The Way They Were

by Mary Campisi

  The way she said the word made him uneasy. Had she somehow figured out he and Clay couldn’t stand each other? “What’s going on?”

  That tiny mouth opened again. “I came to talk about my father.”

  He’d argued politics with senators and come out on top. He’d negotiated city blocks of condominiums and received abatements many said would never be granted. He’d even received a governor’s blessing and the promise of a sizeable amount of acreage in Alexandria, should he only agree to marry the man’s daughter. Julia’s words held some sort of accusation, but damn if he could identify it.

  “Julia.” It was Maxine, thank God, saying something to fill the silence. “Please calm down and let us figure this out.”

  Julia swung around and confronted her. “There’s nothing to figure out.” She lifted the red book and slammed it against the desk, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. “I’m not stupid. This is my mother’s handwriting. And my father,”—she crumpled into a heap in a nearby chair—“isn’t even my father.”

  Rourke’s lungs closed with the swift horror of an allergic reaction. He gasped and choked, sipping in drafts of air, all the while focusing on the words he thought he heard.

  “Mr. Flannigan!” Maxine whacked the middle of his back with surprising strength. “Are you all right?” She pounded on him harder and faster until he reached around and grabbed a wrist.

  “Enough,” he rasped. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “No, sir. I…are you all right, sir?”

  Actually he thought he was going to be sick, right here in the middle of his desk. Rourke ignored her and groped for his voice. “Julia, what did you just say?” She lifted her face to look at him and before she opened her mouth, he saw the truth in the pain and betrayal of those silver eyes, eyes that were familiar in their abject grief. Had he not stared in the mirror for days after learning of Kate’s marriage and seen those same eyes? That same pain?

  “He’s not my father.”

  Why couldn’t she cry? Start bawling all over the place? Big tears? At least that would provide an outlet for some of her grief. He knew the cost of holding back and keeping it all bottled up.

  “He’s not my father,” she said again, louder, her gaze flashing to the red book squeezed against her chest. “You knew my father though, didn’t you?”

  Rourke forced his voice to remain even. “I knew him.”

  “What color were his eyes?”

  His senses heightened. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Please. What color were his eyes?”

  Rourke shrugged. “The same color as the Carhartts he wore every day. Brown.”

  “Unmistakably brown,” she repeated. “But this book says my father’s eyes were the color of a summer storm. Do you know anyone with eyes that color?”

  There were no gasps, no cries of outrage or denial. Maxine stood beside him, her eyes glued to the edge of the desk. Good old Maxine knew how to conduct herself, even in the face of a shocker like this one. Abbie didn’t squeal or rant either, not a peep. In fact, she looked merely sad and confused.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” What a lie. Look at me, he wanted to say. Can’t you see for yourself? He’d guessed the truth the first time he’d spotted her, but Kate had sworn he was not Julia’s father. He’d believed her because the Kate he remembered was decent, and honest, not a traitorous liar.

  “But you must remember someone,” Julia insisted, her lips quivering again around the edges. So hopeful. So desperate.

  Now the tears will come. “Sorry, I don’t. It was a long time ago.”

  She moved one step closer, determined to have answers. “Look at me, Rourke. See the way my eyes turn colors—just like a storm. A summer storm with lightning,” her voice trailed off. He knew the second she recognized the truth. Her mouth screwed up and she blew out a tiny breath of sound, so soft he had to lean close to hear the words. “Just like yours.”

  “Julia.”

  “You.” It was a simple statement. “You,” she repeated again.

  Damn you, Kate. How could you do this to me?

  “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “Not until two seconds ago.”

  “You and my mother…”

  “I’m sorry.” What the hell else could he say? Your mother thought I wasn’t coming back so she married your father?

  “My father’s dead.” She pronounced each syllable with perfect clarity and stunning conviction.

  “Yes.” What could he say? He didn’t even know what a father was.

  “I don’t need a father.”

  Rourke rubbed his jaw and buried his other fist under the desk to keep from yanking her by the shoulders until she cried. Cry, damn you.

  But Julia stood tall and resolute as though she were reciting a documentary about someone else’s life. “Abbie said she never had one and she’s fine.”

  “Oh, yes, Abbie’s fine.” He let the sarcasm spin through his words as he glanced at his niece. The child was about as fine as an arachnophobiac in a tarantula den. He gestured to the red book. “Is that for me?”

  She thrust it at him. “My mother betrayed us all. Me, you, my father.” She inched back, one step at a time. “I’ll never forgive her for it.” Then she turned and ran out the door making an indistinguishable noise that sounded an awful lot like a sob.

  “I’m so sorry, Rourke.” Abbie did nothing to hide her tears. “It’s all my fault. I was just trying to cheer her up and give her something to take her mind off of me leaving, so I suggested we go on a hunt and see what we could find.”

  Of course his niece would be behind something like this. Julia had lived thirteen years without questioning her genes and it had taken Abbie less than three weeks to wreak havoc. “That’s a dangerous game.”

