by Nora Roberts
“There’s nothing to talk about. I could and did tolerate indifference. I could and did tolerate his utter lack of affection and respect for me and my feelings. But I won’t tolerate, not for an instant, his lying and his lack of fidelity. He might think that boinking his secretary is simply his droit de signor. He’s going to find out different.”
“Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“It’s the way it’s going to be. My marriage is over.” She looked down into her brandy, saw nothing. “And that’s that.”
The stubborn streak was classic Templeton, Margo thought. Carefully, she tapped out her cigarette, touched a hand to Laura’s rigid one. “Honey, you know it won’t be that easy—legally or emotionally.”
“I’ll do whatever I have to do, but I won’t play the easily deceived society wife any longer.”
“And the girls?”
“I’ll make it up to them.” Somehow. Some way. “I’ll make it right for them.” Little tongues of fear licked at her, and she ignored them. “I can’t do anything else.”
“All right. I’m behind you all the way. Look, I’m going to go down and scare up some food. Kate’s going to be starving when she gets here.”
“Kate’s not coming here tonight. She always falls into bed for twenty-four hours after the tax deadline.”
“She’ll be here,” Margo promised.
“You’d think I was on my deathbed,” Laura muttered. “All right, I’ll make sure her room’s ready. And yours. We’ll put some sandwiches together.”
“I’ll put some sandwiches together. You worry about the rooms.” Which would, Margo thought as she hurried out, give her enough time to pump her mother for information.
She found Ann exactly where she’d expected to, in the kitchen, already arranging cold cuts and raw vegetables.
“I don’t have much time,” Margo began and headed directly for the coffeepot. “She’ll be down in a minute. She’s not really all right, is she?”
“She’s coping. She won’t talk about it, hasn’t yet contacted her parents.”
“The scum, the slime.” Her legs wobbled with fatigue and made it hard to storm around the kitchen, but Margo gave it her best shot. “And that little slut of a secretary putting in overtime.” She broke off when she caught her mother’s eye. “All right, I wasn’t much better when it came to Alain. And maybe believing he was working out a divorce isn’t any excuse, but at least his wife’s family wasn’t cutting my paychecks.” She drank the coffee black to fuel her system. “You can lecture me on my sins later. Right now I’m concerned about Laura.”
A mother’s sharp eye noted the signs of exhaustion and worry. “I’m not going to lecture you. It never did any good when you were a child and it would hardly do any good now. You go your own way, Margo, you always did. But your way has brought you here when a friend needs you.”
“Does she? She was always the strong one. The good one,” she added with a wry smile. “The kind one.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who feels despair when the world falls apart around you? Who wants to pull the covers over her head instead of facing tomorrow?”
A quick flare of temper made Ann slam down the loaf of bread. Oh, she was tired, and heartsick, and her emotions were bouncing like a rubber ball from joy that her daughter was home, misery for Laura, and frustration at not knowing what to do for either of them.
“She’s afraid and full of guilt and worry. It’s only going to get worse for her.” She pressed her lips together but couldn’t settle herself. “Her home is broken, and whether you can see it or not, so is her heart. It’s time you paid back some of what she’s always given to you, and help her mend it.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” Margo tossed back. “I dropped everything I was doing and flew six thousand miles to help her.”
“A noble gesture.” Ann’s sharp, accusing eyes pinned her daughter. “You’ve always had a knack for the grand gesture, Margo, but holding fast takes something more. How long will you stay this time? A day, a week? How long before you’re too restless to stick it out? Before the effort of caring for someone else becomes an inconvenience? Before you rush back to your glamorous life, where you don’t have to think about anyone but yourself?”
“Well.” Because her hand was unsteady, Margo set the cup down. “Why don’t you get the rest of it out, Mum? Sounds like you’ve stored plenty.”
“Oh, it’s easy for you, isn’t it, to come and go on a whim? Sending postcards and presents, as if that made up for your turning your back on everything real you’ve been given.”
