One Tough Cookie

by E C Sheedy

Rosa coughed—loudly.

  "Gracias, Rosa. Muchas gracias." Willy headed for the door.

  * * *

  Los Monteros was spread over the grounds of a former private estate. Although it claimed four or five swimming pools, tennis courts, and a golf course, it was more famous for its lush subtropical gardens—and room prices. It was upscale and expensive. The perfect backdrop for Michelle Desmond.

  Willy saw her first and smiled. She was in one of the outdoor courtyards, wearing a wide brimmed sun hat and sipping pitch-black coffee. Tall—though not as tall as Willy—her fair skin and hair enhanced by years of experience and a practiced hand, she was spectacular. She wore white and lime green. She was, as always, perfect.

  It had been more than three years since they'd been together. Looking at her now brought a lump to Willy's throat. She loved her mother and had missed her more than she cared to admit. More than that, she missed the loving, connected family that might have been. For a second, she analyzed that, wondering how you could miss something you never had.

  She was at her mother's table now, just behind her.

  "Hello, Mother," she said quietly.

  "Willow." Michelle was instantly on her feet and the two women hugged each other, long and hard. "Oh, how I've looked forward to this. You look—" She held Willy away from her to take a good look, her eyes glistening. Willy was suddenly ten years old again, hoping for approval, but expecting a critique of her too casual outfit. She was wrong.

  "You look terrific," she said in all sincerity and then laughed and hugged her again. "If I could look like that in rumpled cotton, I would never wear anything else. Sit down. Have you had breakfast?"

  Not waiting for an answer, she hailed the waiter. He was there in triple time. Beauty always gets good service. When the waiter left to get their orders, Michelle turned back to Willow, reaching across the table to take her hand.

  "So, sweetheart, how are you—really? Tell me everything. The phone, your letters, they were never enough. Are you happy? Are you working? Are you in love? I want to know every detail."

  Not ready for a heart to heart with her mother about love and happiness, or the lack of them, Willy looked for a safer topic. Without thinking, she withdrew her hand from her mother's.

  "I think I'm the one who needs filling in. By the way, where's the new husband?" Willy hadn't meant to phrase the question so carelessly, but it seemed nothing could dampen her mother's good spirits.

  "The new husband, as you so ungraciously put it, will be along any moment. And although new, he's definitely permanent, darling." Her laughter was soft.

  "You're happy then?"

  "Ecstatic, overjoyed, delirious. All of the above. You'll like him. He's— Well, let's just say I'm crazy about him. And just as important, he's crazy about me. I haven't been this happy in years."

  "I'm glad, Mother. Truly glad." And that was true.

  She was glad. She was also stunned and slightly blinded by her mother's radiance.

  "Do you ever see Dad?" Willy asked. The question came hard and rushed.

  "I see him. Although we don't have much to say to each other. He always asks about you." Again she reached for Willy's hand. And this time Willy let her keep it. Actually it felt good. "He's getting a divorce, you know."

  At first Willow was surprised, then sad. There truly must be a curse on the marriages in her family. Even her father, a success at everything he touched, couldn't make a relationship work. Didn't leave much hope for her. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sorry to hear it."

  Her mother gave a delicate shrug. "So am I. Very."

  The sincerity in her mother's quiet words was more shocking than her own admission. Willy looked thoughtfully at her. Amazing.

  She had to shake herself to attention as her mother went on, "Your Aunt Christa saw him at—would you believe?—The Museum of Modern Art. I still can't figure that one out. I can't remember your father ever going there." She shook her head in puzzlement. "Not only is he on his own, he told her he plans to stay that way. It's sad really. It's no fun to be alone, I can tell you. I had four years of it, and I suspect your father won't cope with it any better than I did. But I wish him well. I truly do. He's a good man."

  Willy gaped at her mother. Was this the heartbroken, weeping, and, yes, vengeful woman of four years ago? The transformation was extraordinary and perplexing.

  Where had all the agony gone? How and when had it been supplanted with what could only be called serenity?

