by Nora Roberts
“God, don’t sneak up on me when I’m spending money I really don’t need to spend.”
“On what? Oh.” Mac shrugged when she saw the bakery supply site. “Tools, we all need them. Listen, Laurel ...”
“Emma told you.” Laurel heaved out a breath. “You’d better not be here to apologize for Linda.”
“I’m allowed to be sorry.” Mac stuffed her hands in her pockets. “My first reaction was to call her and ream her, but that only gives her attention. Which is what she wants most next to money. So I’m going to ignore it, and that way she gets nothing. Which will piss her off. A lot.”
“Good.”
“Yeah, but since I’m going to ignore it, I have to be sorry—and you have to let me.”
“Okay, be sorry.” Deliberately Laurel looked at her watch, counted to ten. “Now, be finished being sorry.”
“All right.You know what I wish? I wish I didn’t have to invite her to the wedding. But I do.”
“We’ll handle it.”
“I know. Maybe a miracle will happen and she’ll behave herself. I know,” Mac added with a half laugh when Laurel cast her eyes to the ceiling. “But as a bride I’m allowed the fantasy.”
“She’ll never understand you, or us. That’s her loss.”
“It really is.” Leaning down, Mac kissed the top of Laurel’s head. “I’ll see you later.”
Whatever crumbs of self-pity remained were swept away as Mac left.
All done with it, Laurel thought, and bought herself a brand-new double guitar cutter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LAUREL WASN’T SURE WHERE THE IMPULSE CAME FROM, BUT SHE followed it to Del’s law offices. Though she rarely visited there, for personal or legal reasons, she knew the setup.
The front door of the dignified old town house opened, as she deemed it should, to a dignified foyer. That angled into a pretty reception area, with leafy plants in copper pots, antique tables, generous chairs, muted colors warm with the flow of light.
Offices maintained privacy for clients behind thick old doors, lovingly restored, and time-faded rugs highlighted the deep tones of the wide-planked floors.
Del, she knew, appreciated the mix of the dignified and the warmly casual.
She stepped out of the sweltering heat into the cool where Annie, a woman she’d gone to school with, manned the desk and its computer.
Annie shifted, and her professional smile spread to a friendly grin. “Laurel, hi! How are you? Haven’t seen you in months.”
“They keep me chained to the oven. Hey, you cut your hair. I love it.”
Annie tried out a little head toss. “Sassy?”
“Absolutely.”
“And best, it takes about two minutes in the morning.”
“So, how are you otherwise?”
“I’m great. We should have a drink sometime soon, and catch up.”
“I’d like that. I brought something for Del.” She lifted the bakery box she carried.
“If it’s anything like the cake you made for Dara, I just gained five pounds looking at the box. He’s with a client. I can just—”
“Don’t interrupt him,” Laurel said. “I’ll leave it with you.”
“I don’t know if I can be trusted.”
With a laugh, Laurel set the box on the desk. “There’s enough to share. I had to come into town, so I just brought these by before I—”
“Hold that thought,” Annie told her as her phone rang. “Good morning, Brown and Associates.”
Laurel wandered away while Annie handled the call, taking a casual study of the art on the walls. She knew they were originals, and from area artists. The Browns had always been serious patrons of the arts, and involved in local interests.
It occurred to her she’d never given much thought to how Del had set up his practice. After his parents died, she remembered now, and shortly before they’d formed Vows. They’d probably been among his first clients, now that she thought of it.
She’d been working at the Willows, keeping her own finances afloat while Vows took its first events. She’d been too busy, she supposed, and too damn tired to think about how Del must have been juggling his own fledgling practice, the details of his parents’ estates, the legalities of Vows as a business and a partnership.
They’d all been scrambling like mad with plans, obligations, test runs, part-time work to fill the coffers. But Del had never seemed rushed, had he? she asked herself.
The Brown cool, she supposed. As well as that seemingly innate Brown confidence that whatever they outlined they’d make work.
They’d grieved together, she remembered. Hard, hard times. But the grief and the hard had acted as another kind of glue, fusing them together.
She’d moved in with Parker, Laurel thought, and had never really, not seriously, looked back. And Del had always been there, handling details that had whizzed right by her. She’d understood it, she thought now, but had she given him credit for it?
She glanced over as someone came in the door. The young couple held hands, looked happy. Looked familiar, Laurel realized.
“Cassie?” She’d made them her Bridal Lace cake in the spring. “Hi. And ...” Shit, what was the groom’s name?
“Laurel? Hello!” Cassie held out a friendly hand. “It’s wonderful to see you. Zack and I were just showing our wedding pictures to some friends the other night, and talking about how we’re looking forward to Fran and Michael’s wedding in a couple months at your place. I can’t wait to see what you do for them.”
If she’d been Parker, she’d remember precisely who Fran and Michael were, and all the details of the wedding confirmed so far.
Since she wasn’t Parker, Laurel just smiled. “I hope they’re as happy as you two look.”
“I don’t know if they could be, because we’re flying.”
“About to buy our first house,” Zack told her.
“Congratulations.”
