Love on the Line

by Aares, Pamela

  “Ryan, look...”

  Look what? As she sought words, she knew she wasn’t very well prepared. How did one prepare for possible disaster? Her heart did a little flip in protest of what she was about to do. She stepped back and nearly tripped over the carrots she’d so carefully weeded. “I’m not really what you’re looking for—”

  “I can make that call.”

  Anger and hurt made for a powerful offense.

  She rubbed at her still stinging hand, knowing the delay wouldn’t help. “Well, I am making that call.” Her voice wavered, but her resolve did not. “Now.”

  At first she thought he was going to reach out and grab her. And maybe part of her wished that he would. But instead he fisted his hands to his hips and held her in the most gut-ripping gaze she’d ever experienced. Then without a word, he shook his head and turned and walked away.

  As she watched him get into his Jeep, her heart broke, just a very little bit. Just enough to send pain arcing through her.

  Just enough to send her to her knees.

  The sounds of New York’s Fifth Avenue still lived in Cara’s blood. Ambivalence settled in her as she walked along the busy street. She passed familiar landmarks, places she’d spent much of the early years of her life—the private school she’d attended near the park, the stable where she’d learned to ride, the bagel shop, the Madison Avenue boutiques her mother had dragged her to.

  For many, living in New York was a good life, the life they sought to make for themselves. Some twist of genes or fate kept her from being one of them.

  She rubbed at her neck. She’d tried to sleep on the plane, but the memory of the look on Ryan’s face sliced through even her most well-practiced meditation routines. So much for enlightenment.

  Cara turned the corner at Sixtieth Street. The familiar red awning of the Metropolitan Club stretched out, welcoming the privileged few who had the pedigree, influence and wealth to pass under it. The club’s wrought-iron and gilded gates flanked gleaming marble columns that stood, stately as ever, like old actors always ready to play their parts in an ongoing drama.

  Maybe there wouldn’t be too much drama today.

  Right.

  Since it was her family gathering, how likely was that? And though she’d angled for another meeting place, her father had sloughed off her suggestion. Maybe she was paranoid, but the Metropolitan Club was favored by athletes. She’d checked the Giants schedule; they were in town, playing the Mets. But of course she was being ridiculous. Ryan wasn’t a member; the Club hadn’t accepted a new member in four years. Besides, it wasn’t the sort of place Ryan would favor. Too stuffy and far from the downtown hotels.

  The doorman recognized her and tilted his cap.

  “Haven’t seen you around much, Miss Barrington.”

  “I’ve been away, Jasper. How’s your boy?”

  The smile he beamed warmed her. He was proud of his son.

  “He’s at USC, got a baseball scholarship. Not really a boy anymore.”

  Jasper held the door for her and for the woman behind her.

  “Caroline?”

  Cara turned. The woman’s voice was familiar, but Cara couldn’t place her face.

  “Olivia Astor,” the woman said, holding out her hand glittering with diamonds. “Ashley’s mother.”

  Ashley and Cara had been best friends at Brearley until they’d graduated and gone off to different universities. Mrs. Astor must’ve had a facelift; Cara barely recognized her.

  “How is Ashley?” Cara asked as she shook Mrs. Astor’s hand.

  “She’s in Paris. You two should get together when she comes home for Christmas. She’ll be thrilled to hear I ran into you.” She glanced at her watch. “I must hurry and eat, or I’ll be late for my hair appointment. See you at Christmas?”

  Cara just nodded. Parties like Mrs. Astor’s stuffy holiday celebration were just one of the many events she’d been happy to leave behind.

  Cara’s mother and father were already seated at their usual table when she walked into the dining room. The breeze from the open windows stirred the crystals of the chandeliers and sent waves of glittering light dancing in the opulently decorated room. Every color was muted, as if someone had taken a dab of sepia to a brush and coated everything in it. Even the sounds were muted, as if secrets were being told and no one was meant to hear them.

