As she got into her car, she told herself it was the circumstances that bothered her, not the man. There was too much at stake to allow a momentary indiscretion from a long time ago to get in the way of what she needed to do. Dylan had probably forgotten all about it. Chalked it up as no big deal. He probably didn't even realize she'd been avoiding him all these years.
It had been easy not to see each other. She lived two hours away. When Gary was home on the weekends, he was with her family, her friends. Dylan had rarely invaded that space.
Gary had always told her that Dylan felt more comfortable in the city, and she'd accepted that explanation.
Whether or not it was true didn't matter. And whether or not Dylan made her uncomfortable didn't matter. What did matter was that Dylan had been Gary's best friend for more than twenty years. If anyone could help her figure out what had been going on in Gary's mind the last day of his life, it was Dylan.
Rachel started the engine and pulled out behind Dylan's car. It seemed ironically fitting that their vehicles so perfectly represented their lives, Dylan in his fast, big-city, successful guy Mercedes and she in her practical-mom minivan. The minivan was exactly what she needed to drive Wesley and his friends around, but she couldn't help admiring the sleek lines of the car in front of her.
Within minutes, Dylan pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building in Pacific Heights. He waved her into a driveway, for which she was incredibly grateful, since she was reluctant to park on the steep hill.
When she got out of the car, she was dazzled by the view, the shimmering blue waters of the San Francisco Bay turning silver in the moonlight, and the gleaming lights of the Golden Gate Bridge brightening the darkening sky. She was more comfortable with wide-open spaces and endless quiet, but there was a beauty here that she hadn't expected. For the first time, she wondered how Gary had felt living with one foot in each of his worlds.
"Ready?" Dylan asked her, meeting her by the front door.
She nodded and followed him into the elevator and up to the third floor, where he inserted a key into the lock and opened the door.
For a second she froze, suddenly terrified to step inside. Did she want to know -- if there was something to know?
Wouldn't it be better to keep her memories, her love, her faith, intact? But they were intact, she reminded herself. She just wanted one last look at the other part of Gary's life -- the part she hadn't really understood.
Gary had taken the apartment for practical purposes. With his long hours and long commute, it made sense for him to have a place in the city. She hadn't been able to argue with his reasoning, although she'd never gotten used to the idea of her husband having another home. Whenever she'd raised her concern about the distance between them, Gary would pull her into a big hug and tell her they had the best of everything.
She'd believed him because she wanted to believe him, and perhaps because changing the status quo might have meant having to come with him and live here in the city, she thought guiltily.
"You don't have to do this," Dylan told her. "I can check things out and let you know what I find."
"I've come this far." She walked through the doorway and halted just inside to get her bearings. It was a man's apartment: heavy, dark furniture; a big-screen television set; a state-of-the-art stereo in one corner; a treadmill in the other. Her gaze moved from the big stuff to the little stuff: the pair of tennis shoes kicked halfway under the couch; sunglasses on the counter; a newspaper spread out on the dining room table the way Gary had always spread it out, driving her crazy by never closing one section before opening another right on top of it. Oh, God! She put a hand to her mouth, feeling suddenly sick.
"Are you all right?"
Dylan's voice sounded like he was speaking underwater. The blood pounded through her head so loudly she couldn't hear a thing. She found herself being pushed down onto the couch, her head forced between her knees.
"Breathe," Dylan ordered. "Just take a breath."
She forced some air into her lungs and began to feel better. Embarrassed, she sat up. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"It's all right. I should have cleaned this place up a long time ago. I had the same reaction when I walked in after the funeral. I guess that's why I didn't come back. I should have sent the cleaning lady in. The dust is an inch thick." He got up from the couch and dug his hands into his pockets as he walked toward the window.
