Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  “They’re just everyday pictures, from home, from the holidays. That’s Mia with my family. She’s very close to my sisters. Here she’s in the kitchen, Thanksgiving. She loves to cook. It’s her favorite holiday.”

  “I know,” Flynn said dully.

  “And this,” he said, pointing to the next one. “Mia broke her ankle skiing. Six weeks on the couch. That was actually before we were married.”

  “How, um, how long have you been . . . married?”

  “Two years this fall. It took me four years to convince her. I never could understand the hesitation. She claims it was cautiousness.” He looked at Flynn, pulling in a difficult breath. “Now I suspect that’s debatable.”

  Flynn nodded. The first six years. Mia spent that time believing he’d vanished without a trace, hurting, wondering why. There was an unnerving pang of gratefulness toward Michael Wells. He didn’t want to think of Mia as lonely and miserable. It was small comfort, but Flynn had spent the last dozen years under the impression that a life without him was what she’d chosen. He looked at Michael, feeling a little ill. He didn’t want to owe him anything either.

  But the photos weren’t as simple as Michael claimed. Flynn was wise to the story they told. They graduated; from innocent family candids to the broken ankle he’d nursed, straight on to the big-ticket items strategically placed last. Mia posing in front of a Sold sign, a handsome two-story brick house behind her. Then in another, pulling a giant red ribbon off a shiny Mercedes-Benz. Flynn stared at the last one longer than the others. They never had talked much about the future. Mia because she was hiding from it, Flynn because he knew he’d have to surrender it.

  “Actually, there’s something more important here than Mia smiling or the material stuff.”

  “Really? You mean you didn’t bring your stock portfolio along too?”

  “I wanted to give you a sense of the security she has. Mia doesn’t worry about where she’s going to live or how long it will be until I tire of her and decide to take off. Questions, doubts like that, they don’t enter this marriage. And they never will as long as I’m her husband. I have no idea what you’re prepared to offer her, but unless you can do at least as good as this, think it over. Because if Mia goes through with this, makes what I believe is a terrible choice, and you end up hurting her again . . . you will be dead to her, because I will fucking kill you myself.” Flynn shoved the pictures back at him, turning away. “Are you listening to me?” The lack of response baited Michael’s anger. “I’ve got to wonder about a guy who drifts into town and spends a year taking advantage of an innocent college girl. When he’s had enough, he cuts and runs. I was there, you know.” Flynn turned, furrowing his brow. “Not in any meaningful way . . . not to Mia. I was a grad student; Roxanne and I were study partners. But I noticed Mia. Hell, who wouldn’t?” Flynn had to agree, offering a barely perceptible nod as he turned back to the window. “Even then I wondered what she saw in someone like you. If you ask me, she was spellbound, if not brainwashed.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Flynn said. He turned fast, taking a foreboding step in Michael’s direction. It set off too many visions from a past he couldn’t forget.

  “What were you doing to her? Her attachment to you is twisted at best. How could someone like you keep such a tight hold on a woman like Mia? Of course, she wasn’t quite all grown up back then. She was a naïve college girl with a fat trust fund at her disposal.”

  “Mia and I never discussed that, not once. And you underestimate her. She was smarter than that.”

  “Regardless. Your influence was inexplicable . . . unsavory. You didn’t belong in her life. Yet you managed to maintain the kind of control reserved for military interrogations and POWs.” Flynn swallowed hard as Michael struck a frayed nerve. He closed the distance, taking a sharp poke at Flynn’s shoulder. “So you tell me, Sergeant McDermott, what were the rules of engagement? A questionable past, no apparent future—what kept her attention? With your military background, you were wise to control tactics she’s never heard of. You were in total control of that relationship, giving the orders. Who knows what else, maybe slapping her around a little if she got out of line—”

  That was it; the trigger was pulled. Flynn’s hands gripped the lapels of Michael’s suit, prepared to redefine the concept of slapping someone around. Michael was having none of it, grabbing Flynn with equal bravado, quickly shoving him against the wall. His weakened state put Flynn at a momentary disadvantage. His mind took over, containing the screaming pain. He deftly turned the tables, flipping Michael around, his back now pinned to the wall.

