Greer said nothing at first. Then he squatted and poked at the chunks of dark, damp wood at his feet. “I understand you redid the barn yourself. Too bad. That must double your upset about the fire. Of course”—he raised his head and looked Derek sharply in the eye—“so much of the satisfaction is in the doing. It’s the project—the planning, the anticipation, the taking of one step at a time.”
“But why didn’t you go after the files yourself?” Derek asked. “One of your men could have done exactly what I did. That would have been a helluva lot easier.”
Without breaking eye contact, Greer straightened. “You don’t listen, McGill. That’s a definite weakness. You don’t listen, you don’t hear what’s being said.”
“I listen. I hear. It’s just that I can’t believe that this whole … charade was performed for the sole purpose of your personal entertainment.”
Greer tipped his umbrella to squint toward the thick, lead-hued clouds overhead. “Building and running a mega-corporation like mine has taught me many things. I tell you this, McGill, since you seem intent on becoming an entrepreneur and I see no reason why you shouldn’t learn from me. Organization is crucial. You have to be able to divide labor and delegate authority. The duplication of any effort is a waste of time and money.”
“In other words,” Derek said, wiping rain from his jaw with the sleeve of his jacket, “I was doing it, so why should you. But you knew about the girl. Early on you must have figured she had the files. Still you sat back.”
Greer looked off toward the lake. His expression was calm, his tone nonchalant. He might have been chatting about the weather. “A man has to be careful, especially a politician. It’s the media. They’re out of control nowadays, too damned nosy, too damned conscientious. Everything is seen, noted, reported; and if the politician in question has his sights set on an even higher office, that could spell trouble.”
Derek could only think of one “higher office” to which Greer would aspire, and the thought made him sick. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Greer. Okay, I may have lost it this time, but some day, somewhere, it’ll catch up with you.”
One brow rose and fell in a shrug of unconcern. “I’m cautious.”
“No one’s that cautious.”
“I’m smart.”
“You’re arrogant. You thrive on manipulating people for the sense of power it gives you.”
Slowly, almost absently, Greer panned the farmhouse and its setting. He sniffed, then nodded. “Good-looking place you’ve got. It really is. Good-looking woman, too.”
Derek’s spine grew ramrod-straight. A pulse throbbed at his temple, a muscle at his jaw.
Greer sent him a sidelong glance. “Does she know about your background?”
Derek sucked in the inside of his cheek and closed his molars on the moist flesh.
“Tough having to live down a past like that. Doubly tough with a record of your own—speaking of which, I was surprised your parole officer didn’t balk at all that traveling. They usually like ex-cons to stay put so they can keep an eye on them.” He paused. “You did report the traveling, didn’t you?”
Other than the slight, involuntary flare of his nostrils, Derek didn’t move.
“Too bad you couldn’t get a job back in the city,” Greer said. “When I heard you were getting out, I went around, spoke with a few people.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Derek said very slowly.
“I tried to tell them how dedicated you were to your work, but they seemed to feel that hiring a convicted murderer would be an unnecessary risk. And to be honest, they had a point. To take on a man prone to violence, to sink money into a project—”
“I could kill you, Greer.”
Greer grinned. “I’ll bet you could.”
“Get off my property.”
“As I hear it, it’s your wife’s property.”
“Get off my land before I strangle you.” He was clenching and unclenching his hands, itching to do just that.
“Is that a threat?”
“More like a promise,” Derek vowed. His hair was wet, falling in spikes on his forehead. His skin was wet, too, and his clothes; but he was oblivious to that. The full force of his concentration was on Greer, who looked for all the world to be enjoying himself.
“Now why doesn’t that scare me?” he asked. “Maybe because we’ve got a pack of witnesses who’d have you pinned to the ground in no time, and because you’d be back in prison on assault charges before you had time to pee, and because once back there, you wouldn’t be getting out so quick. The assault of a candidate for the United States Senate is a serious offense.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice, goading Derek for everything he was worth. “Come on, McGill, try it. I dare you.”