Ann’s own worries acted as an impetus for resentments harbored for years. They spewed out before she could stop them, splattering them both with bitterness.
“You grew up in this house pretending you weren’t the daughter of a servant, and Miss Laura treated you always as a sister. Who sent you money after you’d run off? Who used her influence to get you your first photo shoot? Who was there for you, always?” she demanded, stacking slices of bread like a irate cardsharp. “But have you been there for her? These past few years when she’s been struggling to hold her family together, when she’s been lonely and sad, were you there for her?”
“How could I have known?”
“Because Miss Kate would have told you. And if you hadn’t been so wrapped up in Margo Sullivan, you’d have listened.”
“I’ve never been what you wanted,” Margo said wearily. “I’ve never been Laura. And I can’t be.”
Now guilt layered onto weariness and worry. “No one’s asked you to be someone you’re not.”
“Haven’t you, Mum? If I could have been kinder, more generous like Laura, more sensible, more practical like Kate. Do you think I didn’t know that, didn’t feel that from you every day of my life?”
Shocked and baffled, Ann shook her head. “Maybe if you’d been more satisfied with what you had and what you were, instead of running away from it, you’d have been happier.”
“Maybe if you’d ever looked at me and been satisfied with what I was, I wouldn’t have run so far, and so fast.”
“I won’t take the blame for how you’ve lived your life, Margo.”
“No, I’ll take it.” Why not? she thought. There was so much on her debit side already, a little more would hardly matter. “I’ll take the blame and the glory. That way I don’t need your approval.”
“I’ve never known you to ask for it.” Ann strode out of the room and left Margo to stew.
She gave it three days. It was odd. They had never actually lived together in the house as adults. At eighteen Laura had gotten married, Margo had run to Hollywood, and Kate, always struggling to leap over that single year’s age difference, had graduated early and bolted to Harvard.
Now they settled in. Kate used the excuse that she didn’t have the energy to drive back to her apartment in Monterey, and Margo claimed to be marking time. She decided her mother had been right about some things. Laura was coping. But the difficult situation was only going to get worse. Already visitors were dropping by. Mostly the country club set, Margo noted, sniffing for gossip on the breakup of the Templeton-Ridgeway merger.
One night Margo found Kayla camped outside Laura’s bedroom door because she was afraid her mama might go away too.
That was when she stopped believing it would settle down and she would go back to Milan. Her mother was right about something more, she’d decided. It was time for Margo Sullivan to hold fast and to pay back what had been given to her. She called Josh.
“It’s six o’clock in the morning,” he complained when she tracked him down at Templeton Stockholm. “Don’t tell me you’ve become that monster of civilized society, Margo—the morning person.”
“Listen up. I’m at Templeton House.”
“That’s all right then. It’s the shank of the evening there. What do you mean you’re at Templeton House?” he demanded when his brain cleared. “What the hell are you doing in California? You’re supposed to
be putting a business together in Milan.”
She took a moment. It would be, she realized, the first time she’d said it aloud. The first time she would acknowledge the loss of one part of her life.
“I’m not going back to Milan. At least not anytime soon.” As his voice exploded in her ear with questions, accusations, she watched one dream fade away. She hoped she could replace it with another. “Just be quiet a minute, would you?” she ordered with a snap. “I need you to do something, whatever it is that needs to be done, to have my things shipped here.”
“Your things?”
“Most of it’s boxed up anyway, but the rest will have to be packed. Templeton must have a service for that kind of thing.”
“Sure, but—”
“I’ll pay you back, Josh, but I don’t know who to call and I just can’t handle the extra expense just now. The plane fare cut into my resources.”
Typical, Josh thought and jammed a pillow behind his back. Just typical. “Then why the hell did you buy a plane ticket to California?”
“Because Peter was diddling his secretary and Laura’s divorcing him.”
