by Nora Roberts
“You never liked Roy at all, so that’s not saying much.”
He shifted, pointed in that smug, brotherly way. “And who was right?”
She rolled her eyes. “You were. Shut up. Besides, I got the grand prize out of the bastard.” She looked over as the door slammed open and Carly raced out.
“Mama! Uncle Dave’s here!”
The minute he stepped out, the instant Phoebe saw his face, she knew. She kept her own blank as she pushed to her feet. “Carter, I want to talk to Dave just a minute. Can you take Carly in, keep her occupied?”
“Sure. Hey, Dave.”
They didn’t shake as many men did, or do the one-armed, backslapping man hug as others did. Theyhugged, Phoebe thought; as always it made her smile. It was a good, strong embrace; it was father to son. “You’ll have to excuse me and Carly. I have to reestablish my dominance and whoop her at WWE SmackDown.”
“As if!” Hooting with challenge, Carly raced back inside the house.
“You look better,” Dave began.
“So I’m told. Over and over. What happened?”
“They made a deal. I wanted to tell you in person. Phoebe, there was a lot of pressure from the brass on this, from the DA’s office—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sat again, needed to sit again. “What did they give him?”
“He’s off the job, immediately. No benefits. He pleads guilty to simple assault—”
“Simple assault,” she repeated. She’d prepared herself, and still she was stunned.
“It carries one-to-three, suspended. He’ll get probation. He’ll be required to take anger management and serve twenty hours’ community service.”
“Does he have to write on the blackboard a hundred times: ‘I promise to be a good boy’?”
“I’m sorry, Phoebe.” He crouched in front of her, laid a hand on her knee. “It’s a bad deal. They want to put it away. You don’t have to put it away. If you decide to file civil charges against him, I’ll stand behind you on it. And I won’t be the only one in the department who does.”
“I can’t put my family through that. Honestly, I don’t know if I could put myself through it.” She closed her eyes and reminded herself that not all deals were fair, not all deals settled the score. “He did what he did. Everyone who counts knows it.” She let out a long breath before looking Dave in the eye again. “He can’t be a cop anymore. The rest, it’s not important. He’s off the job, and that’s what’s right. That’s what’s needed. I’m okay with it.”
“Then you’re a better man than I, kid.”
“No. I’m pissed. I’m seriously pissed, but I can live with it. We’re going to eat sugar-glazed ham and lemon meringue pie. And Arnie Meeks? He’s going to be eating disgrace for a very long time.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I can live with that.”
NEGOTIATION PHASE
Oh, to be torn ’twixt love an’ duty.
—“HIGH NOON”
11
Even after a handful of years, Duncan found meetings weird. The whole business-suited, proposal/pitch/report, Danish-and-coffee and thanks-for-your-time elements of them. Then there were the politics, and the pecking orders.
Maybe that was why he didn’t have an actual office. There was no escapingthe meeting to his mind if a man had an office. Plus an office meant you had to staff it with people who had to be given particular assignments on a regular basis. If you happened to be the boss, that meant you had to come up with those assignments, and probably read reams of reports on the assignments before, during and afterward. And you’d damn well have to have more meetings regarding the assignments.
Vicious cycle.
An office involved desks, and giving people titles. Who actually decided on titles? What made, say, an executive assistant different from an administrative assistant? And should it be the Vice President of Marketing and Sales, or the Vice President of Sales and Marketing?
Things like that would keep him up at night.
Phineas nagged him off and on about the office thing, but so far he’d been able to slip and slide around it.
He liked meeting with people in one of the bars, or a restaurant. Or if it was absolutely necessary, in Phin’s office, which was, in Duncan’s opinion, meeting central. Going somewhere that wasn’t essentially or absolutely his own place not only kept things looser, but he’d found those he met with tended to be more up-front and outspoken over a beer in a pub than they might be over glasses of spring water in a boardroom.
He’d found, too, that it was often more interesting, certainly more telling, to go to the prospective meeter. Sitting in their homes, their place of business, their studio, whatever, generally made them more comfortable. It gave him a leg up on getting what he wanted or needed or hoped for if the other party was comfortable in their own space.
Following that philosophy, he’d buzzed from a breakfast meeting at a café downtown to a funky little theater in Southside, then wound his way to a sadly neglected house in the Victorian section.
In each case, he felt he’d gotten more accomplished, and had a better time of it, than if he’d summoned all the parties involved in all the prospective projects into some stuffy office where he’d be stuck behind a desk wanting to pull a Suicide Joe and jump out the window anyway.
As he made the turn onto Jones, he hoped the same would hold true for what he’d deemed his last meeting of the day.
He’d considered timing it differently, doing a kind of drop-by when Phoebe would be home. But that seemed just a little underhanded. Which was a valid strategy, true, but he figured she’d cop to it.
He parked, began the pretty stroll under arching trees.
He wanted to see her—and not just for the quick just-dropping-into-see-how-you’re-doing visits he’d limited himself to for the last two weeks. Biding time, he mused. And maybe there was a little game-playing in there, too. She didn’t know what to make of him, and he didn’t mind that.
