Caught Up In You 3: Designer Love and Empty Things (Edgeplay)

by Jenna McCormick

  “I’m afraid your grandfather has gone missing again.”

  All the breath leaves my lungs. “Oh no.”

  “I’m on my way to Golden Oaks right now. They said they tried to call you but couldn’t get a hold of you.”

  “I lost my cell,” I say as I lunge for my dresser and a pair of socks. The phone falls of the nightstand with a clatter and I tilt my head at an awkward angle. “Why didn’t they call here? How long has he been missing?” The pitch of my voice rises higher on each syllable.

  “I don’t have any answers for you. The local police department has been brought in to help with the search.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up the phone and bolt for the kitchen. Snagging my truck keys off the key ring, I hesitate for a moment and wonder if I should take the time to call Connor. He said not to leave the estate, but this is an emergency. Not wanting to lose time arguing with him, I head for the front.

  My automotive knowledge could fit in a shot glass, but I still get on my hands and knees, checking for anything suspicious, like a brick of C4. The truck’s dripping oil, but that’s nothing unusual.

  I hop in, start the engine, then bolt out and stand inside the house while the truck idles with rumbles like distant thunder. Good enough. Doctor Fletcher already told me the police have been called in; I can’t be much more protected than that. I scramble up, buckle my seatbelt and make for the automated back gate. Very few people actually know it’s there, hidden as it is amidst a copse of pines. The road isn’t paved or even coated with gravel and the section of fence looks just like any other. Bumping along, I kick up dust behind me, make a sharp left and disappear onto the small path. I remote it open, urge my truck through and then close behind me before taking the back way to the retirement home.

  The parking lot at Golden Oaks is filled with cars, police and fire trucks by the time I arrive. Not bothering with a space, I pull right up onto the scraggly front lawn and hit the ground running.

  The first face I recognize is Ian Fletcher’s and if his sharp gestures are anything to go by, he is rip-roaring mad as he lights into a woman wearing salmon scrubs. I hear the words, careless and thoughtless and push through the crowd to where he’s standing.

  “Doctor Fletcher.” I stumble to his side, slightly out of breath. “Any news?”

  He steadies me, his features transforming from wrathful to concerned. “It’s alright Baily, we’re just getting organized. There’s a K-9 unit on its way. We’ll find him.”

  “How long has he been missing?” a uniformed state trooper asks the woman Dr. Fletcher was lecturing.

  Her eyes dart around nervously. “The last time anyone saw him was at breakfast.”

  Breakfast is served at eight a.m. and it’s now after three. Seven frigging hours, Pops has been MIA. I gape at her. “Why the hell wasn’t I notified sooner?”

  She cringes under my furious tone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair. We thought he’d gone back to his room to lie down, so we didn’t notice he was missing immediately. We tried calling your cell phone but kept getting your voicemail. No one could find Mr. Sinclair’s file that had your home phone in it.

  And because I was wallowing in anxiety over Connor’s and my relationship, I didn’t think to call my voicemail. I feel dizzy and lean more fully against Doctor Fletcher.

  “We’ll find him, Baily,” Fletcher repeats. “Let’s go get something with his scent on it for the dogs.”

  He leads me away from the frenetic gathering out front. He dons medical gloves and trundles through the hamper. “Get a zippered plastic bag from the kitchen. We don’t want to confuse the dogs by contaminating the scent.”

  I scuttle across the room to the kitchen and hold the bag open as he pulls a white undershirt out of the bin. “You sound as though you’ve done this before.”

  “Unfortunately. Alzheimer’s patients are notorious for wandering off.” He seals the bag, then peels the gloves off. “You get used to the procedure after a while.”

  “Seven hours,” I whisper.

  “Don’t think about it.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me into the now empty dining room. “Sit down, you look pale.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. I need to go look for Pops.”

  A hand rests on my shoulder. “I understand, but the more organized we are about this, the better our chances are of finding him.”

  He’s right, I know he is, but that doesn’t affect the restlessness or my drive to do something. “Okay.”