  “You’re so thin,” her mother said when Cara settled into the chair the waiter held for her.

  “And you look lovely as ever,” Cara said as she leaned forward and brushed a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Hi, Dad. No golf game today?”

  “I’ll play tomorrow. Alston insisted that we all get together.” He took a sip from his martini and sent the curl of lemon peel dancing in the glass.

  Her mother patted her hand. “What’s this Alston tells me about you not wanting to take over at the foundation?”

  “Rebecca.”

  Cara bristled. She hated it when her dad took on his arrogant, bossy tone. Especially when he used it on her mother.

  “We weren’t going to pressure her, remember?” He took a bigger sip of his martini. “I think you’ve made a good decision. Dray’s doing a great job. No need for you to wrestle with all that.”

  Her mother toyed with her salad fork. Cara could tell that the position her father had taken regarding her grandfather’s foundation didn’t sit well with her mother. Not much about her father sat well with her mother these days. Ever since her mother had gone back to school and earned her counseling degree, there’d been tension in the family. He didn’t like that she worked, much less that she was a psychologist. In his mind there was nothing classy about the profession.

  “We should discuss Cara’s plans,” her mother said.

  “If Cara wants to stay holed up in a godforsaken backwater town, it’s her business.”

  For once her dad was right. But he rarely took a hands-off position toward her or her brother. Maybe Alston was right. Maybe Dray Bender did have something on her dad. Something serious. And maybe her mother had no clue.

  “I told Alston and I’m telling you both now—I’ll think about what I want to do about the foundation, okay?” Cara sipped from her water glass. New York might be a crowded, noisy, busy city, but it had great water. It came straight down from the Adirondacks and it was delicious. Well water from Albion Bay never tasted good.

  “What’s Bender’s focus for the foundation?” She watched her dad take in her question.

  “Pharmaceuticals,” he answered in a short tone. “Saving lives. That sort of thing.”

  “You mean funding research?”

  “Something like that.”

  Cara knew then that her father had no idea what Dray Bender was funding. And evidently didn’t want to know. Alston’s suspicion was taking hold in her. She’d discovered that what happened to her grandfather’s legacy was important to her. She’d read through the last ten years of grants from a list that Alston had provided. Grandpa had prided himself on making grants that made a difference, that actually changed lives. And she’d seen first-hand the impact that pivotal funding could make in a community that needed it. But she wasn’t going to get anywhere questioning her father.

  Cara nodded to the empty seat beside her. “Where’s Quinn?”

  “China,” her father answered flatly.

  “He’s investigating a project in a southern mountain province,” her mother said. Cara heard the touch of pride in her voice. “Children from the mountain villages live too far from the schools in the valleys. I think Quinn said it was a three-hour journey over treacherous roads, roads that aren’t even passable in the winters. The project provides housing and food for the mountain children, so they can live in the villages and get an education. Quinn wanted to personally see where the money was being used.” She shot a look at Cara’s father. “Personally. Up close.”

  Cara’s father raised his empty glass and instantly a waiter brought another chilled martini.

  “I didn�
�t raise children to have them running off to all ends of the earth,” her father said.

  “Last I checked, California was still a state in the union.” Cara bit back her retort about China. Her father’s class prejudices were topped only by his deeply rooted racism.

  “By the way, your father and I are coming out for Thanksgiving. No arguments, Cara. You may not understand it, but I want to see your place.” She tapped Cara’s hand again. “It’s a mother’s duty to make sure her children are well situated.”

  “I don’t have a guest room,” Cara said, grasping at any excuse to keep her parents away from her world.

  “They do have hotels in your town, don’t they?” her mother said with a wink. When Cara shook her head, she added, “Well, we can stay at the Mark Hopkins in the city. There’s an impressionist exhibit at the Legion that I’m dying to see.”

  “All I need is the two of you traipsing around Albion Bay. It’d take less than an hour for you to wreck what I’ve spent three years carving out for myself.”

