by Sarah Andre
He was trying so hard to remain patient. He waited a beat and gestured with his palm. “You’ve got long- and short-term bank loans? You know the difference, right?”
She hugged her knee tighter. “I’m not an imbecile. I do own my own company.”
He swallowed the retort. “Then increase your short-term capital loan and give yourself a raise that way.”
“We signed a personal guarantee to shave off a half-percentage poi—”
“I know what a personal guarantee is and what it does,” he snapped. His entire trust fund was about to vanish because of one.
Her chin tilted. “Then you know we’re personally responsible for the entire debt if there’s any default or business failure. There’s no way I’m going to risk taking out more money; it’s a slippery slope.” She spread her hands. “I’ve thought it all through, Devon. The only way I can afford her increasing healthcare costs and a nice two-bedroom is to cash out of Moore and Morrow.”
He exhaled harshly, owning the heartache displayed across her face. The differences between him and Harrison were dwindling. He had the same ability to demolish loved ones, in that same flippant manner. How could he answer her without sounding like Harrison? He fortified himself with a deep breath, leaned in, and cupped her cheek. “I am sorry, Hannah. I never meant to hurt you.”
A sad smile appeared. “Which time?”
He should have seen it coming, but the lobbed grenade stunned him silent. So they were going back to that night after all. The quick, emotionless apology at lunch yesterday would not suffice, which was no surprise. He’d have to descend into feelings and heartache and relive the teenage tragedy that haunted him still. He slid his hand away and rubbed his mouth.
“Forget I said that,” she said hastily.
How like her, running from confrontation.
“Oh no,” he said emphatically, “it’s time to clear the air.” Past time to let that night die. He swallowed hard. “In that moment…on your mom’s doorstep…the stuff I said…the solution to run away…was so obviously the right choice to me, it never occurred to me you’d say no.” Christ, that was lame.
“You gave me two impossible choices.”
A sliver of defensiveness knifed through him. “I offered to marry you, Hannah. That sounds like a decent choice to me.”
“Only if I left my dying mother. You wouldn’t wait. And you wanted to haul me off to a strange place when neither of us had money… What kind of choice was that?”
He sighed and raked his hair. “I was fueled by hate that night. I had to get out of here. And why wouldn’t I think you’d go? All you did was talk about how much you couldn’t stand your mom too. Why not both of us get the hell out of Dodge?”
She studied him like he was deranged. “Yeah, I bitched about her when she was healthy. I was a teen. But she was still my mom! And then bang, she gets cancer, and bang, you hold out two bus tickets. You knew she didn’t have much longer. You could’ve gotten a job, even at McDonald’s, and lived with us. But no—hating your father meant more than loving me.”
That boulder pressure thing returned to his chest, and he had to breathe through his mouth. “That’s not true, Hannah. You were my life.”
“Then why didn’t you write?” she asked softly. “Or come back for me?”
“Because the honest-to-God truth…” He paused. He had to get this right. Her hands were clenched around both knees now. He wanted to reach out and tug them into his, but these words could not be said in comfort. “I realized during that nightmare bus ride that if I didn’t stop loving you, I wouldn’t survive in New York. I’d always be virtually here, completely absorbed with you. I had to cut the cord and never look back.” Her eyes slanted in pain, but he owed her not to look away. “I found all kinds of immature reasons to hate you so I’d never be tempted to contact you again.”
Her brows knit. “What kind of immature reasons?”
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“You know.”
He flushed. These were ridiculous twelve years later. He dredged up the least offensive one. “That you’d only loved me for my money—once that was taken away, you wanted nothing to do with me.”
She bolted to her feet, her beautiful eyes wide with shock. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He used the time wisely. “I told you it was immature. I know it’s not true.”
“You should probably go.” She fluttered her hand toward the door, her gaze watery and fixed on the carpet.
He’d done that to her. Twice now. He rubbed his chest again.