He didn’t always know what to make of himself, and didn’t mind that either.
One thing he did know was that she’d had a major trauma, and she was working her way through it. There wasn’t any point in pushing her into a date, or rushing her into bed at a time when she was shaky on her pins.
He had plans. He liked to make plans, nearly as much as he liked adjusting, shifting and altogether changing them from conception to completion.
He had plans for Phoebe.
But right now, he had plans for something else altogether.
Before he turned up the walk to Mac Namara House he spotted the woman with the strange little dog across the brick road. Today’s doggy bow tie was red-and-white-striped, to match the wide-brimmed hat the lady had perched on her head. It set off, he supposed, her blindingly white suit and red sneakers.
The little dog currently sniffed happily, by all appearances, at the butt of a puffy pink poodle held on the end of a gold leash by an enormously fat black man in a blue seersucker suit.
The scrawny lady and the huge man chatted away under the shade of a live oak even as the hairless dog struggled mightily to hump the pink poodle.
God, Duncan thought, he loved Savannah.
He rang the bell, admired the pots and baskets of flowers on the veranda while he waited. It was Ava, he remembered, who had the gardening talent. He wondered if he could talk her into…
“Hey.” He offered Essie a smile when she opened the door. “Got time for a bad penny?”
“You’re no bad penny, and I’ve always got time for young handsome men.”
They’d progressed over his occasional visits to cheek-kissing. He bussed hers now, caught the subtle scent of her perfume.
What was it like, he wondered, to get up every day, dress and groom, knowing you’d never go out the door?
“How’d you know I was baking cookies?” she asked him, so his smile spread to a grin.
“What kind?”
“Chocolate chip.”
“Come on, reall
y? All the way from scratch? Good thing I came by so you’d have a taste tester.”
“Let’s get you started on that. Phoebe won’t be home for a couple hours yet,” she added as she led the way back. “Ava, she’s running errands. She’ll be swinging by school to pick Carly up after play practice. Our Carly’s one of the wicked stepsisters inCinderella . Sheloves getting to be mean and bossy.”
“I was a frog once. Not the turn-into-a-prince kind. Just a frog. I had to belch on cue. It was a shining moment in my life.”
She laughed, shooed him toward the kitchen table. “I bet your mama was so proud.”
He said nothing to that. What could he say? Instead he sniffed the air. “Smells like heaven in here.”
“I got some still warm from the oven. You want coffee or milk with them?”
“Cookies and milk? I’d suffer through school again if I could come home after to you and cookies and milk.”
Pleased, she pinked up. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you? What’ve you been out and about doing today?”
“Talking to people, mostly. And actually, I was hoping to finish up that part of the day talking to you. There’s this property I was looking at. It’s in the Victorian District, not far from a piece of the campus. Savannah College of Art and Design?”
“You don’t say.” She could barely remember what was outside the house and where it was set. All of that, the streets and buildings and open spaces, were a jumbled maze of squares and lines in her mind. “What kind of property?”
“Kind of a mess, actually. Like one of those Victorian ladies who fell on extremely hard times. You can still see the elegance under the neglect.” He picked up a cookie, bit in. Then forgot everything in pure sensory pleasure.
“Oh God. Marry me.”
She didn’t laugh this time. She giggled. “If a woman can have you for a cookie, I’m surprised the bakeries all over the state of Georgia aren’t working overtime.” She reached across him, picked up one herself. And her eyes twinkled. “But they are damned good cookies.”
“If I beg, will you give me some to take home? How can I settle for Chips Ahoy! now?”
“I believe we can spare some for you.”
She moved to the stove to take out a tray, slide in the one she’d prepared.
“I lost my train of thought in cookie nirvana. This sad house off campus.”
“Mmm-hmm. You’re thinking of buying it and fixing it up.”
He followed warm cookie with cold milk, and figured that was the sum total of heaven on earth. “That kind of depends on you.”
Puzzlement lifted her eyebrows as she turned away from the stove. “On me?”
“I’m thinking of buying it and fixing it up, yeah. What I’ve got in mind is a shop. Now…” He gestured with the last bite of the first cookie before popping it into his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You couldn’t possibly. I’m too confused to be thinking anything.”
“Okay, what some might think is, hell, Savannah’s got a million shops already. It does, no doubt about it. But people love to shop. No doubt about that either. Right?”
“I…I do. I love browsing the Internet shops.”
“Sure.” He picked up another cookie. “So I’m thinking, location being near the campus, Art and Design. Why not art, crafts. Okay,” he said before she could speak. “We’ve already got plenty of shops and galleries. Artsy, crafty.”
“I…suppose.”
“Even the style I’m thinking, which would be upscale, isn’t new, particularly. Boutiquey. Boutiquesque? You know what I’m saying?”
“Almost.” She shook her head, laughed again. “Duncan, if you’re using me for a sounding board here, I’m flattered. But I don’t know anything about real estate and location and boutiquey shops out there. I don’t go out there.”
“You know about art and craft.” Okay, he was having a third cookie, even if it made him sick. “About creating it. About selling it.”
