by Fiona Harper
Look at Jake. She’d picked him because he had the right look to fill her fantasy role of Mr Right—a little cardboard cut-out she could tack on to the rose-covered cottage along with the kids and two dogs.
And underneath the layers of crusty accountant she’d found a surprisingly imaginative and wonderful man, even better than her wish list—for all the good it had done her!
Asking Cassie to set her up again wasn’t a sign she’d got over him. Her heart still squeezed every time she thought of him. She avoided anywhere they’d ever been together, and she couldn’t find a single sensible thing to say to Mel. Just looking into his sister’s blue eyes set off a whole string of memories like tiny time bombs.
No, resuming her husband-hunt was more an act of faith. Maybe one day she would find someone to love and support her. It wouldn’t be like it had been with Jake. He was the love of her life—such a corny phrase, but she knew now what people meant by it. Maybe she would find someone nice to share her life with, but a little piece of her would always be reserved for Jake.
Next time she would be more prepared.
No! her heart screamed. It didn’t want a next time.
‘So, what do you think?’
Steve clapped his hands together. ‘I think it’s a great idea!’
Serena and her father exchanged smiles.
‘What are you going to call it?’ asked Cassie.
‘We haven’t come up with anything yet.’
Steve sat back in his chair and scratched his chin. ‘What about The Phoenix Foundation? Would the other band members mind you using the name?’
Her dad shrugged. ‘I’ll have to ask, but I can’t see it being a problem.’
‘It just seems to fit, doesn’t it?’ Steve continued. ‘The whole idea of setting up music projects in inner city areas, breathing new hope into people and places that have been written off.’
Serena squeezed her dad’s hand. ‘I think it’s perfect. In time, once we’re up and running, we’d like to offer scholarships for gifted pupils to take their music education further—or even get the music industry to give work experience placements and funded apprenticeship programmes.’
Steve smiled. ‘With your contacts, Mike, nothing is impossible.’
‘I’m glad you like the idea,’ her dad said. ‘Because we want to ask you and Cassie to be on the board of trustees. Will you do it?’
‘Just try and stop me!’
Her father turned to Cassie. ‘How about you?’
Cassie smiled an elfish little smile. ‘When’s the launch party? You’ve got to have a launch party! Attract a bit of publicity, get the ball rolling…’
‘How about three weeks from now?’ Serena said. Cassie stared at her. ‘Three weeks? That’s cutting it a bit fine!’
‘Not for my daughter! She’s been up till all hours most nights, working on this idea. She’s a human dynamo!’
‘Dad can pull a few strings to get us a venue, and I’ll get to work on the rest—after all, I haven’t got anything else to occupy my time.’
While the others started chattering and suggesting ideas for the party, Serena sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. The foundation was going to be a salvation for her—and her father too. Something positive to fill the void left by their differing personal addictions.
She waved over to the bar. ‘Gino! Give us another round of Shirley Temples—and this time stick an umbrella in them. We’re celebrating!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MERV BLUMSTEIN spoke in his nasal Brooklyn accent. ‘Did you have a look at that investment opportunity I told you about? What do you think?’
‘It looks like a good bet,’ Jake replied.
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be.’ He flicked through a file. ‘Nothing’s a dead cert in investment terms, of course. There are no iron-clad guarantees…’
Merv coughed. ‘Mr Jacobs?’
Jake snatched his focus back from the ceiling. ‘Sorry. I just…remembered something similar I said to someone else.’ He shook himself out of it and smiled warmly at the quizzical Mr Blumstein. ‘Irrelevant, really. As I was saying, there’s no way to guarantee success, but failure isn’t certain either. We have to take a risk, yes, but it’s a calculated risk.’
Merv nodded, but his face was pinched. For a self-made millionaire he was the most cautious man Jake had ever met. People often made that kind of money by taking chances, but not Merv. He’d probably saved every penny since he was a toddler, refusing to let anything out of his sweaty grasp.
It was daft, really. If only he’d learn to jump in and take a risk, he could be twice as rich as he was now and probably half as stressed! Life was no fun if you always played it safe…
He slapped the folder closed and handed it to his client. ‘It’s your money, Mr Blumstein, and you can do what you want with it. But I recommend you give this some consideration. Take the report away with you and let me know how you want to proceed when you’re ready.’
Merv shook his hand and left, clutching the folder as if it contained the secrets of the ancients. Jake managed to resist wiping his hand on his trouser leg until the door was safely closed. He moved out from behind the desk and wandered to the window. It was a great thinking window; the view was never boring. The afternoon sun bounced off the skyscrapers, and traffic and people swarmed like multi-coloured bugs seventy floors below.
Was he really guilty of playing it safe?
He’d always thought he was so sensible in his attitude to love—keeping his distance, never getting involved. He’d told himself it was to protect the innocent, so he didn’t break too many hearts. A cold feeling crept up his arms. What a load of…
He was protecting himself! The whole keep-’em-at-arm’s-length thing had been about self-protection—until Serena, of course. He really had done what was best for her. To see her broken and dejected like his mother would have been more than he could bear. And to know that he was the one responsible for taking that generous heart and squeezing all the life out of it until it was a withered shell…He couldn’t do that to her.
