"No, absolutely not. I know it was an accident. It had to be. It just had to be." She shook her head. "I thought we were talking about you and Antonio."
"There is no me and Antonio -- not yet anyway." She plunged ahead before Rachel could respond. "So what will you do now? Did Dylan have any ideas?"
"I'm not sure I can work with Dylan on this."
"Why not? I know you never liked him, but he was Gary's best friend."
"It's not that I don't like him. It's just…
"Just what?"
"I'm not sure I can trust him."
"Do you need to trust him to get answers?"
Rachel hesitated, her eyes troubled. "I have to know the truth, Carly, whatever it is. I'm not sure Dylan will tell me the truth, not if it could hurt Gary's reputation in any way."
"Hurt his reputation? How?"
Rachel looked away. Her usually unreadable face was clearly lined with worry.
Her heart sank. "You think Gary was having –"
"Don't say it," Rachel warned, cutting her off with steel determination in her eyes.
"But you're thinking it."
"No. I'm not."
"Then what are you thinking? I want to help you, Rachel, but I have no idea what's going through your head."
"I know you want to help, but you can't. As for what I'm thinking -- right now I'm thinking I never should have gone to San Francisco. I never should have contacted Dylan."
"Because ..." Carly prodded.
"Because he's going to make it harder. He's going to make it a lot harder."
* * *
Dylan woke up the next morning with the same thought he'd had when he'd gone to bed. He wished Rachel had never come to the city, never told him the suspicion that Gary's death wasn't an accident, never gone to the apartment, never stood so close to him. Damn it all. Why couldn't he be free of her? It was as if someone had cast a spell over him ten years ago and he couldn't break it. Keeping his distance certainly hadn't done the trick. Maybe if he'd spent time with her over the years, gotten to know her better, he wouldn't like her so much. Maybe more familiarity would have bred more contempt. Maybe he was kidding himself.
Rachel had a piece of his heart and always would. Deep down, he knew it wasn't just Rachel who had gotten to him all those years ago; it was the life she represented: the happy, meddling family in which everyone loved each other no matter what; the big old house with the long, wide porch and the swing on which she and Gary watched the sunset or, better yet, watched their little boy playing on the lawn. That was the last image Dylan had of the three of them together. After that night, he'd promised himself he'd never go back, because it hurt too damn much.
He'd always wanted a family like that. He'd had one once, when he was a child, until everything had broken apart. So how could he begrudge Gary the family he'd always wanted?
For he and Gary, two kids from broken homes, had both seen a future in Rachel's eyes, only Gary had seen that future first and grabbed it. Now that he was gone ... well, some men might have considered trying to step into that empty space, to take what they'd always wanted. But not him. He'd been second best before, tolerated, liked but not loved, not wanted, not really wanted. And he deserved that, dammit. He deserved that.
Rachel might be back in his life now, but she wanted his help -- she didn't want him. And he couldn't forget that. He'd promised to help her, too. For Gary's sake, he told himself for the hundredth time. Not because he wanted to spend time with Rachel, but because he wanted to clear Gary's name. He wanted his friend to rest in peace, so he'd keep his promise. Then he'd say good-bye to Rachel and never look back.
With new resolve, Dylan got dressed, then went downstairs to Gary's apartment. The perfume bottle called to him like a beacon in the night. He found himself standing in front of it, staring at it as if it would suddenly speak some truth. But there was nothing except silence in the bedroom. He had no idea whom the perfume belonged to. Even if Gary had had some woman in the apartment, it didn't mean he'd had an affair. It certainly didn't mean he'd killed himself.
In fact, Dylan still couldn't wrap his mind around that possibility. Gary had come from a troubled background, but unlike Dylan, who tended to hold everything inside, every hurt, every slight, every word of anger, Gary had always been able to let things go. He'd been the one to tell Dylan not to take life too seriously, to live in the moment, to forget about the past and stop worrying about the future.
