Crazy in Love

by Lani Diane Rich

  Swig.

  Not that it mattered. Butterflies schmutterflies, she was not going to be one of those women who threw her whole life away for a man she’d known for a millisecond. Those women were stupid, and nine times out of ten they ended up pregnant, abandoned, and on welfare. Well, she wasn’t absolutely sure about the statistics, but she was pretty sure the general picture was accurate.

  She laid her head back on the Nazi love seat and felt instantly dizzy. She set the bottle by her side and released a long, deep exhale.

  She was very likely going to regret this on the train ride tomorrow.

  She pushed herself up from the love seat, not sure what she was going to do. She felt restless, and at the same time heavy with exhaustion. The room had a subtle, golden glow to it and . . .

  Oh. Shit.

  She glanced behind her. Her body was still on the love seat. She sighed, turned, and there was Esther, standing next to her.

  “So, you’re on your way, huh?” she said, nodding toward the luggage.

  Flynn had never seen her aunt standing up before. The woman was short, less than five feet tall. Did ghosts shrink? she wondered.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” Esther glanced behind them at Flynn’s physical body, sitting up and snoring lightly on the love seat, the bottle tucked between her arm and her hip. “Hooch got your tongue looks like.”

  “It’s been a long day, Aunt Esther,” Flynn said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  For the first time that Flynn had ever witnessed, Esther smiled a little. She turned and walked to the other side of the room. Flynn wasn’t sure if Esther expected her to follow, but she found herself moving along with her aunt anyway.

  Esther stopped in front of the shelf, running her fingers over, and sometimes through, the little cows, her expression full of mild affection.

  “The first man I ever loved gave me these cows. His name was Harold Wilbur, have you ever heard of anything more unfortunate?” She chuckled. “We were at a county fair and he kept trying to win me those cheap little prizes at the booths, you know. He spent an hour trying to toss a ring over a beer bottle to get me a goldfish.” She lowered her hand. “When I went to the ladies’ room with my girlfriends, he ran into an arts and crafts booth and bought me these.”

  Wow, Flynn thought. He must have been really desperate.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” Esther turned her head slightly toward Flynn, but kept her eyes on the cows.

  “Harold Wilbur. What happened to him?”

  “Oh, yes.” Esther sighed. “He went off to war a few months later. He died in France.”

  Flynn was silent, feeling a sudden wash of sympathy and affection for Esther, but not sure exactly how to express it. It wasn’t like she could put her hand on her shoulder or anything. Could she? To test, Flynn held out one finger and started to move it toward Esther’s shoulder to see if it would go through. Before she got there, though, Esther turned and stared at her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Flynn pulled her hand away. “Nothing.”

  “Right.” Esther sighed, then pointed to the cows. “I want you to have these.”

  “Hmmm?” Flynn glanced at the cows, then back at Esther. “You want me to, what, have have them? Like, take-them-with-me have them?”

  Esther’s face hardened. “I just told you these were given to me by the man I loved and you’re acting like I’m asking you to take a blanket filled with smallpox.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. I just . . . I mean, they’re special to you.”

  “I assume your family intends to sell?”

  Flynn nodded, feeling oddly guilty for not having thought earlier about how that would affect Esther. Of course, Esther was dead and/or a figment of her imagination, but still . . .

  Esther’s eyes drifted back to the cows. “When this place is sold, someone will come in here and they will box up my cows and deliver them to the Salvation Army where they’ll be parceled off one by one, and no one will ever know that they ever meant anything.” She shot a look at Flynn. “You’re not a great alternative, but you’re the only alternative I’ve got.”

  Flynn stared at the cows, surprised at how tight her throat felt. Maybe she’d developed some affection for the old lady. Maybe she was still a little drunk.

  Maybe there was something in a story of a lost, hopeless love for which she had unusual sympathy.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll take them.”

  Esther turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You will?”

  Flynn smiled. “I will.”