Derek wanted to. The wild look in his eyes attested to it. He wanted to haul back and hit the man so hard that he’d go flying, and then he’d kick him, kick him again and again—just as he’d been kicked that day in the prison shadows—until Greer begged for mercy. And then, only then, would he decide whether he’d let him live.
“What’s the matter, McGill?” Greer taunted. “Don’t have the guts?”
Derek gave that imaginary body another hard kick. His voice mirrored the force. “I have the guts.”
“Then what are you waiting for? You wanted to get me with those files, but you can’t.” He grinned. “The files are gone, McGill. You’re as powerless as ever. What do you say to that?”
Derek didn’t say a thing.
So Greer looked around. “Mmm, you’ve done okay. There really is something to be said for country living. Relaxed and laid-back. A little cottage business, pretty farmhouse, some land. Not bad for second-best.”
Derek took a step forward.
“And the wife. Bet she’s a hot little thing, getting it on with an ex-con. I heard about those scenes in the prison yard. I heard.”
“I could kill you,” Derek seethed.
“So why don’t you?”
Why didn’t he? In the course of a minute’s time, he was thinking about his “hot little thing” of a wife, thinking that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, thinking that he liked country living, liked being relaxed and laid-back, liked having a cottage business, a pretty farmhouse and some land. He was thinking that he liked running on country roads and sculling on the river, that he liked the idea of being near Nicky, and that he had enough story ideas to keep three teams at work. He was thinking that there was nothing second-best about what he had and that he wouldn’t change places with Noel Greer for all the money, all the power, all the glory in the world.
Why didn’t he kill Greer? With a look of pure disdain, he gathered just enough saliva to spit at his feet. “Because you’re … not … worth it,” he said and turned to walk away, only to falter when he saw Sabrina standing a dozen feet off. She was looking anxious, a little tired, strangely excited.
Feeling an odd serenity wash over him, he started walking again. When he’d reached her side, he put an arm around her shoulders and started moving her toward the fire marshal’s car.
She cast a perplexed glance over her shoulder at an even more perplexed Greer, then said, “Derek, there’s something—”
“How’s J. B.?”
“Fine. Derek, we didn’t—”
“How are you?” he asked, searching her face.
“Fine. Derek, what was he doing—”
“He’s leaving,” Derek said. They’d reached the fire marshal. “Sir, that man,” he tossed his head toward Greer, “is trespassing on private property. I would appreciate it if you would call the police for me. I have something more important to do just now.”
The fire marshal, who doubled as the town’s postmaster and knew and respected Derek as a local, said, “Sure thing, Mr. McGill.”
Derek steered Sabrina toward the house. “The most incredible thing just happened.”
“With Greer?”
“Uh-huh. He showed up here to rub my face in the
fact that the files are lost.”
“But—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, then removed it to open the farmhouse door. “I was standing out there, looking around at the mess, wondering how I was ever going to pull my life back together, when he showed up. Then he started in on me, and I thought I’d explode. I honestly, truly came close to smashing him.”
They had passed through the kitchen and were nearing the bedroom. Derek had already dropped Sabrina’s hand to remove his wet jacket. He hooked it on a doorknob as he passed, then started on the buttons of his shirt.
“But I didn’t. And I can live with it, Sabrina. I can live with the loss of those files—”
“You don’t—”
“Because I know. I know the truth. I know what I did and what he did, and I’m the one who’ll be able to sleep at night with a clean conscience.” Having tossed his shirt on the bed, he ducked into the bathroom for a towel. “Yeah, I’m angry,” he said as he emerged rubbing his hair. “I’m angry that he got away with it. I’m angry that he’ll win that election, because the people of New York, the people of the country are the losers.” He dragged the damp towel over the soot on his face, then abruptly dropped the hand that held the towel and looked Sabrina in the eye. “But I can’t live with the anger anymore. I’m tired of it. I have a future, we have a future, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that anger screw it up.”