So why would a man who wanted to live only in the now kill himself?
Had Gary changed over the years? Had he missed some sign that something was wrong with his best friend? They hadn't seen each other much in the months before Gary's death. Work and other commitments had kept them moving in different directions. A distance had developed in their friendship, which he now deeply regretted.
His gaze turned away from the perfume bottle to the dresser below. He didn't want to go through Gary's drawers, but it would be him or it would be Rachel. He had a feeling that Gary, if given the choice, would prefer him to do it.
Pushing the last bit of doubt out of his mind, he opened the first drawer, then the second and the third. He was relieved to find nothing but clothes. He was about to shove the last drawer closed when he realized that the piece of clothing sticking out was lace, white lace, female white lace. Oh, Lord!
He pulled it out like it was a bomb about to explode in his face. And in truth it was a bomb, a ticking time bomb, for he couldn't think of one good reason why Gary would have female white lace apparel in his sock drawer.
Dylan sat down on the floor. He leaned against the bed, holding the piece of lingerie in his hand. If Rachel saw this, she'd freak. And what if there was more? What should he do? Throw it away, pretend it didn't exist? Stuff it into a box with everything else and ship it to Rachel?
Wait. Maybe it was Rachel's. She must have spent at least one night at the apartment.
Before he could come up with an answer, his cell phone rang. For a panicked moment he thought it might be Rachel, but she didn't have his number. "Yes," he said warily.
"Hi, boss. Sleeping late?"
He blew out a breath of relief at the sound of Connie's voice. "I had some things to do this morning. I'll be in later."
"How much later? You have a lunch meeting at twelve with the architects from Martel and Howard."
"Cancel it. I have something more pressing to take care of."
"Anything I can help you with?"
"I don't think so."
"Does it have to do with Rachel Tanner?" Connie asked cautiously. "Yesterday I tried to warn you she was on her way to see you. I didn't tell her where you were, but she got the information out of the temporary receptionist."
"It doesn't matter. I needed to talk to her anyway."
"Which is why you avoided her calls the last few days." His assistant, a forty-something mother of four, was too perceptive sometimes.
"Yeah, well, she found me, so that's that. There is one thing you can do. Find a moving company willing to box up an apartment and ship everything to Sebastopol ASAP."
"Gary's apartment?"
"Yeah."
"Is there much to pack?"
He fingered the lace teddy. "There's enough." He paused. "You knew Gary pretty well, didn't you?"
"I like to think so."
"Do you think he was acting differently before he died?" Connie didn't answer right away, and his suspicious antennae went up. "Well? Don't hold out on me. It's important."
"Why would it be important now?"
"It just is."
"Gary said someone had recently come back into his life," Connie finally replied. "He wasn't sure how he felt about it."
"A woman?"
"He didn't say. Why?"
"I can't tell you why. It probably doesn't matter anyway."
"He was a good guy, too young to die, that's for sure. How's Rachel holding up?"
"All right. Are you sure Gary didn't say who the person was who'd come bac
k into his life?"
"No. He just made some joke and changed the subject and that was that. I only remember the conversation because I thought at the time how rare it was for Gary to speak seriously about anything. He was such a joker and probably the biggest flirt on the West Coast. I miss his phone calls. And I really do feel sorry for his wife and child. I wonder what happened to that house they were building."
He had no idea what Gary had done with the plans for Rachel's dream house, as he'd called it. In fact, Dylan had tried not to think about it. Just hearing about the house had made him realize that he had to draw a line somewhere. He could be supportive of their marriage, but he sure as hell couldn't build their dream house.
"So when will you be in, boss?" Connie asked.
"Not for a couple of days," he said, making a sudden decision.
"You're taking a vacation? Hold on, I may have to faint. I don't think you've taken a sick day in the last five years."
"Then I'm due. Tell Tom he's in charge. But tell him I will be back, so he shouldn't get any big ideas about redecorating my office."