  "You should go to see him, darling. Call him at least. I know he misses you dreadfully. He never stopped loving you, you know. What happened between him and me didn't change that." She pulled her hand from Willow's and stirred her black coffee, the gesture nervous, uncertain. She seemed hesitant but determined to continue. Willy waited for her to go on.

  "If I did anything, said anything, that came between the two of you, I didn't mean to. And I was wrong. I know I didn't handle his leaving well, but I was afraid—so terrified of facing the fact that my marriage was a failure I'd have hung on to him no matter what. I didn't want to be another family statistic, even though the marriage, our relationship, had been on ice for years."

  She laughed mirthlessly. "When little Miss Scarlett came along, your father was no doubt more than ready to be thawed out. Looking back on it, and feeling what I do now—for Milton—I can understand why. Neither one of us knew what we were missing."

  Willy drank her coffee slowly, while her mind worked double time. Both her mother and father had moved on with their lives, living, learning, and loving—and yes, losing—while she'd stayed static, emotionally trapped in a tiny crease of time formed by events and feelings long past. She'd shaped her life on her father's infidelity and her mother's temporary fear and insecurities. She thought of her father, his vow to stay alone, and smiled, knowing with certainty that wouldn't be the case. Thomas Desmond would love again. He was a man full of power and vitality, and unlike his daughter, he wasn't a coward.

  Her mother went on, her tone fervent. "If you don't want to go back to New York, call him, ask him to come here. I guarantee you, he'll be on the next plane out. He loves you, Willow. You can't throw that away. It's worth too much."

  Too much. There was too much for her overtaxed brain to process. "I have to ask. Why this bridge building? And why now?"

  Michelle played with a fork before fixing her eyes on Willy's. The look was not from mother to daughter; it was from woman to woman. "I could answer that with a thousand words. Certainly there's guilt—about all my moaning, self-pity, and acting out. All my…bitterness." She paused. "But in the end, I think it's just … me wanting the best for you. And there's nothing better than love. It matters—terribly. I know that now. And I want you to have as much of it as this world offers. From me, from your father—and someday—from that special man who'll walk into your life and transform it."

  Willy's spirit quickened, even as her breath stilled in her chest.

  "So, darling, will you at least call your dad?" Her mother gave her a hopeful smile.

  "No. I don't think that's a good idea."

  Michelle's disappointment was clear. Her smile faded.

  Willy rushed out the words to bring it back. She hadn't yet thought things through, but—to hell with the microscope. "I think it's better if I go to New York and, uh, surprise him." Him and a certain green-eyed man, she added inwardly.

  "How wonderful! He'll be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled."

  "I hope so, Mother. I really hope so."

  * * *

  Taylor hung up the phone and leaned back into the soft leather of his chair. He rubbed at the base of his neck a moment before reaching for a pale blue folder.

  He slid it toward the front of his desk, glanced at his watch, then opened the file, planning to give it a scan before heading home. Might as well work. Sleep was sure as hell out of the question. He heard the clink of glasses and glanced up.

  "Now why did I know you'd still be here?" A man of medium h
eight wearing an expensive suit and no shoes held up two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He gave Taylor a questioning glance.

  Taylor nodded and closed the file. He probably wouldn't be able to retain any of the data long enough to make any rational decisions anyway. God, but he missed her!

  "So when are you heading back to Spain?" Paul handed Taylor a glass, then settled himself in the opposite chair. He propped his stockinged feet on Taylor's desk.

  "The end of next week. Sooner if I finish a couple of analyses." He sipped thoughtfully on his drink.

  "Anything I can do?"

  "You could take over on the Gresham Industries file. The data on their third acquisition is sketchy. Before recommending it, we should fill in the blanks."

  "Done."

  "Thanks."

  The two men sat in companionable silence. Taylor swiveled his chair and sat gazing at the building across the street. He watched idly as someone turned out the lights on the floor directly across from theirs. Neither man made an attempt at conversation. Finally Paul stood up and stretched.