No guarantees…
He turned his back on the New York skyline and faced into the office. It was dingy and claustrophobic by comparison. He thought about his father. Mel had phoned only that morning to let him know when the trial date was. The image of his father as the policeman had put his hand on top of his head and guided him into the police car still hovered in his memory.
There had been no remorse, no compassion on his face, only blind rage. It was as if he believed it was undeserved, that he was not to blame. Jake just didn’t get it. He’d looked at it from every angle to get inside his father’s head, and still he couldn’t fit the pieces of the puzzle together. He would never understand how…
A wave of nausea hit him, so powerful he almost reached for the wastebin.
He was nothing like him! Nothing like his father at all!
In appearance, maybe, but that was where it ended. Inside, they were as different as alien species. His stomach turned again. What if…what if he’d made the most terrible mistake?
He couldn’t think about that now. Time was needed to digest the most recent revelation before he plumbed the even greater depths of his own foolishness.
He stabbed the button on the intercom. ‘Susan?’
‘Yes, Mr Jacobs?’
‘Hold all my calls for the next thirty minutes. I’m…something has come up. I’m going out.’
Within five minutes his feet were in contact with the sidewalk and the multi-coloured bugs were a mass of taxis, cars and jostling people. The bustle of the Big Apple was good for crowding out any unwelcome thoughts; that was why he’d come back here.
His favourite coffee house was only just round the corner. He could buy a double espresso and read a British paper. Café Noir liked to appear cosmopolitan, and stocked a selection of international newspapers for their clientele to peruse.
Just as he was about to tu
rn into the doorway, he stopped in his tracks. All the breath left his body.
How…?
She was hailing a cab. Sleek dark hair fell around her shoulders and her long skirt was ruffled in the light breeze. A silver bracelet danced on the wrist of her raised arm.
Then she turned, and he realised it wasn’t her after all. Only a memory superimposed on a similar shell.
How many times was he going to do this? It was getting to be a weekly, if not daily, occurrence. Pretty soon he’d have to barricade himself inside his rented apartment to safeguard his sanity.
He went inside Café Noir, ordered his coffee, and grabbed a paper from the rack by the till. It was a little downmarket from what he usually read, but it was the best he could lay his hands on. A large man with a moustache was hogging the only copy of The Times.
Once seated, he read every word on the first three pages—from the date to the regional weather forecasts—but the words swam around his head in a mini-tornado. Not one sentence made sense. He flipped a few more pages, desperate for something to divert his thoughts.
Lord, he was seeing her in here too!
A picture of a model he’d just flicked past had made his stomach lurch. It was a bad idea to fuel his imagination when it was behaving like this, but he flipped the pages back anyway, and smoothed them down.
RISING FROM THE ASHES.
He didn’t notice much of the other text apart from the headline. Something about a charity do. His eyes were fixed on the photo in the bottom right corner. Rock star Damon Blade with Serendipity Dove, the caption read.
Jake knew enough about the music scene to want to rip the head off the guy with his hand hooked around her waist. His gut clenched at the thought of it. Blade’s mouth was only inches from her long, graceful neck as he whispered something in her ear. The tabloids called him a ‘love rat’, and by the look of him he was trying to take a nibble on Serena.
Look at him! He couldn’t even take his eyes off her long enough to smile for the camera. But then, Jake could hardly blame him. She looked stunning, her eyes large and haunting, staring straight into the camera lens. Straight into his soul.
His heart stuttered.
It was as if she were looking right at him—which was ridiculous, of course. Blast that stupid brain of his! Always conjuring up things that weren’t there. That was what had got him into this mess in the first place.
No matter. He still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the picture. Even after almost two months he was hungry to see her. If a grainy print was all he could get hold of, it would have to do. He wondered if the waitress would shout at him if he tore it out and stuffed it in his pocket.
He looked back at the photo. She wasn’t even smiling, really. Her eyes were sad, and her mouth and chin had a defiant set—issuing him a challenge, almost.
If you want me, come and get me—before it’s too late.
He advised his clients to take risks, but he’d been guilty of ignoring his own good advice. He loved her, and hadn’t she told him she loved him too? They were well suited—her warmth and impulsiveness a perfect complement to his over-analytical reserve. That sounded like a calculated risk, didn’t it? Could it have worked?
No guarantees, he’d said. He’d been wrong. He was guaranteed one thing: he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t go and convince her to give him another chance.
The kitchen door crashed open and Serena looked up from her magazine. Cassie stood braced in the doorway. Body language like that normally meant trouble.
‘We’re on!’ Cassie announced.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard. We’re on—or at least you are. Saturday night at Lorenzo’s, eight o’clock. You’ve got a date.’
Oh, flip!
She’d forgotten about her moment of insanity when she’d suggested Cassie start up the whole husband-hunt thing again. Trying to run before she could walk, she supposed.
Cassie sat opposite and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘What’s the matter? You asked me, remember?’
‘I know. It’s just—’
‘Don’t tell me you actually agreed to go out with Damon the Dastardly? I know he’s phoned you three times a day since the party, but still!’