“You can’t just go flying off whenever— What the hell did you say?”
“You heard me. She’s filed for divorce. I don’t think he’s going to fight it, but I can’t imagine the whole thing is going to be friendly, either. She’s trying to handle too much of it on her own, and I’ve decided I’m not going to let her.”
“Let me talk to her. Put her on.”
“She’s asleep.” If Laura had been wide awake and standing by her side, she wouldn’t have handed the phone over. The icy violence in Josh’s voice stabbed over the line. “She had another session with the lawyer today, and it upset her. The best solution all around is for me to stay here. I’m going to ask her to help me find the right location for the shop. It’ll take some of this off her mind. Laura’s always better at worrying about someone else than she is at worrying about herself.”
“You’re going to stay in California?”
“I won’t have to worry about the VAT tax or Italian law, will I?” She felt hateful tears of self-pity sting her eyes and ruthlessly blinked them back. To ensure that her voice remained brisk and steady, she set her teeth. “Speaking of law, can I give you power of attorney, or whatever it’s called? I need you to sell my flat, transfer funds, all those little legal details.”
Details of what she was planning ran through and boggled his mind. Had he thought typical? he mused. Nothing about Margo was ever typical. “I’ll draft one up and fax it there. You can sign it, fax it back to me at Templeton Milan. Where the hell is Ridgeway?”
“Rumor is he’s still at the penthouse.”
“We’ll soon fix that.”
Personally, she appreciated the cold viciousness in his voice, but. . . “Josh, I’m not sure Laura would want you rousting him out at this point.”
“I outrank Laura in the Templeton feeding chain. I’ll take care of the shipment as soon as I can. Are there any surprises I should be prepared for?”
Her American Express bill had arrived just before she’d left. She decided he didn’t need another shock just then. “No, nothing worth mentioning. I’m sorry to dump this on you, Josh. I mean that, but I don’t know how else to stay here with Laura and get this shop up and running before I’m shipped off to debtors’ prison.”
“Don’t worry about it. Chaos is my business.” He imagined her leaving everything in that chaos to rush off to support a friend. Loyalty, he thought, was and always had been her most admirable quality. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m good. And still untouched,” she added. “Are you alone in that bed?”
“Except for the six members of the all-girl Swedish volleyball team. Helga’s got a hell of a spike. Aren’t you going to ask what I’m wearing?”
“Black Speedos, sweat, and a big smile.”
“How’d you guess? So, what are you wearing?”
Slowly, she ran her tongue around her teeth. “Oh, just this little . . . very little . . . white lace teddy.”
“And stiletto heels.”
“Naturally. With a pair of sheer hose. They have little pink roses around the tops. It matches the one I’m tucking between my breasts right now. I should add I’ve just gotten out of the tub. I’m still a little . . . wet.”
“Jesus. You’re too good at this. I’m hanging up.”
Her response was a long, throaty laugh. “I’m going to love driving that Jag. Let me know when to expect the shipment.”
When the phone clicked in her ear, she laughed again, turned, and found herself nearly face to face with Kate. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to be confused. Were you just having phone sex with Josh? Our Josh?”
Carelessly, Margo brushed her hair behind her ear. “It was more foreplay really. Why?”
“Okay.” She’d have to give that one some thought. “Now what is this about getting a shop up and running?”
“My, my, you do have big ears, don’t you?” Margo tugged on them hard enough to make Kate yelp. “Well, sit down. I might as well tell you the master plan.”
Kate listened, her only comments the occasional grunt, snort, or mutter. “I suppose you’ve calculated start-up costs?”
“Ah—”
“Right. And you’ve looked into licenses, fees, applied for a tax number.”
“I have a few details to iron out,” Margo muttered. “And it’s just like you to toss cold water in my face.”
“Gee, and here I thought it was cool common sense.”