  “I don’t have to explain a goddamn thing to you. You got to be with her for six fucking years, married to her for two of them. I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me want to ‘slap somebody around.’ Mia belongs to me! Houses, cars, ski trips, stock in Disneyland—it won’t change a thing.”

  “I don’t have to change anything. I’m married to her!”

  “A temporary problem, I assure you.” Flynn’s forearm jammed sharply into Michael’s throat. But after a near-lethal second, he let go, backing away. He wasn’t that man anymore.

  Smoothing the front of his suit, Michael appeared undaunted if not disappointed. “Shame, had you done some real damage it would have gone a long way toward making my point. She’d never forgive you.”

  “Believe me; if I’d done some real damage, you’d need this hospital more than me.”

  “As for Mia belonging to you . . . well, I have a life, a marriage certificate, and a bed that says otherwise.” Michael’s confidence was too steady. Flynn took a harder look, guessing there was more. “I also know how far I’m willing to go to ensure Mia’s happiness. So let me ask you the same thing: What are you willing to do for her?”

  He wanted to answer, twelve years in prison, minimum, but he couldn’t see the advantage. “Anything. I’d do anything for her.”

  “And if getting out of her life is what’s best, would you do that?” Michael stepped back, allowing for distance and doubt.

  “If that was what she wanted . . .”

  “As I said, Mia’s happy—or was, until you disrupted what was a very pleasant life. In fact, her happiness is about to expand tenfold. Mia’s about to see a dream come true . . .” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “One that doesn’t include you. I’ve spent months seeing to it. There’s something to which she’s totally devoted—more so than you or me. Actually, I’m willing to bet that its genesis was sparked by another man entirely. Eco-friendly, green commercial . . .”

  “Holistic design. I’m aware; I was there at the beginning, long before she even understood what it meant, what she was designing.”

  “Good, because I’ve been around for the trial-and-error phase, watched the years go by as she’s tried to get it off the ground, make it sell. And you know Mia. It has nothing to do with money; she’s only interested in the impact, the benefits—whatever she believes them to be. Right now, she has an opportunity to see that happen. And, Flynn, take my word for it when I tell you it’s a sure thing.”

  “What’d you do, convince Congress to pass a law mandating holistic, eco-friendly design?”

  “Not quite, but know this: For what I’ve invested, Mia’s happiness is the only return I’ll be getting. And I will protect my investment. One thing I’ve learned about holistic design: Lots of people talk, but very few are willing to commit. At least not to the standard she’s looking for. There’s no steady demand, not like with her regular designs—which are fabulous, not to mention lucrative. That makes these designs a risk and nearly impossible to mass market. But thanks to some creative financing and project specific negotiations, an investor has stepped forward. Aaron Hough. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  Flynn recalled the news article, Mia pictured with the developer. The one who said he was wildly enthusiastic about her work. “Yeah, it’s familiar.”

  “It seems he was able to acquire commercial property on a na
tional scale, at a more than fair interest rate and exceptional terms.” Michael held up a hand, warding off any assumptions. “All quite legal, just incredibly stacked in his favor. Sometimes you have to go beyond what’s customary to secure what’s necessary—I’m sure you understand, not everything in the world can operate on altruism.”

  He snickered. “Yeah, you could say I have a clue about that.”

  “Part of those terms includes Hough’s dedication to Mia’s project. He’s willing to go green all the way—mainstream every one of her ideas.”

  Flynn’s chin tipped higher, piecing together Michael’s plan. “Not because he believes it, but because of the financial deal you cut for him?”

  “Like I said, not everything in life can be based on an altruistic cause.”

  “And she has no idea you finagled this? Mia believes she achieved this on her own?”

  “Do you want to tell her otherwise?” It was a risk-filled question for both men, Flynn seeing the wager in Michael’s eyes. “She gets there. That’s all that matters to me. I’m going to see that Mia’s dream comes to fruition—guaranteed.”