  “That’s ridiculous darling. We know how to be subtle. Your father prides himself on his diplomacy. We’ll be discreet.”

  A waiter brought bread and olive oil to the table. Cara didn’t reach for it as she usually did. The idea of having her parents roaming around her world made her stomach contract just at the thought.

  Her father lit up. “I’m sending that little painting out next week,” he said with a smile. He smiled so rarely, Cara wanted to nod in agreement. But she didn’t. And when he saw her open her mouth, he said, “No, I won’t hear any argument. It’s yours and you should have it. It’s small; surely you’ll find a good place for it.”

  Little painting.

  It was a Renoir. Unsigned, but a Renoir all the same. It was unusual and would’ve been a key piece in the exhibit her mother was talking about. But she had to pick her battles, and this was one she wouldn’t win. And he was right; the landscape had been a favorite since she was old enough to say so. She’d just have to tuck it away upstairs.

  “Langley Terrence asked about you.” Her father slanted her a look over the rim of his martini. “He’s throwing a party this week to christen his new yacht, and he specifically asked me to invite you. Now there’s a good man.”

  Langley Terrence had nearly spent through his fortune before he’d left Harvard. Cara knew too well why he was interested in her. Escaping the pursuit of those sorts of men was one reason she’d fled New York. She was beginning to question her father’s discernment in any matter, particularly his ability to size up people and their motivations.

  “I’m leaving at seven thirty tonight,” Cara said.

  “I was hoping you’d stay at least through the weekend,” her mother said.

  “I have a bus run early Monday morning.”

  “Ridiculous.” Her father scowled. “You don’t need a job.”

  “Russell, stop. Cara has her reasons, even if you don’t understand them.” She turned to Cara. “But I do hope you’ll take an interest in the foundation. You could do so much good.”

  “Now it’s you who’s meddling, Rebecca,” her dad said.

  Clearly he didn’t want Cara anywhere near the foundation. Yet his put-offs were inciting not only her curiosity, but a deeper, heartfelt concern for her grandfather’s vision. A vision her father clearly did not share.

  Cara suddenly realized that this emergency meeting was Alston’s way of making her face those facts. For a mild-mannered guy, Alston was a surprising master strategist. She should’ve felt irritated with him, but she wasn’t. She smiled to herself, making a note to surprise him with an unusual gift for his insights.

  “I think you’d make an excellent president,” her mother said. “It makes a difference to have something meaningful to do every day.” She looked over to Cara’s father, whose scowl had deepened. “Your father doesn’t understand, but I do.”

  “Driving the bus means something to me.” Cara picked at her food and then gave up and set her fork aside.

  “We can talk it over later,” her mother said in a firm tone as the waiter cleared their plates. Her mother was all family counselor in that moment, and Cara was surprised to see her dad settle back in his chair and drop the subject. Maybe there was hope for them.

  The waiter brought dessert menus. Her dad listened as the man rattled off the specials and then ordered the crème brûlée. “But don’t bring any coffee.” He turned to Cara. “The coffee here is undrinkable. Apparently the good people who run this place want to keep it that way.”

  “I think I’ll skip desert,” Cara said. “I might hit traffic on the expressway.”

  As she stood to exit the dining room, she thought she saw Alex Tavonesi walk in with Ryan and another man. Her pulse rocketed to a racing beat, and she ducked back into her seat, hoping neither of them had seen her.

  Of course the Tavonesis would be members; most prominent families on the West Coast had memberships in New York clubs as well.

  “Is something wrong, darling?” The look of concern on her mother’s face was genuine.

  “No, I’m just dizzy. I must’ve stood too quickly.”

  “You don’t eat enough, Cara. It’s not good for you. You hardly touched your meal.”

  Who could eat with the two of them trying to move her around like a pawn on a chessboard?

  “I’m fine, Mother. Really.”