  He nods once to me and smiles. He has a very nice smile, reassuring and friendly. “Good. Then let’s go light a fire under our volunteers.”

  ~*~

  “Pops!” I call for about the millionth time. Truthfully, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said his name. Enough that my voice is hoarse and I’m croaking more than shouting. Off to my left I see one of the men with the K-9 unit and his furry partner trying to pick up any sign of my grandfather’s scent. To the right is Doctor Fletcher and the fourth member of our group, a volunteer whose name I didn’t catch.

  We have fanned out from the parking area at Golden Oaks, covering as much territory on foot as possible. The local police have set up checkpoints along the main road and each team is equipped with a two way radio. I hold my breath every time I hear it crackle to life, hoping to hear that he’s been recovered, fearing that someone will find him unconscious or worse.

  Almost eight hours with no food or water. He must be exhausted. I worry about dehydration, about him stumbling down another hill, this time breaking a hip or cracking his skull open. No matter how hard I try to fight my fear it washes over me in great waves, the undertow of catastrophic thinking dragging me back down into madness.

  I trip over something—possibly my own feet— and go sprawling onto the ground. I swear and smack the leaf-strewn earth hard.

  “Baily!” Doctor Fletcher rushes to help me up. “You need to take a break.”

  “I’m fine,” I snarl, and immediately regret it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take your head off.”

  “Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.” His easy going demeanor smoothes my ruffled feathers. “At least have a drink.”

  I retrieve the water bottle from my backpack and stare at it. “This is going to sound nuts, but I don’t want to, because he can’t.”

  The doctor strokes my arm. “I understand. But risking your health will only slow us down, keep us from finding him sooner.”

  “You’re right.” Now is not the time for my guilt or recriminations. I take a drink and let him pull me to my feet. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Call me Ian.” He offers me that reassuring smile again. It might be my imagination, but I see something more there, something that my fevered brain translates to an invitation.

  No way can I deal with that now.

  I move off a little closer to the K-9 unit and resume my search.

  Time passes and it dawns on me that we are heading almost directly east. Toward the Rosemont Estate.

  “Doctor Fletcher!” I call out. “Do Alzheimer’s patients typically go to familiar places?”

  The doctor jogs up to my side. “It depends. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re heading directly toward the Rosemont. Do you think he intends to go there?”

  “It’s possible. From what you’ve told me he’s spent his entire life on the estate. It would make sense he would gravitate to it.”

  I turn to the officer with the radio. “Have someone contact Connor Edge at the Rosemont Estate. We think Pops might be heading that way.”

  “Will do.” The man speaks briefly into his radio. Connor is not going to be thrilled when he finds out that I left my cottage. He’ll have to understand though. Pops is my only family. He had a grandfather once. Once he knows what happened, he’ll forgive me.

  I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Snarkarella warns.

  We press on, crossing another major road and a small stream. The shortage of rain en
sures it’s no more than a trickle, but the sight of it reassures me. If he did come this way, he could have gotten a drink.

  Suddenly, the German Shepard yips and tugs at his leash and his handler releases him. “He’s caught the scent.”

  “Pops!” I call out, my voice cracking. Doctor Fletcher and I chase after the dog. The sound of voices carries to us from up ahead.

  There’s a steep slope and my thighs are burning by the time I crest it. If my grandfather made it all the way up here, he’s in better shape than I am.

  The fence around the Rosemont is within sight and the gate that I left through stands open around a swarm of black clad men. I scan for the snowcapped head of my grandfather but don’t see him.

  The K-9 handler curses and re-clips the dog’s leash. “Too many fresh scents.”

  A hand lands on my shoulder and I shriek as I whirl around.

  “What’s all this ruckus, Rose?” Pops asks.

  Tears fill my eyes and I hug him tightly to me. “I was so worried.” He smells of sweat and something fouler, but I don’t care as I hold him tightly to me. He’s alive, and intact, at least physically.