  “Good.” Esther shot a look back at Flynn’s body on the couch. “Just sober up before you pack them. If you break them, I’ll hunt you down in Boston and you’ll never be rid of me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jake had barely had a chance to knock on his mother’s door Sunday night before it flew open, revealing a sad-faced Mercy.

  “Hey, honey,” she said, pulling him into a hug. As he reached to put his arms around her, his oldest sister Liv—also redheaded but easily four inches taller than Mercy—silently took the flowers from his hand and disappeared with them.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mercy said, pulling back and putting a hand on his face. “I heard.”

  Jake tugged at his tie. “About what?”

  “About the big crash in the Dow last week.” She hit him on the shoulder. “About Flynn, you dope.”

  He rubbed his shoulder. “Way to make me feel better.” He smiled. “It’s cool. I took her to the train station this morning. We’re friends.”

  Mercy grimaced. “Oh, man. Friends? Yargh.”

  Jake shrugged. It had been twelve hours since he’d dropped Flynn off at the train station, but he was still having trouble getting her absence out of his mind. He’d picked up the phone to call her a dozen times, but stopped himself every time. No point in prolonging the inevitable. They weren’t friends. They never would be. The clean break was better for everyone.

  No matter how much it sucked.

  “Oh,” he said, “and I’m letting go of the whole Gordon Chase thing.”

  Mercy’s eyes widened. “No way. Really?”

  “I handed everything I’ve got over to Gerard Levy. As irony would have it, it turns out Gordon’s just another victim in this thing. If anything, I helped clear his name.”

  “Wow. That’s great, Jake. I mean, I’d rather Chase spent the rest of his life rotting in jail, but for you, I think it’s really best, you know?” She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

  Jake opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a shout to his left.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Jake looked up to see his mother clutching at her chest, her fist pulling at her Where’s my goddamn drink? apron as she leaned against the wall and faked a heart attack.

  “Don’t die, Penny,” he said, walking over to her and setting her right as he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You’ll miss your chance to make fun of my hair.”

  She grinned and reached for it, scissoring it between her fingers as she lifted it away from his head.

  “Such a shame,” she said. “We never could do a damn thing with that mop.” She faked a frown and poked him in the chest. “And don’t call me Penny. I may not be able to put you over my knee, but I can hire thugs to beat you up anytime I want.”

  “Is that roast beef I smell?” he said, leading Mercy and his mother into the kitchen. “And where’s my goddamn drink?”

  His other three sisters—Liv, the tall one; Sheryl, the sweet one; and PJ, the perpetually pregnant one—fluttered about the tiny kitchen while Mercy poured a glass of wine and stuffed it in Jake’s hand.

  Liv kissed him on the cheek. “Nice of you to join us, butthead.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jake said, lifting his glass.

  “Oh, stop.” Sheryl wiped her hands on her apron and shot Liv a disapproving look as she walked o
ver to give Jake a hug. “We’re happy to have you back. And we’ve all sworn not to bring up your job or your girlfriend.”

  “Or lack thereof,” PJ shot out. She turned around as she stirred a pot and blew Jake a kiss. “I’d come over and hug you, sweetie, but I’m afraid my water will break if I move.”

  “Your water’s been breaking every fifteen minutes for the past six years,” Jake said. “I think I can handle it.”

  “Okay,” Mom said. “Does everyone except PJ have something alcoholic?”

  The room went quiet as everyone shuffled to retrieve their drinks and PJ grabbed a glass of ice water. Once they were all quiet with drinks lifted, Mom cleared her throat.

  “To George,” she said, “who can’t be with us tonight because God is cruel and pianos are heavy.”

  Everyone laughed and drank, then Liv lifted her glass.

  “To Dad,” she said, “who always taught us to keep our feet on the ground, but sadly never learned to look overhead.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Cheers!”

  Jake felt Mercy’s free hand tighten around his, and he squeezed back.