"He is ambitious."
"A young hotshot," he agreed. Tom Landers had joined his company right after college, and for the past four years he'd worked his way up to become Dylan's right-hand man. It was Tom who'd encouraged him to go after bigger and bigger jobs, including the skyscraper in L.A., and Dylan had to give the younger man credit for always wanting to shoot the moon. Like himself, Tom was single, no family or kids to think about. They had no reason not to go for everything they could get. Because what else was there, really?
"So where will you be if I need you?"
"Sebastopol."
"Really? Is that wise?"
He uttered a short little laugh. "No, I think it's damn stupid, but I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it."
* * *
The drive north gave Dylan a dozen chances to reconsider his decision, but he hadn't gotten where he was in life by allowing himself to get sidetracked. Right now he had to focus on helping Rachel learn the truth about Gary's death. Then they could all get on with their lives.
In the backseat of his car, he'd placed a couple of boxes filled with Gary's personal papers and other small trinkets he'd found in the apartment. The movers would bring the rest of the furniture next week. The white lace teddy he'd stuffed into his own bag. He'd keep it there for the time being. There was no point in throwing more fuel on the fire. They needed to move slowly, think matters through, talk to Gary's other friends and associates and figure out what to do next.
As the freeway turned to highway, and the city sights gave way to rolling green hills, his resolve began to weaken. This was Rachel's turf. He didn't belong here. It was too quiet. There wasn't enough traffic. There weren't enough buildings. There were too many damn trees. Apple trees, probably, he thought with a scowl.
He hadn't been able to look at an apple without seeing Rachel at nineteen, standing in the middle of a ridiculous fruit stand wearing cutoff blue jeans and a bright yellow tank top. She'd had a golden tan, flowing blond hair and a wide-eyed, innocent smile that promised the world.
He'd tried to get that image out of his head for years, but it kept coming back. He had a feeling it was indelibly printed on his brain. He'd had other women in his life, quite a few other women, if the truth be told. Only one or two of whom he could remember now, but none who stood out so vividly.
Looking out the window of the car, he tried to distract himself. He saw a structure up on a small hill and realized the worst was yet to come. Off to the left side of the empty road that led to Rachel's apple farm was the beginning of a house, a framing, a skeleton of what was to come. His heart skipped a beat. It was Rachel's dream house. Dammit. It was the last thing he wanted to see.
But he found himself slowing down, and when the driveway appeared, he took the turn. He drove up the dirt road toward the front of the structure, shut off the engine and stepped out.
Even though only the bare bones were there, he could see how the house would look when it was finished. It would be spectacular, proud and grand, the way a house should be. There would be a big porch, perfect for some comfortable chairs. He turned his head to look out at the valley that spread before him: vineyards, trees and wildflowers. It was a stunningly peaceful sight, but Gary wouldn't be here to appreciate it. Rachel would sit on the porch alone.
His stomach turned over, and he knew he had to leave, but then he heard the sound of hammering coming from the back. The knocks were short, then fast. A board clattered to the ground. He didn't see any cars, although he supposed there could be someone around the back. In fact, there should be lots of someones. The house should be going up. He wondered why construction had stopped. Had Rachel run out of money? She'd mentioned something about missing cash. He wondered now how much cash. But that would have to wait. Right now he wanted to find out who was hammering like a five-year-old.
He went up the front steps and through the various rooms, turning a corner, only to stop dead in his tracks. It wasn't a five-year-old hammering, but it was close.
Wesley!
When the boy turned his head, Dylan could have sworn he was looking at Gary, a younger Gary, the boy he'd first met at the age of eleven ...
"Hey, there," Dylan said, clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly as he tried to think of what to say.
Wesley stared at him, blond hair, blue eyes, freckles -- Gary's face. The sight almost made Dylan lose it. He struggled for control, composure.
"Who are you?" Wesley asked.