“It’s wonderful and scary, and oh, Dara. Everyone’s right on time.”
Laurel supposed Annie had given Dara the signal, and turned to say her hellos.
“Oh, that cake.” With a laugh, Dara gave Laurel a quick hug. “It was so cute—and so delicious.”
“How’s the baby?”
“Wonderful. I’ve got several hundred baby pictures I could show you if you don’t make a quick escape.”
“I’d love to see baby pictures,” Cassie said. “I love babies,” she added with a wistful look at Zack.
“House first, then baby.”
“I can help you with the first part. Come right on back.” Dara gave Laurel a wink, then led the clients off.
Laurel heard Annie’s phone ring again—busy place—and decided she’d just slip out. Even as she had the thought, she heard Del’s voice.
“Try not to worry. You’ve done everything right, and I’m going to do everything I can to get this resolved quickly.”
“I’m so grateful. Mr. Brown, I don’t know what I’d do without your help. It’s all so ...”The woman’s voice broke.
Though Laurel stepped back, she caught a glimpse of Del and his client, and the way Del put an arm around the woman’s shoulders as she struggled with tears.
“I’m sorry. I thought I got all that out in your office.”
“Don’t be sorry. I want you to go home and try to put this out of your mind.”
His hand rubbed up and down the woman’s arm. Laurel had seen him use that gesture of comfort and support—or felt it herself—countless times.
“Focus on your family, Carolyn, and leave all this to me. I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.”
“All right. And thank you, thank you again for everything.”
“Just remember what I told you.” As he walked his client to the door, he spotted Laurel. Surprise crossed his face briefly, before he turned his attention back to the woman he led out. He murmured something that had the client blinking at tears again before she nodded, and left.
“Well, hi,
” he said to Laurel.
“I’m so in the way. Sorry. I just dropped off something for you, then a couple people came in for Dara, and I knew them, so ...”
“Zack and Cassie Reinquist.You did their wedding.”
“God, you and Parker have spreadsheets for brains. It’s scary. Anyway, I’ll clear the field so you can—”
“Come on back. I’ve got a few minutes before my next appointment. What did you bring me?”
“I’ll get it.” She walked back to pick up the bakery box.
“Sorry,” Annie murmured, tipping the phone away from her mouth. “Floodgates.”
Laurel made a “don’t worry about it” gesture, and took the box with her.
“You brought me a cake?”
“No.” She walked back to his office with him, where the sunlight streamed through tall windows, where more antiques gleamed—and the desk she knew had been his father’s, and his father’s before—held prominence.
Laurel set the box down, opened the top. “I brought you cupcakes.”
“You brought me cupcakes.” Obviously puzzled, he looked in the box at the dozen cheerfully iced cakes. “They look good.”
“They’re happy food.”
She studied his face. Just as Emma had claimed about hers, Laurel knew that face. “You look like you could use some happy.”
“Do I? Well.” He bent to give her an absent kiss. “That makes me happy. How about some coffee to go with the cupcakes?”
She hadn’t intended to stay—her own schedule was so damn tight as it was. But, oh, he really did look like he needed a little happy. “Sure. Your client looked pretty distressed,” she began as he walked over to the coffee machine on the Hepplewhite buffet. “You probably can’t talk about it.”
“In general terms. Her mother died recently after a long, difficult illness.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was the primary caregiver, and as her mother’s condition required more—and it was important to them both that her mother die at home—she took an extended leave of absence from her job so she could care for her mother full-time.”
“It takes a lot of love and dedication to do that.”
“Yes, it does. She has a brother in California. He came in a few times, helped out some. She has a sister in Oyster Bay—who was apparently too busy to visit or help more than a couple times a month, if that.”
He handed Laurel her coffee, leaned back against his desk. He took out one of the cupcakes, studied it.
“Not everyone has a lot of love and dedication.”
“No, not everyone,” he murmured. “There was insurance, of course, but it doesn’t cover everything. What it didn’t my client paid for out of pocket until her mother found out, and insisted on putting her daughter’s name on her personal checking account.”
“Which takes love, and trust.”
“Yes.” He smiled a little. “It does.”
“It sounds like, even though it had to be a terrible thing to go through, they had something special.Your client and her mother.”
“Yes, you’re right. The leave of absence was a financial burden, but my client and her family dealt with it. Her husband and kids pitched in when they could. Do you know what it must be like to care for a dying parent, one who at the end is essentially bedridden, incontinent, who requires special food, constant care?”
Not just sad, she realized. Angry. Very angry. “I can only imagine. It must be a terrible strain, physically, emotionally.”
“Two years, with the last six months all but around the clock. She bathed her, changed her, did her laundry, fed her, took care of her finances, cleaned her house, sat with her, read to her. Her mother changed her will, left the house, its contents—but for some specifics—and the bulk of her estate to her daughter. Now that she’s gone, now that the client and her brother from California made all the funeral arrangements, the sister’s contesting the will. She’s accusing my client of unduly influencing their mother in her favor. She’s livid, and has privately accused her of stealing money, jewelry, household items, turning their dying mother against her.”