  Cara glanced across the room. The waiter had seated Ryan and Alex with their backs to her, just past a bank of potted palms. Explaining what she was doing in the most expensive, exclusive club in New York was a scene she had to avoid. When Ryan picked up his menu, she kissed her mother on the cheek, nodded to her father and fled. At the entrance to the dining room, she darted a quick glance back over her shoulder. Through the screen of the palms she saw Ryan stand up and stride toward the dining room entrance.

  She practically ran to the street entrance of the club, grateful that Jasper always kept a cab waiting for members in a hurry. As the cab pulled away, she looked back and saw Ryan exit the club and look up and down the street. Her heart didn’t slow its pace until the cab reached the midtown tunnel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rising sun sent shafts of light through his house as Ryan stumbled toward his kitchen. If the damned espresso machine didn’t cooperate, he’d have no time to linger over breakfast at the diner as he liked to do. And he’d have to make cowboy coffee in a pan like he used to do back in Texas.

  He glanced out the window and saw two trucks down at the barns.

  The first of the rescue donkeys would arrive in ten days. He’d asked if the donkey rescue center could hold off until the end of baseball season, but the guy just said if he didn’t make space for seven more animals that next week, they’d be snuffed. Animals and ranchers didn’t give a damn about his baseball schedule.

  He loaded coffee into the fancy filter and levered it onto the machine, just like Cara had shown him the day she’d visited. The day her kisses had screwed with his brain. Actually screwed with more than his brain. He’d been having dreams again. On the team plane back from New York last night he’d dreamed she’d lured him into a New York City penthouse and had done all sorts of edgy, ball-rocking things to him. He’d met her moves and raised the ante, exploring her body and making her wait until she was speechless with throbbing desire. In his dream he’d loved her as she should be loved: slowly, thoroughly and completely. When the flight attendant woke him to fasten his seat belt for landing in San Francisco, he hoped she hadn’t seen the very real signs of his arousal. Her sultry smile told him that maybe she had.

  Since the day Cara had basically shoved him out of her life, he’d run every moment he’d had with her over in his mind multiple times. She hadn’t said he wasn’t what she wanted, not outright. But her push-away could’ve been a face-saving way of telling him he wasn’t the sort of man who lit her fire.

  But he didn’t believe it.

  He’d felt the energy pulsing between them when they’d ha
d sex. He’d felt the power of their kisses. He might like the rational, but he knew the forces that drove rationality were mysterious and powerful. Forces that maybe he couldn’t explain, but that he trusted. And he trusted her, her responses. She wasn’t a woman who could fake her response to anything.

  He’d just have to find a way to win her.

  He’d start with something simple. He knew from looking around her place that she liked pretty things. He’d buy her something to brighten up her place. At least it would be an excuse to see her again.

  The light on the espresso machine glowed a dull red. It took only three minutes to heat, but it felt like an age.

  The pain in his shoulder had returned, and he’d fought through a sleepless night. He wasn’t superstitious, but after two bummer games against the Mets, he was having a hard time fighting off superstitious impulses. His defense in both games had been good. He’d snagged balls that would’ve been home runs, made plays that had even the Mets fans roaring with respect.

  But he hadn’t hit worth a damn. He tried drilling up his mental game, practiced calling up the good, but every time he did, there was Cara floating like some sort of Disney hologram in front of him.

  And his mind was playing other tricks on him as well. He’d been sure he’d seen her in New York, but knew even as he’d chased after the woman leaving the Metropolitan Club that he was being ridiculous. What would Cara be doing at a high-end place like that?

  The espresso machine sputtered. He grabbed a towel and stood back, prepared to smack it down if necessary. To his great relief, the machine spewed thick, dark coffee into his cup. He grabbed it and headed for his barn.

  Adam Mitchell’s beat-up truck was parked next to that of his contractor from the city. He had nothing against Adam, other than the fact that he was sniffing around Cara. And this week he needed the guy’s fine skill and efficient work.

  Ryan kicked at a stone in his path. He might not have any right to wish that other men didn’t take an interest in Cara, but he wished it anyway.