The words he sought burrowed deeper, like dozens of hot pokers. His time with Hannah had been the happiest in his life, and long after he’d started his fledgling company with Eric, he’d rarely dated. Iceman, his cousin—who loved nicknames—had teased. Maybe so, but instead of women, he immersed himself in learning the art of corporate negotiating and high-finance deals. The more he learned, the more he ensured no one would ever render him powerless again. Eventually his determination not to glance into the past callused the heartbreak. That was why he never came back for her. He’d ruthlessly trained himself out of love. By the time he met Nicole, she was everything he required—everything Hannah was not.
He stood, simmering with self-recrimination. He really was a loser when it came to women. He inflicted pain thoughtlessly, the way Harrison had on him.
“Okay,” he said, because of all the words needed to undo the damage, this was the brilliant one that came out. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked to the door. Silently she followed, slipped past him, and released the deadbolts, her back rigid, head high. It was all he could do not to pull her against him, wrap his arms around her belly, and beg to start the evening over. He kept his hands in his pocket.
As she opened the door, she faced him, hesitating. Hope surged—for what, he had no idea, but at least it wouldn’t leave them like this—with so much hurt between them.
“A part of me wishes you luck keeping your company,” she said softly, and she wasn’t scratching her palms. “And another part of me hopes you lose it. Maybe your dad will leave our neighborhood alone.”
Her words fell like sledgehammer blows. He waited until he could breathe, and managed to utter, “Good night, Hannah.”
“Goodbye, Devon.”
Chapter 22
The morning dawned bleak and gray, fitting for Hannah’s new outlook on life. She’d barely slept again, and the shadows under her eyes would’ve stood out starkly on her pale face if the puffy slits above hadn’t stolen the show. She had no intention of encountering Aunt Milly and a boatload of nosy questions, so she turned from the mirror, tiptoed around, and dressed quickly in khakis and a brown sweater.
She still smelled Devon on her skin, remembered his taste and the unyielding muscles as she lay on him. His slow, thorough kisses had thrilled her, unfortunately reawakening her sexual hunger. The side that had never truly been satisfied by another man. And now she had a stark memory of exactly what she’d be living without. Again.
She glanced at the clock—seven twelve. On Sundays, Aunt Milly’s friends took her to the nine o’clock service at the North Shore Baptist Church. Even the smallest task took her a great deal of time, so she often awoke just about now. Hannah slipped soundlessly into the bathroom they shared and brushed her teeth, patted freezing water on her eyelids, and pulled her hair back with a clasp at the nape of her neck and an elastic to hold the ends. In the living room, she grabbed the colored files from the card table and slipped out the door. She’d agreed to meet Sean at the office at nine, where they’d take the van loaded with yesterday’s unused lumber back to the Wickham residence. It wouldn’t hurt to go in early, check on the Matisse, and answer emails. Hopefully by the time Sean came in, she’d look human again, instead of like a sopping dishrag.
The second she stepped outside, Hannah’s eyes teared from the brisk, windy air, which was fine—at least she could excuse her red lids now. But really! How typical of Ch
icago after the Indian summer warmth two days ago.
By the time she unlocked Moore and Morrow’s nondescript wood door, Hannah’s fingers shook from the cold. She closed the door and paused. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filtered from the break room. Why would Sean be here this early? She rapidly blinked and wiped the raw skin on her nose. He’d witnessed enough incidents this week to lose all respect for her. Ducking into her office, she shed her jacket and dropped her files on her desk, then headed down to the break room, calling his name before she turned in.
She stopped short, heart lodging her throat. A magenta-scarved Bernice sat at the round table holding a royal-blue Moore and Morrow ceramic mug and the Sunday Tribune. “What are you doing here?” they both said at the same time.
Hannah smiled, hoping it didn’t convey her dread at encountering the last person on Earth she wanted to see. Her soul was brittle enough without adding fired-a-family-friend-with-leukemia onto the heap. Maybe she could hold off, delay it day by day, because in less than a month this company wouldn’t be hers to manage. It said something that this thought cheered her. “I’m meeting Sean. We’re going to finish the Wickham transfer.”