  “Man, how was I to know you were going to be Julia’s father? That’s really twisted, but I was wondering about it, especially when I watched the two of you together.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When Janice showed up here, I could tell it bothered Mrs. Maden by the way she watched her, and then when the two of you were near each other,”—she shrugged and jammed her hands in her back pockets—“it was like this electrical force kept pulling you apart and pushing you back together at the same time. Very weird.”

  “I think you’ve been watching too much TV.”

  “I am sorry, Rourke. You might be a jerk sometimes, but you didn’t deserve to find out you had a kid this way. Julia didn’t deserve this, either.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Now what? If you get partial custody, she can come visit and stay with us.”

  Custody. Christ, he had a thirteen-year-old daughter. Somehow he thought if he ever had a child, he’d start from the infant stage and work his way up instead of springing right into the talking back stage.

  “Well?”

  Rourke reached for the red book which was made of velvet and looked like something a young Kate would choose to spill her heart in.

  “Rourke? Say something.”

  He fingered the cover. How many times had she turned to this book? Had Clay known? Once Rourke opened it, nothing would ever be the same. “I think I’d like to be alone.”

  Maxine jumped out of her chair and said, “Of course, Mr. Flannigan. I’ll take Abbie back to the Manor.” She grabbed her purse and scooted around the desk. “Come along, Abbie.” When she reached the door, she turned. “What would you like me to do about Saturday’s flight schedule, sir?”

  Good old, Maxine. She wanted to ask if they were still heading back to Chicago on Saturday but her properness just wouldn’t let her. “I don’t know, Maxine. Right now, I just don’t know.” He waited until the door clicked behind them and then turned to the red velvet journal and opened it to page one.

  Chapter 21

  “You might have fiction in those pages, but you’ve got a lot of truth in there, too.”—Rourke Flannigan

  Journal Entry—Ma
y 4, 2005

  They say you only have one true love in your lifetime. Do you think that’s true?

  This past year has been the worst for missing you, maybe because Clay’s mother. Death is a real wake up call. Whatever the reason, I’m antsy and agitated more than I’ve ever been. I even drove to the airport one night and sat for two hours watching the planes land and take off, wondering which ones were heading to Chicago.

  God, how I miss you—even after all these years.

  ***

  He would be here soon. To laugh in her face? To pity her ridiculousness? To stare at her as though she were an anomaly crumbling before his eyes? If only Julia could have been protected.

  Kate huddled in the darkness of the living room and pressed her face into the softness of the cushions. She’d thought she was being so noble by limiting her memories to a single book and a single day each year, but one second of Julia’s accusations made Kate realize the selfishness of her actions. True nobility would have weathered the pain in silence. True nobility would not have married someone with the assumption that love would come later. But she wasn’t noble, or selfless. She was weak and desperate, and her daughter, who wasn’t speaking to her, had called him and demanded he confront Kate. That same beautiful child had packed a bag and announced she was staying with Angie for a few days.

  When the doorbell rang at eight thirty-five, Kate eased off the couch and switched on the table lamp. She’d spent fourteen years dreaming of Rourke Flannigan’s face and now she dreaded the sight of him. She opened the door and there he was, handsome, powerful, and as impenetrable as granite. How had he reacted when he first learned he had a thirteen-year-old daughter? Had he even lost a hint of the control he wore like an arrogant shroud? Stuttered? Or better yet, been rendered speechless? Probably not. Those things didn’t happen to Rourke Flannigan.

  She turned away and moved toward the couch. “You may as well sit down,” she mumbled, fixing her gaze on the edge of the coffee table. Kate sensed him behind her, moving closer, but thankfully he chose the flame-stitch chair instead of the couch. Even then he was too close. “Just say it.” Thankfully, the Valium she’d dug out of her drawer earlier had wiped out the first layer of conscious behavior.

  “What could I possibly say?”

  His voice sounded almost gentle. If she closed her eyes and wiped out the words, she might mistake the sound for a preview to a romantic interlude.

  When she didn’t answer, he continued in the same persuasive huskiness. “I could ask if you are writing a piece of fiction and that’s what I read in your journal. That would be reasonable.” He paused and she noticed the tiniest twitch on the left side of his jaw. “God knows there are enough ill-fated loves stories out there—Romeo and Juliet, Gatsby and Daisy, Bonnie and Clyde. People are always clamoring for just one more.” He paused again and the gap between his words made her light-headed. “But if that’s not the case, then one would have to assume the journal is based on reality. Correct?”

  Kate lifted a shoulder and half turned her face into the cushion.

  “The question then becomes, which life is the real one? There’s the life in the red journal, and then there’s the one you lived the other three hundred and sixty-four days for the past fourteen years.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples wishing the Valium weren’t making everything so fuzzy. “Don’t yell.”

  “I’m not yelling. Yet.”