  “To Dad,” Sheryl said, “who appreciated wit, wisdom, and Wurlitzers.”

  “Oh, groan,” Mercy said, giggling as she lifted her glass.

  Sheryl shrugged. “Ah, I meant well.”

  “To Dad,” PJ said, “who I know would cut me slack on the toast tonight because my ankles are swollen up like freakin’ basketballs.”

  The girls made sympathetic noises, then Mercy lifted her glass.

  “To Dad,” Mercy said, “because I know that he would be really proud of all of us, but mostly me.”

  Everyone drank. Jake caught his sisters exchanging a few surreptitious glances of worry, and he knew this moment was up to him. He lifted his glass, and the girls smiled and followed suit.

  “To Dad,” Jake said, “who proved that being buried in piano cases is not just for fat people anymore.”

  There was a short moment of silence, and the girls burst out laughing. Mom kissed him on the cheek and PJ cursed.

  “Damnit, Jake,” she said, hurrying past them. “You made me wet myself.”

  “Uh . . . sorry,” Jake called after her.

  Liv tucked her arm in Jake’s and put her mouth by his ear.

  “She’s eleven months pregnant,” Liv said. “Everything makes her wet herself.”

  “Well, okay,” Mom said, clapping her hands. “Let’s get this food on the table.”

  Mom, Sheryl, and Liv all grabbed a dish and headed into the dining room, but Mercy grabbed Jake’s hand before he could do the same.

  “I know this doesn’t help at all,” Mercy said, “but I really think everyone would have loved Flynn.”

  Jake smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I think they really would have.”

  Mercy leaned over and hugged him. “Maybe someday they’ll get the chance. You know the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”

  She released him, then reached up and pinched his cheek. Jake smiled, grabbed the potatoes, and let Mercy lead the way, pretty damn sure that if the fat lady hadn’t sung yet, she was certainly tuning up her pipes.

  Flynn rolled over in her bed, unable to get comfortable. She’d never had a problem sleeping in before, but here it was, seven o’clock on Monday morning, and she couldn’t keep her eyes closed. She had planned to spend the entire day in bed, the way she had yesterday, taking breaks only for the bathroom and Ben & Jerry’s, but for some reason, this morning, her brain was in a whirl. She could blame it on the new apartment, which was white and clean and antiseptic even with her old, scuffed, mismatched, garage-sale furniture.

  Still, she knew she could only blame so much on environment. If she could sleep in Esther’s cottage, she could sleep anywhere. It wasn’t the new apartment, and it wasn’t being back in Boston.

  It was her head. She just couldn’t stop thinking.

  She sat up in bed and punched her fists into the blankets. The cow creamers, all lined up in a row on her dresser, caught her eye.

  They were judging her.

  She blinked her eyes and stared at them a little longer. She was sure it was her imagination. They were cow creamers. They were kitsch. They were not capable of judgment.

  Except they were.

  Harold Wilbur’s cows were judging her.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, throwing her covers back. “What am I supposed to do, huh? I mean, really, what could I possibly . . . ?”

  And she trailed off. She knew what she could possibly. She’d woken up with the idea at three in the morning, and that idea was exactly why she’d been tossing and turning ever since. All she had to do was haul her ass out of bed, open up that laptop Freya’d bought her, and get to work. Make it happen. Be a doer.

  Still, she hesitated. First, it was a preposterous idea and her father would never go for it in a gazillion years. Second, she was all but guaranteed to fail. Third . . .

  Well, third was more complicated. Third was the reason she’d spent the entire day crying in bed yesterday. Third was why she was scared to try, because if she tried and she failed and had to go through that good-bye all over again, it would hurt too much and she’d fall apart and become a woman who lives by herself talking to a bunch of cow creamers.

  Third was Tucker.

  The tears came instantly and she shook them away. See, that was the reason this idea was crazy. She was overly emotional about it already. No, the only reasonable, relatively risk-free choice was to suck it up and go to work tomorrow to learn how to buy and sell properties. Or learn how to do the filing for people who bought and sold properties. Whatever. It was the choice that made sense. It was the choice she’d already made.