She was grateful for the chance to regroup. "It wasn't your responsibility, it was mine. But the apartment was never a part of my life. After Gary's death, I forgot about it." She picked up a childish drawing from the coffee table, Wesley's birthday card to his father. The words I love you, Daddy were scrawled across the page. Rachel's heart broke just a bit more. "What am I doing here?" she murmured, a tiny sob escaping her throat. "A man who saves a little boy's cards doesn't kill himself."
Dylan turned around at her words. "Why don't I pack everything up and send it to you? You can go through the boxes when you're ready."
She stood up, thinking that was a good plan, although she didn't quite trust the expression on Dylan's face. He seemed uneasy. Of course, after her reactions, almost fainting, then getting soppy over a silly card, he probably wasn't sure what she would do next.
"Won't it be hard on you?" she asked, instead of saying yes.
Dylan shrugged. "I can handle it." He cast a quick glance toward the bedroom door, then looked back at her. "I'll walk you out."
"Maybe I should check the bedroom." It wasn't what she meant to say; it wasn't even what she wanted to do, but once the words were out, she couldn't take them back. So she walked into the bedroom, telling herself with each step that it would be fine. There were no monsters here. This was just a place where Gary stayed during the week. No big deal.
The bed wasn't made, no surprise there. The half-open closet door revealed a pile of dirty laundry in a hamper, suits and shirts hanging from the rack. They were Gary's work clothes, his architect clothes, not the comfortable Dockers and polo shirts he wore at home. She began to breathe more easily as she looked around the room. These were her husband's things. True, she didn't recognize many of them, but so what? That didn't mean anything.
"Are you done?" Dylan asked from the doorway.
"Yes." But as she turned, her gaze caught on the dresser, on a strangely-shaped glass bottle. It drew her like a moth to a flame. She knew it was perfume before she crossed the room. She knew it wasn't her perfume before she reached the dresser. But she didn't know the bottle was only half full until she picked it up. "Oh, God!" she whispered as she turned around to face Dylan. "Who does this belong to?"
His face grew so tight she wasn't sure he could answer even if he wanted to. It quickly became apparent that he didn't want to.
"Gary always said you were an honorable man, someone he could trust. Does that also mean you would keep his secrets?" she asked.
"Don't do this, Rachel."
"Was he having an affair?" She put a hand to her heart as her voice filled with the doubt she'd been trying to suppress. "Oh, my God, was my husband cheating on me?"
Buy LOVE WILL FIND A WAY
ASK MARIAH
Excerpt @ Copyright 2011 Barbara Freethy
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Michael Ashton beat the fire engines to his house by thirty seconds. Smoke poured from the kitchen window of the old Victorian as he jumped out of his car and ran up the walkway. His daughter's favorite teddy bear lay abandoned on the top step. Cups from a tea party were scattered across the welcome-home mat as if the participants had left in a big hurry, as if they had smelled smoke and run inside to see what was wrong.
His heart raced as he reached for the doorknob. Locked! He fumbled with his keys, swearing, sweating each second of delay. His children were inside. He had to get to them. The keys slipped out of his grasp and fell to the ground. He stepped backward, crushing a tiny pink teacup.
To hell with th
e keys. Panicked, he slammed his body against the door, forcing it open.
All he could think of were Lily and Rose, his six-year-old identical twin daughters. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself. They were all he had left.
"Please, God, let them be all right," he whispered as he entered the house. Smoke drifted through the hall and dining room, darkening the white walls, covering the hardwood floors with dust. "Lily! Rose!" he shouted as he moved toward the thickest area of smoke. "Where are you?"
The girls burst through the kitchen door, two whirling, smoky figures in blue jeans. Michael swept them into his arms, pressing their heads against his chest for one thankful second. "You're all right. You're all right," he muttered. "Let's get out of here." He ran toward the front door. Two firemen passed him on the steps.
"Anyone else inside?" one of them asked.
"Mrs. Polking, our nanny." Michael didn't stop moving until he reached the sidewalk. Then he set the girls down on the pavement and tried to catch his breath. Lily and Rose stared back at him.