She shot Cass a what-kind-of-idiot-do-you-think-I-am? look. ‘No, I’m not seeing Damon.’ The very thought made her flesh crawl.
‘So what’s stopping you, then?’
Serena toyed with her mug of coffee.
‘Exactly!’ said Cassie, a triumphant gleam in her eye. ‘Nothing.’
‘I’m just not ready.’
‘Nonsense. Time to get back on the horse, plenty more fish in the sea, every dog has its day—that sort of thing.’
Her cheeks creased into a smile. Cassie was priceless when she did her schoolmarm bit. ‘Horses, fish, dogs? He’s not a zookeeper, by any chance, is he?’
‘No. Stop stalling.’
‘So spill the beans. Who is candidate number four hundred and twenty-two?’
‘Mr Right, of course.’
Sure.
She flapped her magazine closed. ‘I really don’t want to, Cass.’
‘This was your idea, sweetie. You can’t back out now! It’s going to make me look stupid. Just go and have dinner with the man. If you don’t like him, don’t see him again. And I promise I won’t set you up on any more dates for a few weeks.’
‘Months.’ Years.
‘Okay, for a few months.’ Cassie’s smirk was the biggest one Serena had ever seen her wear, and that was saying something!
‘So, who is Mr Right, then?’
‘All you need to know is that he’s tall, good-looking, and perfect for you.’
How many times had she heard that before?
‘We’ll see.’
The reflection in the glass of the restaurant door didn’t look great. Her hair was wavy on one side and straight the other. Her fingers curled around the door handle. It seemed a lifetime away since she’d been standing here ready to meet a different stranger.
This meant nothing, really. She wouldn’t even see the guy again. She was doing it to prove something to herself—a symbolic act to show that there was hope for the future. Far, far into the future.
‘Are you gonna stand there all night, love?’
She jumped, and her fingers sprang away from the door handle as if it were red-hot. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, hardly looking at the man who barged past her into Lorenzo’s.
Oh, get a grip!
She nipped inside before the door swung shut, and marched herself up to the bar.
‘Hi, Gino.’
‘Hey, bambino!’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Looking for love again?’
Serena snorted. ‘How’s Maria?’
‘Good. She’s in the back at the moment. I’d go and get her for a chat, but we don’t want to keep your fella waiting, do we?’
‘He’s not my fella.’
Gino just smiled.
The man who’d barged past her on his way in collected a couple of carrier bags from Marco, the chef—who winked at her—and swept back past her on his way out. At least he wasn’t her date. A bucketload of fun that would have been!
Gino herded her towards the main part of the restaurant. She turned the corner and stopped.
‘It’s empty!’
Gino chuckled behind her. She spun round to look at him.
‘It’s Saturday night. You should be packed!’
He shrugged. ‘Your fella wanted a little privacy.’
Oh, great! A date with a first-class bunny boiler. Her eyes darted around the room and she did a quick calculation of how many seconds it would take her to reach the exit if things went pear-shaped.
‘Where is he, then?’ When she’d said the room was empty, she hadn’t been joking.
Gino led her to a table—her favourite table, the one she’d sat at waiting for Jake.
‘Could I sit somewhere else, please?’
Gino shook his head.
‘The gentleman was very specific.’ He pulled out a chair and she dropped into it, scowling. She was still in the same pose when Gino returned with two glasses of champagne.
This was a bad sign. She hadn’t even met the guy and he was already getting on her nerves. Far too smooth by half!
‘Where’s this Mr Wonderful, then?’
Gino just winked at her and turned to smile at Maria, who was now behind the bar, hands clasped, eyes shimmering.
She pushed the champagne glass away. ‘Could you bring me a mineral water, please, Gino?’ She wasn’t touching a drop of anything alcoholic until she knew it was safe to let her guard down. Gino disappeared, and she stared at the tablecloth. Her date was obviously building up to a grand entrance, and that did not bode well. It told her he thought he was the icing on the cake. The last thing she needed in her life at the moment was a man addicted to drama.
She traced the pattern in the tablecloth with her finger. Gino was a long time getting her water. She craned her neck to see what he was doing, but she only had a partial view of the bar, and he and Maria were nowhere to be seen.
She guessed he wasn’t too far away, because the uncharacteristic silence had been broken by music, billowing chords that stroked the tension out of her shoulders. She smiled to herself as she imagined her date jumping out of a giant cake when the music reached its crescendo. There was something about this evening that was decidedly surreal.
Oh, well. She took a sip of champagne anyway—more for something to do than anything else. Mmm. Just another small sip.
She stilled and put down her glass. That vocal…it was so like…Max! That was Max’s voice! What on earth…?
She tipped her head to one side and listened carefully. What was that he was singing? Something about being too scared to let a girl into his heart. It was beautiful. A sad tale of lost love and missed chances. She tried desperately not to mist over. Stupid, really, it just reminded her so much of what had gone wrong between her and Jake, as if he was singing their story.
When the instrumental break arrived she gave herself a stern talking-to. It would not be good if she was all red and puffy when Mr Right arrived. She swiped away some moisture with her finger and sniffed. Then, one by one, all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.