but it must have gotten stuck in a box of papers from college. She remembered the anger, the sadness, with which she’d first read it, tracing the words that wished her a merry winter season. Does he think this makes up for what happened that night? Does he think it changes what I lost?

  What the doctor
s had taken that long-ago day had healed. Only a small scar remained on her abdomen. But different scars marked her soul now. Deeper ones. Because the day Maggie left the hospital, she’d emerged as someone different, someone less whole, less sure, less herself.

  She knew Dillon meant well. He probably wanted to show her he still cared, still felt sorry, still wanted to make her world right. But years of silence couldn’t be mended by a card in the mail.

  She turned it upside down and stuck it under some junk mail. Maggie forced herself to remember what her mother had said about the name of his business. Something that rhymed. Or something that, for whatever reason, seemed silly to Hillary. Not a good name for a business. Maggie tucked her hair behind both ears. Okay, she knew her mother well enough to weed out a few. Pencil in hand, she went down the list, crossing out as she went and hoping against hope that she wasn’t deleting the very business she needed to call.

  A-Plus Lawn Care

  Beautiful Greens

  Smith and Sons Landscapers

  Maggie laid down her pencil and recounted. Eighteen names now had black lines through them. “Eighteen? That’s it? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  There’s got to be a better way. If Dillon was working in Boston, then maybe he was listed in the yellow pages. Or the white pages. Or something. If he was such a hotshot businessman, maybe she could find some mention of him in an article or a link on someone’s website. Christ, maybe he has his own website. It was worth a try, anyway.

  She started up her computer and waited for the screen to kaleidoscope into view. Steadying her gaze on the screen, she opened a search engine. Dillon Murphy, she typed with trembling fingers. Thirty seconds later she realized she was holding her breath.

  Thirteen possible matches. Maggie almost didn’t want to look. Running a finger down the screen, she eliminated the first ones inside her head.