They didn't appear to be hurt. Nor did they seem overly concerned about the fire. In fact, on closer inspection there was a light of excitement in Lily's dark eyes, and Rose looked guilty, so guilty that her gaze seemed fixed on the untied laces of her tennis shoes. At that, his panic began to fade.
He squatted in front of them so he could look directly into their eyes. Their long brown hair was a mess. Lily's pigtails were almost completely out. Rose still had one rubber band clinging desperately to a couple of strands of hair, while the rest swung free past her shoulders. There were no bumps or bruises on their small faces, no scratches to mar their tender skin, no sign of blood. "Are you hurt?" He ran his hand down Rose's arms, then did the same to Lily.
Lily shook her head, then Rose. Neither one said a word. Not even now. Not even in the midst of a crisis would they speak to him. Michael sighed, feeling the tear in his heart grow bigger. Since their mother, Angela, had died almost a year ago, the girls had refused to speak to him. No one had been able to tell him why. Thousands of dollars of family therapy had not helped him get to the root of their problem.
The doctors said the children, for whatever reason, didn't trust him. They were supposed to trust him. He was their father, their protector. He would die for them, but he couldn't seem to convince them of that fact.
"This is not my fault," a woman said from behind him.
Michael straightened as their nanny, Eleanor Polking, came down the steps, assisted by one of the firemen. Eleanor was a short, robust woman in her late fifties who carried an extra forty pounds.
"What the hell happened?" he asked.
"The girls set the kitchen on fire. That's what happened," Eleanor said in obvious distress.
She tried to push her hair away from her eyes, but the sweat from her forehead glued it in place. There was a wild light in her eyes. She looked as if she wanted to run as far away from them as possible, if she could just figure out an escape route. Michael had seen that expression before, on the faces of the four nannies who had previously served time in his home.
He glanced at Lily, then at Rose. They wouldn't look him in the eye. Damn.
"We were just making pasta, Mrs. Polking," Lily said defiantly, directing her explanation to the nanny. "Like Mama used to make."
"For our tea party. We didn't mean to cause a fire--” Rose darted a quick look at her father, then turned back to Mrs. Polking. "We didn't know you had to put water in the pot. When the pot got all red and smelled funny, we threw it in the trash."
Michael groaned. "Let me see your hands. Did you burn them?"
Lily and Rose held out their hands. Their pudgy little fingers were covered with streaks of red and green paint, but thankfully there were no burns.
"We used a hot pad, Mrs. Polking," Lily said, "just like you told us."
"Why were the girls alone in the kitchen?" he asked the nanny. "Don't I pay you to watch them?”
"I was in the bathroom, cleaning the paint off my dress." Eleanor turned around, revealing a circle of green paint on her ample bottom. "Do you want to know how this happened?" she demanded, her anger matching his.
Michael sighed. "Not really, no."
"The girls painted the chair in my bedroom green."
He scowled at Lily and Rose. "You've had a busy day, haven't you?"
"Too busy for me," Eleanor declared. "This is the last straw. I'm leaving just as soon as I get my suitcase packed."
"Yay--” Lily's spontaneous cheer ended with Michael's glare. "I mean, that's too bad, Mrs. Polking. Come on, Rose, let's look at the fire engine."
"You can't just leave, Mrs. Polking." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You agreed to stay the summer. I know the girls are difficult, but they just need a little extra attention."
"That's not all they need."
He ignored that comment. "I'm in the middle of a bid for a very big job. At least give me a week or two to make other arrangements."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ashton," Eleanor said, not sounding a bit sorry. "The girls have made it clear that they want you."
"I can't work full-time and take care of the girls. I'm only one person."
Mrs. Polking softened just a bit. "I understand. That's why I took the liberty of making you a list of summer school programs. You'll find it on the credenza in the dining room."
"When did you decide to do that?"