"I'm Dylan. Do you remember me? I'm a friend of your dad's. I was at one of your birthday parties, the one where the clown came and did the juggling act. I think you were turning five."
Wesley slowly nodded, looking a little less uneasy.
"I don't see your mom around. Is she here?"
Wesley didn't answer, just shrugged.
"So what are you doing?" he asked.
"Building my house."
He squatted down in front of the boy, giving him a friendly smile. "It looks pretty good. I'm a builder, too, you know."
"You are?"
"Yes, I am. Is that your hammer?"
Wesley flushed somewhat guiltily. "Yeah."
"It's kind of big, don't you think?"
"It's okay. I have to go back to work now."
"Maybe you could use some help."
Wesley shook his head. "We can't afford any help, not until my daddy comes back."
His heart stopped. Did Wesley really think his father was coming back?
"He's coming home when it's done," Wesley said fiercely, as if anticipating an argument. "He said we would live in the house together all the time, just like a real family. He promised."
He had no idea what to say, but thankfully, he heard the slamming of a car door and a very familiar, worried voice.
"Wesley! Wesley!" Rachel yelled.
"He's back here," Dylan replied.
Rachel came around the corner with a shocked look on her face. He didn't know if she was more surprised to find him or Wesley.
"What are you doing here?" she asked as he got to his feet.
"I was on my way to your place. I saw this house, and I had a feeling ..."
She frowned and glanced over at Wesley. "And what are you doing here? I told you to stay on our property."
"This is our property."
"You knew what I meant. I don't want you coming over the hill on your own. And I certainly don't want you here alone."
"I'm working on the house. Someone has to," Wesley said defiantly. "Else Daddy can't come back and live with us."
Dylan heard her sharp intake of breath, but he had to give her credit for holding it together.
"I told you that I'll hire someone to finish the house as soon as we get through the harvest season," she said.
"That's too long. Don't you want Daddy to come home?"
"Of course I do. But he's not coming back. He's in heaven. You know that, Wesley."
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"No, he's not in heaven. He's on a trip and he's coming back when the house is finished. We have to finish it. We have to." Wesley picked up the oversized hammer and swung it down so close to his fingers that Dylan had to react. He grabbed the hammer from Wesley before he could strike again, but the boy's eyes filled with outrage and unbearable pain.
"I'll finish the house," Dylan heard himself say "I'll finish it for you, Wesley."
"Dylan, don't," Rachel said. "Don't make a promise you can't keep."
"I never do," he replied, making a sudden decision.
"You will?" Wesley asked hopefully "You'll finish the house?"
"Yes."
"Wait a second," Rachel interrupted. "Slow down. I can't pay you, Dylan. I don't have the money. That's why I stopped the construction."
"You don't have to pay me. I want to do it -- not for you, for Wesley."
Rachel looked at her son, who was listening intently to their conversation. "Go get in the car, Wesley."
"But -- "
"Now," she said in a mother's tone that allowed no argument.
"You promised," Wesley told Dylan. "Don't forget."
"I won't."
"Are you crazy?" she asked as soon as Wesley was out of earshot. "You can't finish this house."
"Why can't I?"
"Because, because ..." She waved her hand in the air, searching for words. "Gary said you didn't want to work on it. He offered you the job a long time ago. You said no."
"I've changed my mind."
"Why?"
"Because I want to do something. I need to do something," he said, realizing how true that was. "And this I can do."
"But you have other jobs -- "
"And lots of employees."
"This could take weeks."
He nodded slowly as reality seeped into his brain. Maybe he was crazy, volunteering to work on a house that was just down the road from where Rachel lived. She'd no doubt be by all the time. Well, what did it matter? Whether she was down the road or an hour away, he'd probably still be thinking about her. And now that he'd seen the house, just begging to be finished, he couldn't walk away. He had to finish it. He would make Wesley happy and maybe, somewhere, Gary would be happy, too. Gary had wanted Dylan to work on the house all along.
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