“Oh, that poor woman’s death is all over the news.”
“It was awful,” Hannah admitted. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on the Matisse, but…”
Hannah sat across from her, heat already inflaming her cheeks. In all the chaos, she’d forgotten to tell Bernice she was taking over. “I redid it yesterday. Walter saw your second attempt and was…unsatisfied.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me? I’d have fixed it.”
“Because…he…didn’t want you working on it a third time.”
“Oh.” Her friend’s eyes began to water, which immediately started Hannah’s tears again.
“I’m so sorry, Bernice—”
“Why are you apologizing?” She took the napkin from under her mug and dabbed her eyes. “I’ve been screwing up so often, I don’t know why you keep me here.”
It was the perfect setup. As much as she didn’t want to, Hannah could segue right into the termination, and the anxiety that had been clawing at her stomach whenever she thought about the confrontation would disappear. She opened her mouth. “Oh, Bernice. You’re so valuable, what would we do without you?”
Shit! She fought the instant itch by squeezing her hands under the table.
Bernice smiled and dabbed her wet cheeks. “You and I both know I’m the worst technician you have here.”
Hannah was so stupefied by her own exact-opposite outburst, and trying not to rub her prickling palms on her pants, that she had no comeback.
After a slight pause, a look of understanding came over Bernice. “Walter wants me gone, doesn’t he?”
“You’ve had bad days; we all know it—” Hannah inhaled a shaky breath and shut up. Nothing she’d said had come out professional or supportive. They’d been platitudes and lies to make herself feel better. She went with honesty. “Yes, but I don’t want you to leave.” She broke down and covered her eyes. The tears eased the last of the itch.
Bernice reached out and grabbed Hannah’s wrist. “You know what your problem is, dear?” Hannah shook her head miserably as Bernice squeezed the newly free hand. “You never let anyone in your life go,” she said softly. “Not ever.”
“I don’t need to,” Hannah squeaked. “They all leave me.”
“Your father was shot in the line of duty. Your mother died of cancer. Neither chose to leave you.”
“But they’re gone. And Devon walked away. And Aunt Milly’s emphysema is getting worse with this pending move, and now you…” She sobbed in ugly gasps, her shoulders shaking like pistons. “I’m tired of losing the people I love.”
“We all leave one way or another. Of course I want to keep working, but I don’t want to become a detriment to the company.”
Hannah reached for a napkin and blew her nose. Bernice’s self-awareness was confusing. “If you know that, why don’t you quit?”
“Because you need to let me go. It’s time for you to confront this, and know that you and I will both be okay afterward.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Try.”
Hannah braced herself. Say the sentence really fast, and then it was out there: I’m sorry, Bernice, but we have to terminate your employment. Her heart pounded in fear. Maybe just the two words: You’re fired. It wasn’t as though this was coming as a surprise. She could do this. She opened her mouth and inhaled. Her vocal cords seized. Christ! Shaking her head, eyes screwed into leaky slits, Hannah gasped out a sobbing exhale.
“There, there, sweetie.” Bernice scooted her chair around, enveloping her in a patchouli-scented hug. “Why are you making this so hard?”
Hannah couldn’t speak. Confronting people had never gotten her what she wanted. She’d spat words of hate to her mother, and her mother got cancer. She’d stood up to Devon’s stupid ultimatum, and he’d left her. And now Bernice. She wept for Bernice, for Devon, for the family she’d lost and the loved ones about to go. Why couldn’t she hold on to time? Why couldn’t she have a normal family who was there for graduations and weddings and babies? Why couldn’t her true love have known it was true love in high school, and stayed for her?
She took in several rapid breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. Bernice cupped her head and patted, shushing her quietly, until eventually Hannah’s sobs turned into childlike hitched breaths. For years, Bernice had been the strong motherly presence in her life, and that hadn’t changed one bit during this leukemia fiasco. Or now. Who faced their own termination and comforted their boss? Hannah sat up and blew her nose noisily into a napkin. “I’m a disaster at managing. I shouldn’t be in charge. I can’t do this.”