“You mean my crocheting.” She waved a hand at him. “That’s just a paying hobby. It’s just something I stumbled into.”
“Okay. How about stumbling my way? I’ve got this idea. Don’t you love getting ideas? I always got ideas, but I couldn’t do anything with most of them. Now I can. It’s a rush, let me tell you.”
“So I can see.”
“The idea is arts and crafts by Savannahians. Products created only in Savannah. Only Savannah,” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Might be a good name for it. I should write that down. Savannah arts and crafts,” he continued as he dug out his cell phone, cued up his memo function. “Created by Savannahians, displayed and sold in a gorgeous two-story wooden house that symbolizes Savannah. It’s got this great porch, or it will be great. I know this guy who does amazing furniture. Tongue and groove. And this woman who does amazing things with wrought iron. So we could…getting ahead of myself,” he said when he noted she was just staring at him.
“You want to carry some of my crocheting in your shop?”
“Essie, I want to carry buckets of it, trunkloads of it. I want to have it spread all through the place. What do you call them—doilies?—on tables, throws on the sofas. You said you did bedspreads, right? How about tablecloths, like that? And clothes. Sweaters, scarves.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“See, we’d have rooms set up. Just like a home. Bedrooms, dining room, parlors. So we’d display your work that way. For sale, sure, but also part of the ambience, you know? Baby stuff in the nursery, scarves, sweaters in the wardrobes. You could keep doing your own Internet sales if you want. But we could take care of that for you, expand it.”
“My head is actually spinning.” She laid her hand on one side of it as if to keep it centered. “Why do you think I could do all that?”
“You are doing it. You’d just keep doing it—except for the boxing and shipping, depending on how you want to handle it. Here, come with me a minute.” He grabbed her hand as he pushed back from the table, pulled her into the dining room.
“What do you call that?”
She frowned at the long runner she’d designed in soft pastels for the dining room table. “A runner.”
“A runner. Got it. So, if you were to make one just like that and sell it, what would you charge?”
“Oh, well.” She had to calculate. She’d made one very similar for a client once, and several shorter ones for others over the years. She gauged the price as best she could without a calculator.
Duncan nodded, did some rapid calculations of his own. “I could give you fifteen percent more than that, and still make a decent profit.”
Her cheeks went white, then flushed warm pink. “Fifteen percent more?” She grabbed an end of the runner. “You want it now? I’ll box it right up for you.”
He grinned. “You keep that one, and start thinking about making more. And whatever else you’ve a mind to make. I’m going to need some time to get this up and running, but I guarantee we’ll be rocking by the Christmas shopping season.” He held out a hand. “Partner?”
Duncan considered it a really good day if by seven, regardless of what had come before, there was pizza and beer on the veranda.
He’d lit candles, as much to discourage the bugs as to add some light. His bare feet were propped on the padded wicker hassock. He’d left the TV on in the living room, angling himself so he could watch some basketball action through the window if he wanted. Or just listen to the play-by-play and stare off into the soft dark.
He’d had enough of people for the day. As sociable as he was, he hoarded his alone time. And he liked to listen to the sounds of the game, but he just simply loved the sounds of the night.
The quiet swooshing of air through the trees, the hum of insects, the incessant music of peepers entertained him. It was a good spot—veranda, chair and hassock—and the best time of day to figure things out. Or to let them go.
He’d been tempted to hang out in Essie’s kitchen until Phoebe came in from
work. So why hadn’t he? Hang around too much, he decided, and become a fixture. Or an annoyance. It was all a matter of balance, to his way of thinking. And intriguing the woman in question so maybe she was just a little off hers.
Besides, every time he saw her, he wanted to grab her. Considering what she’d been through, he didn’t think she was at the grabbing stage yet.
He finished off a slice of pizza, contemplated another. Then glanced over at the sound of a car. His brows lifted when he realized the car wasn’t passing by but heading in.
He didn’t recognize it, but he recognized the woman who stepped out of it. And this, he thought, was a better way to end the day than pizza and beer.
“Hey, Phoebe.”
“Duncan.” She pushed at her hair as she walked to the veranda. “I was at the bridge before it occurred to me you probably weren’t here, and then it was too late not to keep going. But here you are anyway.”
“I’m here a lot. I mostly live here.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Want some pizza? A beer?”
“No, and no. Thank you.”
The formal tone had him lifting his eyebrows again. “How about a chair?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I want to ask what you’re doing with my mother.”
Okay. “Well, I asked her to marry me, but she avoided giving me an answer. I don’t think she took me seriously so I settled for the cookies.”
“I’m wondering how seriously you take her, or yourself.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re pissed at me, and we’ll go from there?”
“I’m not pissed. I’m concerned.”
Bullshit, he thought. He knew a pissed-off woman when she was standing on his veranda ready to chew holes in him. “About?”
“My mother’s bursting with excitement over this business you talked to her about.”
“You don’t want her to be excited?”
“I don’t want her to be disappointed, or disillusioned or hurt.”
His voice was as cool as his neglected beer. “Which would be the natural consequence of excitement over the project we discussed. Which, as I recall,” he added, “doesn’t involve you.”