With deliberate movements, he wiped the soot from the back of his hands. His eyes held conviction. “I did my best. I found those files, and if Joey Padilla is anywhere up there”—he shot a glance skyward—“he knows what happened. I may have been Greer’s patsy in that murder, but I paid for my part. I’ve had enough of the guilt. It’s done.” He looked down at his hands as he worked the dirt away. “Had I been a chip off the old block, I’d have beaten Greer to a pulp—correction, I’d be looking around now for someone to do it for me. But I’m not. I’m not my old man. I’m me.”
He let out the rest of that breath, took another, let it out too. Then, raising his eyes, he said in a voice that was deep and filed with emotion, “I’m free, Sabrina. Free.”
Sabrina, who’d been forced to quietly listen to his speech when she realized that he wouldn’t let her talk, felt such an intense surge of love and respect that tears came to her eyes. He was free. He was beautiful. He was here.
And she’d thought herself a failure? How could that be? She had a warm home filled with friends and laughter, a gratifying career at her beck and call, a husband she adored and a new baby—yes, Nicky, a brother or sister—on the way. A failure? Not possible.
For the first time in her life, she felt she truly knew who she was. No one could write quite the way she could. No one could buy farmhouses, or strip furniture or bake banana muffins quite the way she could. And no one could satisfy Derek quite the way she could.
She had arrived.
Crossing the room on feet that were even lighter than they’d been before, she slid her arms around his waist and pressed her tear-stained cheek to his chest. “Love you,” she whispered on a broken breath. Then, just as Derek was about to cinch the embrace, she slid from his grasp. “Wait.”
“Sabrina…”
She was already out the door. He heard her dash up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Her footsteps receded as she ran down the hall. He heard nothing for a minute, then a crescendoing patter as she retraced her steps. When she reappeared at the bedroom door, her cheeks were flushed. Eyes holding his, she approached him slowly, looking pleased, if apprehensive. A foot away she held out the bundle she’d been clutching to her chest.
Derek’s eyes widened on the bundle. Then they flew to Sabrina’s face in disbelief.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained softly and with a bit of guilt. “Last night. When all was said and done, I was as excited about these as you were, so I got up, took them from the barn and sat up in the den reading them. By the time I was tired, I didn’t feel like traipsing back to the barn, so I locked them in the desk and went to bed. Then things happened so fast this morning that I didn’t realize what it meant until I was on the way to the hospital with J. B. and Ann. I tried calling, but everyone must have been outside.”
Derek continued to stare at her in utter amazement.
“Here.” She shoved the files at his belly. “Take them. They make me nervous. When I think what Greer did to try to destroy them, I get a little ill.”
Derek cleared his throat. He looked down at the files.
“Take them, Derek,” she pleaded.
Hanging the towel over his shoulder, he took the files and tossed them onto the nearby dresser. Then he took Sabrina in his arms, which was the only taking he really wanted to do, and held her as tightly as he dared.
She didn’t seem to mind the crush. “Will we write the story?” she asked, her breath soft against his throat.
His arms were trembling. It was a minute before he spoke, and then his voice was hoarse. “First, we call David and tell him what’s happened. Then we find the nearest copying place and have two copies made of that file.
“Two?”
“One for a safe-deposit box in town, the other for David’s vault.” Cupping her head, he held it to his heart. “Then David, you, me, and the original are going straight to Washington. I think the department of justice will be interested in what we have here.”
“But what about the newspapers?”
“They’ll have to wait. You’ll write your book, I’ll get my revenge, but all in good time.” He went still, reexperiencing that incredible disbelief. “The den. You had them in the den. Christ, I can’t believe it!”
Sabrina could hear his smile. Seconds later, when he lifted her face to his, she saw it.