“It’s not like you won’t see me again.” Bernice smiled.
“But you’re ill. At least here I can check on you daily. And you need the healthcare.”
“I can go on COBRA. I have two daughters. You and I can email daily. I’ll be okay, Hannah. I want to hear you let me go.”
“Okay.” Hannah grabbed another napkin and pressed it to her eyes. Who was she to feel sorry for herself? “I can do this.” Her voice was one big nasal twang. She straightened her shoulders and held Bernice’s hand. “Here I go, for real.” Despite herself, she laughed. “You don’t need to look so excited about it.”
“It’s not every day I get to see one of my baby girls hurdle something huge.”
“Something huge,” Hannah muttered, and took another bracing breath. Heart hammering, she stammered out, “Bernice…you’re fired.” Moisture popped into Bernice’s eyes, and Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth, tears already falling. “Oh no…”
But Bernice laughed as she cried. “You did it! Sweetie, I’m so proud of you.” They both grabbed napkins, giggling, and when Bernice encouraged her to repeat it, she complied. “Louder,” Bernice commanded.
Hannah inhaled and yelled at the top of her voice, mimicking Oprah, “You’re fi-red!” They dissolved into more giggles. A throat cleared. Hannah gasped, whipping sideways in her chair.
Sean leaned in the doorframe, arms crossed and a wary look on his face. Wary as in: coming across a rabid animal or someone arguing with an imaginary enemy. “Ready to go, boss?”
Devon strode along the Magnificent Mile, glancing down westward-facing blocks, ready to head toward whichever Starbucks came into view first. He’d needed to escape the claustrophobic hotel room, and more coffee to work out the kinks in his sluggish mind. Most of all, he needed to obsess over his father to distract himself from thoughts of Hannah and how much he wanted her. Somehow, in all the talking and kissing and seeing that zoo photo, he’d broken his cardinal rule. He’d looked back. And his heart had jumped into the past with wild abandon. Even after Hannah had stood at her door, clearly rooting for the Wickham takeover, basically tossing his heart into a Cuisinart.
He turned down Chestnut Street toward the famili
ar green insignia, immediately plunging into a pure Chicago wind tunnel. The buffeting arctic air triggered his tear ducts, and he buried himself deeper in his coat. It didn’t matter what he felt about Hannah; they had no future. Even if she could forgive him for tearing her place down, and forcing her to sell the partnership, there was still the matter of location. She clearly wasn’t moving to Manhattan, and he was done with this godforsaken city.
Devon’s cell rang, and he yanked it out, sheltering in a doorway. He glanced at caller ID, and his gut clenched. What did the old man want now? Devon answered gruffly, relief spreading through him when he heard his brother’s voice.
“Hey. You better get over here. Frannie’s hysterical. She locked herself and Todd in the sunroom ten minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.”
Devon plugged his other ear as a truck roared past. “Where’s Harrison?”
“You mean Dad? At the funeral parlor.”
Devon squeezed his eyes shut, shivering with cold. How often did Frannie lose it like this? Who would Rick have called if Devon was in New York? Why was he wasting time asking stupid questions? He turned and jogged back toward the hotel for a taxi. “On my way, but do me a favor—ask Joseph to have coffee waiting.”
“Done.”
“I should be there in twenty.” He was about to hang up when a thought struck him. “Hey, did Dad ever mention the word Bryant around you?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you he was buying up old neighborhoods that he’d built back in the sixties?”
“Dude, it’s me, Rick the underachiever. He never discusses business when I’m around. Why?”
“Trying to figure something out.”
His brother blew out a breath. “Just hurry. She’s a mess, and I don’t know what to do.”
The plea pulled Devon into a sprint, barely cognizant of the wind. It had been years since he’d felt needed, and as dysfunctional as his family was, they were his, and it was time he helped.