  “But now there’s an addendum to that guarantee. You’ll see to it as long as I’m not in the picture.”

  Michael shrugged, his stare intent. “Look at it any way you need to. But there’s something else you might want to factor in. According to Mia, executed on a mass scale, holistic design could increase the average life expectancy, save a few people from an early grave.” He paused, laying down his bottom line. “Don’t you think her father would be incredibly proud? If he was alive to see it—he’s the third guy in this curious triangle. The success of her designs won’t bring him back, but it will give her peace of mind and some residual approval.”

  A huge sigh heaved in and out of Flynn. Roxanne’s voice rumbled through his head: no dark past, no questions about the future, that’s what Michael Wells offered. And while his methods were doubtful, they weren’t without merit. Flynn couldn’t take that away—and offer Mia what in return? He’d leave this hospital and do what? Go where? It wasn’t the life he wanted to give her back in Athens; it was no better now. Sure, he was a free man, having paid a debt that wasn’t his, but was that what mattered?

  It was as if Michael was in his head, reading his thoughts. “Like I said, unless you can do at least as good, you might want to reconsider what you’re doing here. Maybe this isn’t about what you want.” For two men who couldn’t have more in common, their mutual stare was filled with distrust. “Do the right thing, Flynn. Bow out; if you truly care for Mia, ensure her happiness. You’re equally in a position to do that.”

  Chapter 29

  “I understand, Aaron. I know you’re a busy man. I had a flat tire, but I’m on my way. I have the rest of the presentation with me.” Mia pressed her hand over the cell phone. “Could we speed this up a bit? Whatever the fare is, I’ll double it.”

  “You got it, lady,” the cab driver said, darting from the right lane into the left.

  “Yes, Aaron, of course I’m still here. Well, yes,” she hedged. “I understand that I’m a half-hour late.” Mia glanced at her watch for the tenth time, having hoped it was running fast. “There was a personal matter that came up and I—No, not another accident,” Mia said, her credibility ticking away with the time. “I understand that you’re waiting at the site right now.” She tried countering his sarcasm. “No, I don’t know what your time breaks down to at an hourly rate . . . Really? That much. If you could just—” But he hung up before she could come up with a reply to “You’ve got five minutes to get here.”

  They were still blocks away, rush-hour traffic slowing them down. Raking a hand through her hair, Mia guessed a tripled fare wouldn’t convince the cabby to drive on the sidewalk. She took a deep breath, thinking about what she could control. Organization. She unzipped her portfolio, realizing that she had never transferred her final drawings to computer graphics. How incredibly professional, she thought, rolling her eyes. Perhaps she could dazzle Hough with some evidentiary data. People in his position always liked to talk numbers. Shuffling through the paperwork, the FedEx envelope slipped from between the pages. Her eyes glossed over it, ready to tuck it aside. But the return label caught her attention: HOUGH DEVELOPMENT—yet it was clearly addressed to Michael. “What in the world . . .” She tore it open, and pages fell onto her lap, something that looked like an invoice. “Nineteen thousand . . .” she said, looking at a page six total. $19,999.63. It was a curious number, the kind that stuck in your head. It was also the exact amount that Hough’s foreman, Sam Kramer, was short. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Michael pay for . . .” Scanning the other pages, Mia’s brow furrowed tighter. It was an invoice, detailing every purchase she made for the mock office—the one that Aaron Hough was supposed to be financing. “What’s Michael doing with . . .” Her hands gripped the pages tighter, snippets of conversation filling in a few more blanks. “I already feel as if I know Michael . . .” “I’ll see to it that Aaron Hough grants you an extension . . .” And the cruise tickets. Michael bought them knowing it was a sure thing, that Hough would offer Mia a contract. She thought back to Aaron Hough’s initial phone call. It was more than out of the blue, and it never did add up. Ecstatic over his interest, she’d excused his lack of knowledge as eccentric grassroots initiative. And she was happy to be the professional in charge.