  "The traffic down there look navigable?" he asked.

  "It looks like New York on a rainy Friday night in July," Taylor answered. What it doesn't look like is a mile-wide stretch of beach glowing white under a Spanish sun. What would she be doing now, he wondered, sleeping, eating, writing in that notebook of hers with some stub of a pencil?

  "That's helpful. They could use you on the weather report. Really liven things up.''

  Taylor gave his partner a vacant look.

  "The traffic, friend, I asked you about the traffic." Paul shook his head.

  "Like I said, navigable."

  Paul picked up the bottle of scotch and headed for the door. He turned back at the door and grinned. "I hope this damned trip to Spain works out for you, Taylor. If you can't bring the woman back, give me a shot. I can't take many more of these scintillating conversations we've been having. And another thing, why in hell don't you go home? It's past ten. There's nothing in there," he nodded toward the file on Taylor's desk, "that can't wait until Monday."

  Taylor's eyes followed Paul's gesture toward the file. He stared at it for a minute, then let out a tired breath. "Yeah. Maybe you're right. Half right. I'll take it home."

  * * *

  Taylor turned the key to his apartment and the lock slid open. He dropped his briefcase, newspaper, and extra files on the side table near the door and shrugged out of his jacket. Without turning on the hall light, he headed for the kitchen. The fridge would give him all the light he needed. He had just opened the door and leaned over it when his arm was suddenly twisted upward to the center of his back. The grip was strong and unyielding. When he tried to straighten up, the hold tightened. He started to struggle.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you, good lookin'. I'm a little out of practice, and I wouldn't want to break your arm. I'm hoping we're going to need it." Willy released him and stood back.

  Taylor spun around, then stood still as stone. She was here in his apartment. If he had words in his head, he couldn't find any.

  "Please, say something," she said. "Anything! I know I shouldn't have just shown up like this but I was... afraid. Maybe I should have called but—"

  He didn't let her finish, just grabbed her and took her mouth in a near savage kiss. "Dammit, Willow, what took you so long?" He groaned the words as he pulled his lips from hers.

  Still caught in the sensation of his kiss, the warmth of his arms, she stammered. "It's only been ten days, and I had to—" He nuzzled her ear. "Uh, visit with my—" He slipped her jacket from her shoulders. "...mother and—" He pressed his mouth to her lower throat. "Her new—" He kissed the corners of her mouth. "...husband."

  "Got it," he murmured, undoing the top button on her shirt.

  "Taylor!" She pushed him away, but not too far away, and smiled up at him. "Can I take this stripping down thing you're doing to mean you're glad to see me?"

  He kissed her lightly before giving her a steady gaze. "You can take it to mean these past two weeks have been a living hell, that I love you, and plan to marry you at the earliest possible moment. And if you're not good with that, you'd better start running." He gave her a challenging look.

  "I am so-o good with that… But—"

  His brow furrowed. "I'm listening."

  "There's one thing we need to work out. The cookbooks. I want to do them—and it will mean travel."

  He kissed her again. "I'll go with you whenever I can. The rest we'll live with as long as you want us to. As long as I know when you come home, you come home to me. Fair enough?"

  She nodded, closed her eyes for a second. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

  "You're sure?"

  "Never more so." Taking his face in her hands, and looking into his eyes, her own misty, she added, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Taylor Stanley Monroe. And I want you in my life—part of me—forever."

  His heart beat to a new and powerful rhythm as he pulled her back to his arms. This sassy, smart-talking woman was his, and he'd never let her go. When he could find his voice, he said, "Say it, Willow, I need to hear it."

  "Te quiero, Taylor. I love you. I want you. I need you. And I always will."

  He cupped her face and lifted it to his. "Then I'm one hell of a lucky guy, wild Willy."

  Her sassy grin returned. "Yes, you are, good lookin', and don't you ever forget it or I'll—"

  His kiss when it came was deep, hot, and lingering.

  She completely forgot what she was going to say.