“You are a remarkable woman. Lord, do I love you.” He gave her a long, deep, tongue-tangling kiss that left her lightheaded.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if the files had burned to a crisp in the barn after all.”
“You bet I would. That was what I realized when I was with Greer. The files I can live without.” His eyes roamed her face. “You I can’t.”
A failure? With a man like Derek saying words like that to her? He’d walked away from Greer. Despite the hatred, the fury, the months of plotting revenge, he’d walked away. For her. How could she possibly be a failure, with a victory like that?
Swallowing the emotion that threatened to rob her of speech, she said, “As it happens, you have us both.”
Very gently, he kissed the tip of her nose, then her cheek, and there was something about the gentleness—or perhaps the “us both”—that directed Sabrina’s thoughts.
“Derek?”
He kissed her chin.
“I want a girl.”
He went still for an instant, then, cautiously, raised his head. “You do?”
“Yes.”
He inhaled a long, deep breath and closed his eyes in a moment’s silent thanks. Then he looked at her and said in a very soft, very caring, very Derek voice, “You do know that it’s a little late to be placing special orders. We require a full nine months’ lead time on items like these…”
Rooting her fingers in his hair, she grinned up at him until her eyes grew misty and her throat knotted. Then, rising on tiptoe, she coiled her arms around his neck and hung on tight.
Returning her hug, Derek basked in her sun, renewed and stronger than ever as it warmed his soul. At that moment, he felt more love, both outgoing and incoming, than he’d have believed possible. And at that moment, he knew they’d made it.
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s next book
BLUEPRINTS
Available in June 2015 in hardcover from St. Martin’s Press
One
The rain let up just in time. The final day of taping for the spring season of Gut It! was about to begin, and though the sun hadn’t yet appeared, Caroline MacAfee’s hopes were high. Well behind the stream of work vehicles pulling up on the road, the western sky was gi
ving way to scattered patches of blue, as the June breeze pushed gunmetal clouds east, toward Boston and the sea.
How to describe what she felt as she stood at the head of an all-new cobblestone drive looking at the rebuilt facade of what had once been a weary old Cape? There was relief that the hard work was done, and surprise—always surprise—that everything had come together so well. There was also a sense of ownership. Caroline hadn’t asked to be the mouthpiece of the show, but after nearly ten years as host, it was her baby as much as anyone’s.
Gut It! was a local public television production, a home renovation series headlined by women—specifically, the women of MacAfee Homes. It touted neither high drama nor celebrity antics, just real work by real people with whom an audience of real women identified. The taping was done by a single cameraman, who was male but good, and directed by an executive producer, who was female and smart. If said producer was also prickly at times, the success of the show forgave it. Over the course of twenty projects, Gut It! had built a cult following that Caroline believed would only grow with this one.
Glancing skyward, she rubbed her hands together and grinned at the camera. “I wore yellow today to inspire the weather gods.” She hitched her head at the approaching blue. “But how perfect is this? Welcome back to Longmeadow, Massachusetts, where we’re putting the finishing touches on the latest Gut It! redo. As you can see”—she stepped aside for a worker shouldering a large roll of sod—“things are pretty busy right now.” She skipped back again, this time with an excited “Hey,” for a pair of furniture movers carrying a sofa toward the house. “Great fabric,” she called after them and told the camera, “Our homeowners are planning to sleep here for the first time tonight, so we’re hustling today. Lots to do.”
Inviting viewers along with her chin, she started to walk. Talk came easily. She hadn’t expected that, when she stumbled into this role, but she and the camera had become friends. “It’s been six months since we began work on the small Cape that Rob and Diana LaValle put in our care. They needed more space, but since the house was originally built by Diana’s grandparents and held the emotions of four generations, a teardown was out of the question. Our challenge was to preserve the heart of the house while we doubled its size, updated its features, and made its systems state-of-the-art efficient and green. Today is the day of reckoning. Let’s see how we did.”
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