When Laurel said nothing, Del set his own coffee aside. “Initially my client wanted to give it to her, just let her have whatever she wanted. Between the grief and the stress, she didn’t think she could handle any more. But her husband and—to his credit—the brother wouldn’t have it.”
“So they came to you.”
“The sister hired a lawyer who fits her like a fucking glove. I’m going to kick their asses.”
“My money’s on you.”
“The sister had a chance. She knew her mother was dying, that there was a finite time left. But she didn’t use it to be with her, to say good-bye, to say all the things most people think they have endless time to say. Now she wants her cut, and she’s willing to destroy her relationship, such as it is, with her siblings. Add to her sister’s grief. For what? For money. I don’t understand how ... Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It occurs to me I’ve never thought very much about what you do. I just figured lawyer stuff.”
He managed a smile. “I do lawyer stuff. This is lawyer stuff.”
“No, I mean, just the lawyer stuff that pretty much annoys the rest of the world. Sign this, file that—and the this and that is so complicated and written in such ridiculous language it’s more annoying.”
“We lawyer types enjoy our ‘whereases.’ ”
“With or without the stupid ‘whereases,’ it’s about people.Your client’s still going to grieve, but her stress is lightened because she knows you’re behind her. It matters a lot what you do, and I’d never thought about it.”
She lifted her hand to touch his face. “Eat a cupcake.”
To please her, she imagined, he took a bite. And this time when he smiled, it reached his eyes. “It’s good. It’s happy. This one’s gotten under my skin. I don’t think I realized how much until you were here to dump on.”
“Is it what you were working on last night?”
“Primarily”
“And why you’re tired today. You hardly ever look tired. I could come over tonight, fix you a meal.”
“Don’t you have a rehearsal tonight, and an event tomorrow?”
“I can shuffle things around tonight. Tomorrow’s tomorrow.”
“I should look tired more often. How about I come to you? I’ve been buried here or at home the last couple of days. Change of scene wouldn’t hurt. Neither would being with you. I’ve missed being with you.”
Her heart melted, and she went into his arms for a kiss that was anything but absent. When he rested his cheek on the top of her head, his phone beeped. “Next client,” he murmured.
“I’m clearing out. Share the cupcakes.”
“Maybe.”
“If you eat the dozen, you’ll be sick—and entirely too full for that meal. Though you might want to remember I’m a better baker than I am a cook.”
“I can pick up a pizza,” he called out, and heard her laugh as she walked away.
He took another moment with his coffee and his cupcake, and thoughts of her. He hadn’t meant to say all that about the client, and her situation. Hadn’t realized, really, how angry he was about that situation. And the client didn’t pay him to be angry, but to represent her interests.
Or would pay him, once he’d kicked her sister’s lawyer’s ass. He’d waived a retainer. He could afford it, and he simply couldn’t justify taking one from a woman who’d dealt with all she’d dealt with.
But the main thing had been he hadn’t understood just how much it helped to have someone who’d listen to him spew, who’d understand why this particular case hit home with him.
He didn’t have to explain to Laurel. She just knew.
An invaluable gift, he mused.
And there’d been something about the way she’d touched his face—just that simple, understanding gesture, that had something inside him shifting. He wasn’t sure what it was, what it meant, or
what it meant that every time he looked at her now he saw something new, something else.
How could you know someone all your life, and still discover something new?
He’d have to think about it, he told himself. Setting the bakery box with its happy food beside his coffeemaker, he walked out to meet his next client.
SHE SHOULD’VE LET HIM BRING PIZZA, LAUREL THOUGHT AS SHE raced around the main kitchen to set up. She still had cakes and other desserts to complete in her kitchen, and the construction noise had picked today to peak.
She couldn’t possibly make dinner there.
“I could put it together for you,” Mrs. Grady commented.
“And that would be cheating. I can hear what you’re not saying.”
“You’re hearing what you think I’m not saying when what I’m actually not saying is it’d be cheating if you pretended you made dinner.”
Laurel paused a moment, actively yearned to take that route. She could just tell Del Mrs. G had done the cooking as she’d been too busy to do it herself. He wouldn’t care, but ...
“I said I’d do it. Plus you’re going out with your friends tonight.” She blew out a breath. “So, field green salad with a nice balsamic vinaigrette, seafood linguine, and the bread. It’s fairly simple, right?”
“Simple enough. You’re in a dither over it. And him.”
“It’s food. I know how I am about it, but I can’t be otherwise. It has to be perfect, and that includes presentation.” Absently, she adjusted the clip holding up her hair. “You know, Mrs. G, if I ever have kids, I’ll probably take twenty minutes to perfect the presentation of a PB and J. They’ll all need therapy.”
“I think you’ll do well enough on that score.”
“I never really thought about it. Having kids, I mean.” She got out the field greens, the grape tomatoes, the carrots she intended to straw, to wash, dry, and chill before she prepared the salad. “There’s always been so much to do right now, that I haven’t thought much about someday.”
“And now you are?” Mrs. G began to dry the greens Laurel washed.
“I guess it’s the sort of thing that keeps passing through my mind. Maybe it’s a biological clock thing.”