  The End

  Excerpt from

  California Man

  by

  EC Sheedy as Carole Dean

  © 1992, 2011 by Edna Sheedy

  Chapter 1

  Quinn Ramsay stood on the foredeck of the ferry staring at the island of his retreat. It was small, green, and tranquil—and it was a long way from L.A.

  What the hell was he going to do here for six long weeks?

  He zipped up his jacket, stuffed his hands into the pocket of his slacks, and shrugged his broad shoulders, the act half in resignation to his immediate future and half in defense against the cool wind blowing through the narrow channel.

  What was it Paul called this place?

  * * *

  "Salt Spring Island is a jewel, Quinn,” Paul said. “A real jewel. Right up your alley. There's cycling, hiking, scuba diving—and great fishing. No problem for you to occupy yourself."

  "I'll pass on the fishing, thanks, but the cycling will be good—and maybe the hiking. I could use the time to get in shape."

  Paul Severns looked across the lunch table at him and arched a brow. "Yeah, you're falling to pieces, big guy. Anyone can see that. The star of my latest picture should look so good."

  "Maybe so, but the last six months have been nothing but one damned meeting and one jet after another. I've spent so much time in elevators, offices, and underground parking lots, I'm beginning to feel like a caged chicken."

  Quinn looked out over the beach in front of his Malibu home. His gaze slid disinterestedly over a perfectly sculptured California body, then down to his watch.

  Relax, he told himself. It's Sunday afternoon. Your schedule is clear until tonight. Then? Another plane to catch. He was sick to death of his schedule. "So tell me more about this island jewel."

  "It's off the coast of Vancouver Island in British Columbia. I found out about it from a guy on the lighting crew when we were shooting up there a couple of years ago. He took a bunch of us fishing—I ended up spending a week, then buying a place. As a place to mull things over—get out of the glare—it’ll be perfect. I think the population is seven, maybe eight thousand. There's no night life to speak of." Paul spotted the bikini, paused to take a drink and a look, then continued, "I guess the best word to describe it is peaceful."

  Quinn mulled over the description. Peaceful… Not entirely sure how much of that he could take.

  Paul went on, "My place is on th
e waterfront at the north end. The whole island can't be more than twenty miles in length, so it doesn't take long to get anywhere. There's a caretaker and his wife, Zach and Blanche, who live on the property year-round, but they're in a separate cabin, so you'll have your privacy. I've told them you're coming, so they'll have everything ready for you. If you get bored, you can hop a ferry or seaplane to Vancouver or Victoria, but I doubt that you will."

  Quinn wasn't so certain. Wasn't one man's paradise another man's hell? He drank his coffee in silence.

  Paul seemed to hesitate before asking, "Are you going to call Gina, let her know where you're going?"

  "No."

  "She'll ask, you know."

  "She can ask all she wants, but my plans for the next few weeks don't include Gina Manzoni."

  "What’ll I tell her?"

  "Tell her whatever you want. She's your star. You'll think of something—just leave me out of it."

  * * *

  The ferry bumped itself into the dock at Vesuvius Bay, and Quinn returned to his Range Rover. He took another quick look at the map Paul had drawn for him before driving off the ferry.

  Although he was grateful for the use of the house, he was more than a little worried about the solitude. All Paul's talk about peaceful made him edgy. Used to a crazed schedule and a lot of action, he wasn’t sure he could cut it.

  Stow it, Ramsay. You're here to think about an offer on your company in the eight figures—action enough for any man.

  He spotted Dogwood Lane and turned left. Paul's house number was carved into a piece of driftwood that marked the entrance to a long driveway shadowed by tall cedars. He turned in and saw the caretaker cottage to his immediate left.

  When he knocked on the door, he was greeted by a tiny woman with long brown hair and a big smile. He introduced himself, and she extended her hand.

  "I'm Blanche. We've been expecting you." Turning her head a bit, she called out, "Zach, he's here."

  Zach stepped into the room, his smile friendly. "Carry on down the driveway a bit, Mr. Ramsay, and you'll see the house. I'll get the key and be right behind you."