"This morning, after the girls glued my shoes to the floor. Perhaps they'll do better in a more structured environment." Eleanor checked her watch. "It's not yet five. If you hurry you may be able to find one for Monday. Good luck," she said, turning away.
Good luck? Since when had he ever had good luck? His wife was dead. His children wouldn't speak to him. The demands of his job as an architect, combined with the responsibilities of being a single father, made him feel as if he were running around in circles, chasing after his tail like a foolish dog.
He had never imagined that his life would end up like this. As he stared at the house, he was thankful it hadn't burned down. The house had belonged to his in-laws, the De Lucas, for almost a hundred years, since they first emigrated from Italy in the late 1800s. More than a house, it was a symbol of tradition, of family, of responsibility, of loyalty, of everything that a man should be.
His father-in-law had told Michael he was worthy of this house, that he knew Michael would take care of his daughter, Angela. He had felt the burden of that generous gift every day of their marriage. The burden had doubled in weight after the birth of the twins, and tripled in weight upon Angela's death at the age of twenty-six.
He hadn't taken care of Angela as he had promised. But he still had the girls to raise. He still had a chance to give the De Lucas back some of the love and respect they had given him.
The sound of voices brought him back to reality. He looked up as the firemen left his house.
"The fire was limited to the stove and the trash can," one of the men said. "You have damage to the ceiling and walls from the smoke. The floor around the trash can is pretty beat up, but that's about it. Otherwise you're okay," He paused. "I hope you'll have a long talk with your kids about fire safety in the kitchen and elsewhere."
"Oh, don't worry, I intend to have a very long talk with them -- about a lot of things."
The fireman grinned. "They sure are cute kids. One of them called 911. Sounded calm as could be. Well, we're off."
"Thanks," Michael said.
"No problem. That's what we're here for."
As the fire engine left, Mrs. Polking returned to the house and Lily and Rose wandered back to Michael, obviously uneasy now that they were alone with him. Lily dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans and tried to look confident. Rose chewed on a piece of her hair, the way she always did when she was nervous. For a few moments Michael let them suffer in silence.
The more he looked at them, the more they reminded him of Angela. They were their mother's daughters, all right, s
ame dark brown hair, same big brown eyes, same stubborn chin, same impetuous, spoiled nature.
Oh, they were cute all right, and dangerous, especially Lily. The older twin by two minutes, Lily was the leader. She was rambunctious, loud, and often clumsy, but she would defend her little sister to the death.
Rose was his sensitive, emotional child, quiet and introspective. She tried to do what was right more often than Lily, but loyalty to her sister always came before anything else.
Looking at them now, Michael wondered which one of them would crack first -- which one would finally break down and talk to him.
Sometimes he thought Lily would be the one, because once in a while she impulsively started to say something, then stopped. Other times he thought Rose might provide the breakthrough, with her guilty, apologetic smiles. Neither one spoke to him now.
"We have to talk about Mrs. Polking." Of course, he'd be talking and they'd be listening, but he couldn't let their behavior go unnoticed. "You know you're not supposed to touch the stove."
No answer. No explanation.
"Maybe if you tell me why you did it, I could understand." Michael tried to be patient.
Lily made some motions with her hand, mimicking eating.
"If you were hungry you should have asked Mrs. Polking to fix you something."
Lily shrugged. Rose smiled apologetically. They were getting nowhere fast.
"What you did was dangerous. This isn't like gluing Mrs. Polking's shoes to the floor, although I'm not happy about that either. You could have been hurt. Mrs. Polking could have been hurt. I know you wouldn't have wanted that."
Rose sniffed as she shook her head.
Lily put her arm around her sister to give her courage.
"Can you tell me why you're giving the baby-sitters such a hard time?"
No answer.
Lily whispered in Rose's ear, loud enough so Michael could hear her. "I have to go to the bathroom. Do you want to come with me?"
"Yes."
"Wait a second; we're not done."
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