  “Stubborn old goat hoofed it five miles at least.” I hear one of the men mutter.

  “Ms. Sinclair,” one of Connor’s minion calls out. “Mr. Edge would like to see you up at the main house immediately.”

  “I need to get my grandfather settled first,” I tell him.

  The guy doesn’t look thrilled with my noncompliance, but too bad. I’m tired, sweaty and weak from relief. Seeing to Pops is a higher priority than Connor’s temper tantrum. He can fire me later.

  One of the security vehicles gives Pops, Ian and I a ride to my cottage. It feels like a year has passed since I left. We help Pops down out of the SUV and settle him on the couch. Doctor Fletcher has his medical supplies in his backpack. “You gave us all quiet a scare, Thomas. It’s not nice to disappear without a word.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Connor says from the doorway.

  Chapter Four

  “Connor,” I say, rising from my crouching position on the floor. “I’d like you to meet—”

  “Ms. Sinclair, when I request your presence at the main house, I don’t expect to have to retrieve you myself.” His tone is ice cold and unyielding. His eyes are distant, but I see the blazing rage within. I knew he’d be mad but I never expected him to be this furious.

  I try to explain. “There were extenuating circumstances—”

  He holds up a hand. “Your personal matters are just that, personal. I’m here about business.”

  “Business can wait,” I snap. “My grandfather just had a very difficult day.” He isn’t the only one. My head is pounding and I’m swaying on my feet.

  He assesses me with a quick glance. “Sit down Ms. Sinclair, before you wind up back in the hospital.”

  “Back?” Dr. Fletcher, or Ian as he wants me to call him, looks from Connor to me and back again.

  Connor’s face remains impassive as he sizes up the doctor. “I see she didn’t tell you. Ms. Sinclair was supposed to spend today resting and recovering from the aftereffects of the car accident she was in just last night.”

  “Baily?” Doctor Fletcher looks to me for conformation and I nod once. “I wish I had known.”

  Great, one more guy who knows what’s best for me.

  “Sit down, Ms. Sinclair.”

  Though I’m defiant by nature, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to remain upright. I resent Connor swooping in like this, lording over the proceedings and bossing everyone around. “If you’ll just give me a chance to explain—”

  But Connor ignores me. His gaze is now fixed on my grandfather’s vacant stare. I can’t place the expression on his face, though it looks like some combination of anticipation and anxiety. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Dehydration, fatigue, a few scrapes,” the doctor responds. “He should be fine after a good night’s rest, though I’m tempted to hospitalize him, get him hooked up to an I.V. to rehydrate.”

  Connor scowls. “There’s more to it than that.”

  Ian looks to me, then back to Connor. “I’m not at liberty to discuss his treatment.”

  He’s right; it’s my secret to share. The circumstances are less than ideal, but I’ve lost my chance to pick my moment by stalling in every way possible. Time to face the music. “He has Alzheimer’s Disease. Advanced. There’s not much of him left.”

  Connor closes his eyes, drops his head. Says nothing. I hold my breath, waiting for detonation. Doctor Fletcher stands back, his gaze moving between Connor and myself, eyebrows drawn down as though studying a puzzle.

  The clock ticks away the seconds and it feels as though time itself is holding its breath. My hands are shaking from nervous energy and I ball them into fists, sinking my nails into my palms. The sharp pain helps me stay focused.

  Finally, Connor lifts his head. His eyes are still closed and he nods once before opening them, centering all of his formidable intensity on my grandfather. “Mr. Sinclair? Can you hear me?”

  I don’t know if it’s his commanding tone, but Pops actually turns his head in Connor’s direction. They stare at each other for an endless moment, old, foggy eyes to sharp crystalline blue ones. Something’s going on there, some message passing between them that I don’t understand and can’t put a name to.

  Then Connor gets to his feet, literally looking down at Pops. “You’re fired.”

  He strides from the cottage without a backward glance.