  But still.

  She let her eyes travel back to the cows, which looked up at her with disapproval and disappointment and judgment and just general crankiness.

  They kinda reminded her of Esther.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. There were two directions in front of her, and she didn’t know which one to choose.

  Unable to sit still any longer, she hopped out of bed and headed down her hallway to the bathroom. She’d take a shower, that’s what she’d do. Showers were warm. Showers were comforting.

  Showers had answers.

  And even if she finished up nowhere closer to a decision than she was right now, at least she’d smell good.

  That would be a definite improvement.

  Richard Daly sat in his office, staring down at the neatly composed proposal his daughter Flynn had set before him. He had to admit, if it weren’t for the fact that Freya was in the middle of New York State dealing with the Goodhouse Arms crisis, he would have thought Freya had helped Flynn. But he was pretty sure she’d done it on her own, because although it was well organized and nicely presented, it still seemed she hadn’t quite grasped the concept of what a financial quarter was.

  Flynn let out a big sigh and leaned forward. “So, what do you think?”

  Richard leaned back in his chair and eyed his daughter. “I think it’s almost five o’clock on a Monday afternoon. I have a dinner meeting in an hour. I’ll have to let you know tomorrow.”

  He pushed himself up from his chair and held his hand out to show her the door, but she stayed seated.

  “No.”

  Richard wasn’t surprised very often, but this was one of the rare occasions.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No. I want an answer now. And I want the answer to be yes, because I have a train to catch in the morning.”

  Richard stood where he was for a long moment. If it had been anyone else but Flynn, even Freya, he would have shown them the door. But something about Flynn at that moment . . . she reminded him so much of her mother . . .

  He cleared his throat and sat back down.

  “You’ve got one minute,” he said. “Convince me.”

  Flynn hopped up off her seat and began to pace in front of him.

  “Okay. Here it is.
I don’t know anything about business. I have no idea what the difference is between cash and accrual accounting. I actually find accrual very hard to pronounce. I think I’d wet myself if I ever had to actually fire someone, and the very idea of chumming it up with someone over a game of golf makes me want to toss myself off the top of a building.”

  Richard glanced down at his watch. “Forty-five seconds.”

  Flynn stopped pacing. “I’ll learn. I’ll learn it all, and I’ll learn it with a smile on my face. I don’t know what kind of profit I need to make in order to make this a viable business venture for you, but if you give me a figure, come hell or high water, I will find a way to hit it.”

  Flynn paused, her eyes flickering up to his as if checking for reaction. He kept his expression blank.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Right. See, Dad, here’s the thing. I love this place.” She smiled as she said the words, and her face reddened. “I mean, I know I was only there for five days, but there was this rose garden . . . and the people there were . . .”

  He watched as his daughter took a deep breath, steeled herself, and met his eye, all with an effort and resolve he’d never witnessed in her before. She had changed, was confident and in charge of herself where before she’d been like a little girl in her mother’s shoes. Richard felt a shock of surprise as he realized that his little girl was a grown woman now.

  When had that happened?

  She stood before him, her posture straight as she met his eye. “I love this place, Dad. And I know that it seems rash to base huge decisions like where I’m going to live and work on five days of experience, but . . . well, hell. People have made crazier decisions based on less than what I feel for this place and sometimes it turns out okay. Sometimes, you can’t rationalize why something is right. Sometimes, you just know it, you know it in your gut and your bones that this . . .” She held her hand out, gesturing toward the proposal on the desk. “This is it, Dad. I can’t explain why, but I just know. And if you give me this chance and it turns out not to be what I think it is, then what have you lost, really? You’re going to have to invest in it anyway to get the full market value. If it doesn’t work, I’ll clean up my mess and move on, but if I don’t do this now I will never know for sure if I was right. And I really think I’m right about this.”