“Why shouldn’t I make a business out of selling my things?” Margo demanded. “What’s wrong with turning humiliation into an adventure? Just because I hadn’t thought about applying for some stupid tax number doesn’t mean I can’t pull this off.”
Sitting back, Kate tapped her fingertips together. It wasn’t an entirely insane idea, she mused. In fact, it had some solid financial merit. Liquidation of assets tied to old-fashioned free enterprise. Kate decided she could help iron out some of the details if Margo was truly set on giving capitalism a try. It would be risky, certainly, but then Margo had always been one for taking risks.
“You’re going to be a shopkeeper?”
Eyes bland, Margo studied her manicure. “I’m thinking of it more as a consultant position.”
“Margo Sullivan,” Kate marveled, “selling used clothes and knickknacks.”
“Objets d’art.”
“Whatever.” Amused, Kate stretched out her legs, crossed them at the ankles. “It looks like hell has finally frozen over.”
Chapter Nine
Margo stood in front of the storefront on busy Cannery Row and knew this one was it. The wide display window glinted in the sun and was protected from the elements by a charming little covered veranda. Its door was beveled glass decorated with an etched bouquet of lilies. Old-fashioned brass fittings gleamed. The peaked roof was topped by rows of Spanish tile softened to pink by time and weather.
She could hear the tinny tune from a carousel, the harsh cry of gulls, and the busy chatter of tourists. Scents of cooking from the stands and open-air restaurants of Fisherman’s Wharf carried on the strong breeze flying off the water. Bicycles built for two clattered by.
Street traffic was a constant snarl, cars desperately seeking a parking spot they were unlikely to find in this busy tourist haven. Pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks, many with children who were either all eyes and grins or whining crankily.
There was movement everywhere. People and noise and action. The little shops lining the street, the restaurants and attractions, drew them day after day, month after month.
All the other buildings, the narrow storefronts, the empty storage rooms she’d viewed had just been steps, she thought, leading to this.
“It’s perfect,” she murmured.
“You haven’t even been inside,” Kate pointed out.
“I know it’s perfect. I
t’s mine.”
Kate exchanged a look with Laura. She had a pretty good idea what property rented for in this location. If you’re going to dream, she thought, dream big. But then, Margo always had.
“The realtor’s probably inside by now.” Arriving late was part of Margo’s strategy. She didn’t want to appear too eager. “Just let me do the talking.”
“Let her do the talking,” Kate muttered and rolled her eyes at Laura. “We’re going to have lunch after this one, right?” She could smell the frying fish and spicy sauces, aromas wafting down from Fisherman’s Wharf. Dull, nagging hunger pangs attacked her stomach. “This is the last one before lunch.”
“This is the only one.” Shoulders squared for battle, Margo stepped up to the door. She had to force herself not to snatch the For Rent sign away. Little frissons of possession were already sprinting along her spine. She didn’t question them, or the fact that she had certainly walked past this building countless times before and felt nothing.
She felt it now, and that was enough.
The main room was wide and empty. Scars were dug into the hardwood floor where counters and display cases had been ripped out. The paint had faded from white to something resembling old paste and was pocked with small holes where the previous tenant had hung wares.
But she saw only a lovely archway leading into an adjoining space, the charm of a set of iron tightwinder stairs spiraling toward the second level, the airy, circling balcony. She recognized the signs in herself, the quickening of her pulse, the sharpening of vision. She often felt the same when she walked into Cartier and saw something that seemed to be waiting just for her.
Sensing trouble, Laura put a hand on her arm. “Margo.”
“Can’t you see it? Can’t you just see it?”
“I see it needs a ton of manual labor.” Kate wrinkled her nose. The air smelled of . . . incense? Pot? Old candles? “And fumigating.”
Ignoring her, Margo walked over to a peeling door and opened it. Inside was a tiny bathroom with an aging pedestal sink and chipped tile. It thrilled her.
“Hello?” The voice echoed down from the second floor, following by the quick tap of high heels on wood. Laura winced.