  “Just say what you’ve come to say and be done with it.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Kate. You’re not calling the shots anymore.”

  She inched her eyes open and glared at him. “I was never calling the shots. I was merely reacting to them.”

  “Poorly, I might add.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Less than forty-eight hours ago, you demeaned me with your self-righteousness. Yet, while you were berating me, you kept a secret that made my error in judgment look like a white lie.”

  “I was protecting my daughter.”

  “My daughter, too Kate, not just yours.”

  She bit her lip and waited for the explosion. When he spoke again, his voice slipped two notches to a persuasive rumble. “You don’t really know much about my business do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m a renovator, apartments and warehouses mostly, big ticket items. I gut the places, fix them up, maximize my profit and sell them off. Once in a while, I encounter a company who tries to cheat me or attempts to change the terms they’ve agreed upon. Do you know what I do then?”

  “No.” There was an important message here but she couldn’t sift through the haze of Valium clogging her brain to find it.

  “When someone tries to cheat me, that’s personal.”

  The soothing quality of his voice chipped at her defenses with such silky persistence she wasn’t sure if he was angry or merely looking for a way to tell her he understood why she’d done what she had. Maybe he was going to forgive her. Maybe he wanted them to have another chance.

  “…and then I buy up a few of their other properties, not necessarily ones I even want, and certainly not ones in the original contract, and you know what I do, Kate?”

  “Hmmmm?” Her eyes drifted shut. He really did have the most calming voice.

  “I gut them and I continue to do this until I’ve bought up the controlling share of the owner’s business. At that point, I move in my own people and take over.”

  She squinted at him. “Take over?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You mean you destroy them? Deliberately?”

  “No, I deliberately protect what’s mine. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “I guess. It seems rather harsh.”

  “Maybe, but it’s a lesson that’s never repeated.”

  “Only a fool would cross you again.” It was obvious there were dark pockets of Rourke Flannigan’s psyche that were foreign to her.

  “Exactly. Now if I go to such lengths to protect my company from liars and cheats, imagine what I’d do to protect my own flesh and blood?”

  His words sliced through her drug-addled brain. “What do you want?”

  “Answers, Kate. Goddamn answers.”

  She rubbed her temples and tried to clear her head. She had to think. “I was never supposed to see you again. The book was just a fantasy.”

  “That’s sick.”

  She shrugged. “I got bored. Everyone doesn’t jet set all over the world like you. I had a husband and a baby and I needed an escape.” Make him believe it’s all a lie.

  The left side of his jaw twitched. “You’re lying.”

  “Why? Because it’s not the answer you want to hear?”

  “No, because you kept it hidden in a shoe box in the back of your closet.”

  “So? Clay wouldn’t have understood.”

  His lip curled. “I doubt many men would, unless they were part of the fantasy.”

  “Angie thought it would make a good story.”

  “You told her about it?” He looked at her as though she’d just admitted to stripping in Church.

  “Of course I did.” That was such a lie. “She thought it would make a great story.”

  “You wrote in that journal once a year for fourteen years about how much you loved me because you were working on a story? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “I wrote it last year, all of it. I just made it seem like it was a once-a-year entry.” Lie, lie, lie. “Angie thought it would be more effective that way, you know, touch the reader’s hearts.”

  “Not really.”

  “You can ask her.” She’d have to call Angie as soon as Rourke left. There’d be a mountain of questions but she’d rather confess to Angie than risk Rourke finding out the truth.

  “I plan to speak with her.”

  “Fine.”

  “You might have fiction in those pages, but you’ve got a lot of truth in there, too.”

  “Some truth,” she adm
itted.

  “Right.” His silver eyes sparked with anger and something close to pain. Kate watched with growing uncertainty as a fine, white line creased the edges of his full lips. “You should have told me.”

  The memory of discovering she was pregnant and had no idea where Rourke was, welled inside and exploded. “You deserted me!”

  “I did not desert you.”

  Those horrible weeks resurfaced, forcing her to relive the pain once again. “After the first week, I was sure you’d come back or at least call. Angie said you were gone for good, but I didn’t believe her. When the third week passed, I started to get nervous. Then I missed my period.”

  “Christ.” He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a deep breath.

  “Your aunt saw the problem the second she landed here, holding her nose so our little town wouldn’t contaminate her. She wanted you out.”

  “She said I needed distance to sort things through.”

  “Distance from the scandal is what she meant. It wouldn’t look good for an Ivy League boy to date a girl whose mother ran over his mother—even if the woman were walking down the middle of the road in the black of night.”

  He eyed her with distaste. “Even if the girlfriend’s mother flees the scene and hides in her bedroom until she almost bleeds to death and is forced to go to the hospital?”

  “She was scared. She said people would accuse her unjustly.”

  “You mean of drinking and driving?”

  “Yes.”

  “We both know our mothers had faults. I blamed myself for the accident.” His expression darkened. “If I hadn’t been with you that night, she wouldn’t have been out on the street.”