  I’m stunned for several moments, unable to think, powerless to move from my position. Doctor Fletcher says something, but I’m not paying attention. How can Connor be so cold? Yes, of course Pops is in no condition to be head groundskeeper, but to just dismiss him and walk away like that?

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Ian and sprint after Connor.

  He’s halfway up the hill already, his long legs eating up the distance in sure, rapid movements.

  “Connor,” I yell, but he doesn’t turn. I’m exhausted and I feel like hell, but I’ll be damned if he’s going to walk away from me without a word and leave my life in chaos. Picking up my pace, I run until I catch his elbow. “Talk to me, damn it.”

  He rounds on me, eyes blazing. “Don’t, Baily. I’m not getting into it with you now.”

  “Well you’re going to have to because I’m not moving until you explain to me what just happened.”

  “Thomas Sinclair is unable to perform the head groundskeeper duties. What would you have me do, keep paying him for a job he can’t do? That’s not how I do business.”

  “I’ve been doing the job, me.” A seed of hope unfurls. “Are you going to hire me as head groundskeeper then?”

  But Connor is shaking his head. “No. You’ve lied to me repeatedly, and turned this place into a zoo today. That is unacceptable behavior from one of my employees.”

  My throat closes up, or maybe I’m just chocking on my pride as I beg. “I need this job, Connor. I don’t have the money to take care of him.”

  His gaze softens just a tad. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “He’s my grandfather. He’s sick. Of course I have to worry about him! And me too. We have no one else; it’s us against the world.”

  “You have me,” he says simply.

  My jaw drops and I snap it closed with a click of my teeth. “Bullshit. You just evicted me from the only home I’ve ever known.”

  He moved in closer, looming over me. “I did no such thing. You’re welcome to stay there as long as you like.”

  “As what? Your mistress? I’m not a whore, Connor.”

  A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You have no idea how livid I am right now, or you would not continue to provoke me. After you lied to me about staying on the property, deliberately placed yourself in danger by leaving without a security team, didn’t even call to tell me where you were or what was going on. No Baily, you are not a whore. You’re a troublesome woman
and that’s your family’s home. Consider it part of your grandfather’s pension.”

  Shock rocks through me. “Really?”

  He nods once. “Obviously, you can’t sell it because it’s within the grounds of the Rosemont. But maybe now you’ll stop worrying about being homeless.”

  “Thank you.” I try to wrap my arms around him, but he brushes me aside.

  “Go see to your grandfather.” He’s dismissing me, but I recognize his coldness for what it is this time, a shield to ward off more hurt.

  I’ve hurt him, this man who just gave me the single greatest gift I could ask for, roots and a sense of permanence.

  “Connor, I’m sorry.” I say.

  He looks back at me, his eyes telegraphing an ocean of pain and betrayal. He’s almost drowning in it. “If only I could believe you mean it.”

  ~*~

  It’s been almost a month since I saw Connor. He’s come and gone multiple times from the estate, but he hasn’t been by to see me once. The day after Pop’s great escape, papers arrived deeding the small groundskeeper’s cottage to the Sinclair family for the next three generations. I don’t even need to worry about a sale of the main house as we are listed as tenants to the Rosemont Estate.

  The days are long and boring. One of Connor’s security teams takes me to Golden Oaks every evening to visit with Pops and then escorts me back home. I had one doctor’s visit where I was pronounced fully recovered from the car accident. Otherwise I don’t leave the estate. My security guys are responsible for my grocery shopping. I thought for sure my face would catch fire when I handed one of them the list that included tampons and chocolate.

  I’ve reread almost every book in my collection and watched hours of pointless television. I’ve even taken up cooking real food, after having become used to Connor’s delectable dishes. Of course my concoctions are nowhere near the quality of his, but it’s something to keep my mind occupied.

  I’m not sure what my next step will be. If I’m careful, I have enough money to keep Pops in Golden Oaks for another two months, but eventually that nest egg will run out. There’s a serious shortage of employers here at the Rosemont and I doubt Connor will give me a recommendation to work with one of the landscapers.