  As the cab pulled up to the vintage brick building, scraps of another conversation, something her brain overrode at the time, seeped back in. Sam Kramer had all but given them away. He said that Hough and a man had been by the mock office. A suited, savvy businessman who fit Michael’s description, someone who bragged on her work and those everyday designs. “But why?” she whispered, her gaze trailing out the window. “Why would Michael do that?” Mia sank back into the seat, forced to entertain a truth about a man who never gave up on the notion that big gestures would win her heart. This, however, went beyond ribbon-wrapped vehicles or cruises to the Caribbean. Not for a moment did Michael ever believe she’d succeed on her own. Staring through the taxi’s window at a broken, unsalvageable layer of brick, Mia guessed it represented her entire professional existence.

  “Hey, lady, you gettin’ out or you want to change destinations?”

  She glanced at the meter, which read seventeen dollars, and tossed two twenties onto the seat. “Here is fine. I’m guessing we’re at the end of the road,” she said, scrambling out of the cab.

  The hospital had provided Flynn with a small duffel bag and a change of clothes. His sister had wired him enough money for a bus ticket to Texas, while Michael Wells had severed any lingering hope. Circumstance had managed to totally fuck up the rest.

  Never having been a big believer in fate—or just fighting it his whole life—Flynn decided that it was time to give in. After Michael left, the argument continued in his head, weighing the misery he’d caused and that he would continue to bring if he stayed. He wouldn’t be responsible for taking away the one thing Mia had worked for since . . . well, since before him. It trumped his existence, and it was an uneven trade. But it wasn’t everything. As much as he hated to validate anything that spewed from Roxanne’s mouth, she was right about a lot of things. Mia would have wasted a dozen years of her life had she waited for him. She’d waste the next dozen while he tried to resuscitate his. Flynn thought time served, and then some, earned him the right to a future. Maybe it did. It just didn’t earn him the right to hers.

  “You’re going?” A soft drawl came from across the room from where he stood, packing up his few belongings.

  He glanced up. “Roxanne. I didn’t think you’d be back—at least not without the National Guard and an attack canine.”

  In her right hand, pinched between two fingers, was a once-lavender envelope. It was dirt covered and streaked with dried blood. It was nearly unrecognizable. Neither was Roxanne, now that he took a closer look. He knew every line of that sculpted face. But something had changed. A marked shi
ft in glacial form. “You bring the lighter?” he asked, ignoring it, sure she’d only come to seal her end of the bargain.

  “No,” she said quietly. “I, um . . . I had some unexpected news this afternoon.” Tucked tight to her body, in her left hand, was a larger envelope. The set line of her pursed lips bent to a frown, as if trying to hold something back. “Raymond Allan Mallard,” she finally choked out.

  It was the way she said it, like she couldn’t breathe. She looked absolutely ill. Flynn even thought she might pass out. Everything considered, he wondered if letting her hit the floor would be bad form. “Raymond Allan who?”

  She held out the larger envelope. “The DNA, it came back. Seems I’ve assisted in solving a twelve-year-old string of homicides. My zealous demand for the FBI to examine your DNA reenergized the case, leading them to information that identified the real killer. Go figure,” she said, dumbstruck. “There’s a letter from the FBI; they’re making a formal announcement today—giving me a citizen’s citation.”

  “Congratulations,” he said dully, going about his business.

  Yet she continued. “Eleven years ago, Raymond Allan Mallard was arrested in Gainesville, Florida—just outside the university.” She looked at Flynn, her porcelain brow gathering. “He killed a girl there, in Florida. Because he shot her, because she wasn’t a student, they never linked it to the other murders. The gun didn’t fit the pattern. All the other girls, they were beaten to death, and he used that fact to deflect suspicion. He told the police that he knew the girl he shot; that they’d been on a date gone bad. The authorities concluded that it was an isolated homicide. He was sentenced to twenty years. Based on my query, further investigation revealed that Raymond Mallard worked at a dozen different colleges—a drifter who moved from town to town. Two days ago, there was a match to the blood evidence taken off the girl in Alabama. His DNA—not yours.”