Ridiculous.
“We should talk.” Conor sat, uninvited, but his action made a glimmer of sense, considering. Alicia sat opposite him, staring at her hands with an occasional glance up. Yup. Still there. A most unfortunate circumstance.
“I know this is awkward.” Conor studied his hands as well, his jaw shifting right, then left, his cheek offering an occasional twitch. “Kim really wants this.” He waved a hand. “You and me to be able to get along, at least for her wedding. And after that...”
“After that,” Alicia cut in, her tone sharp with purpose, “we realize we have nothing in common and we’re better off at least a train-ride apart for the rest of our days.”
Conor continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “After that we need to recognize there will most likely be more grandchildren, and Addie’s graduation, a wedding in her future and children again.” Conor spread his hands. “If we could find a common ground, it would be good for all of us, I think.”
Common ground? Where was his concept of common ground when she nursed their sick child? When they traveled that stupid train for doctor’s visits, left and right? When her baby boy underwent treatment after treatment, wasting the few months he had.
She hated remembering that Jon’s last months were filled with pain because his well-to-do parents couldn’t accept the fact that he was dying and had to try every possible procedure to save him.
Selfish, selfish people. Her. Him.
And now Conor wanted a common ground, a respite. Right now she hated this, hated him, hated the person she’d become or maybe always was and didn’t realize it until life dealt her cruel blows, back to back. Maybe she’d always been a first class—
“We can do this, Leash.” Conor didn’t move, but his presence felt closer, his tone low. “If nothing else, then for the girls.”
Ah, yes, the girls. Her beautiful, beloved daughters, whose presence kept meaning in her life. Her girls.
And his.
She hated remembering that because thinking of him as their father put him in a whole different light. He cared for them, that was obvious, his affection more evident now than when they were young and missing him.
When she was missing him.
“Leash?” He leaned forward, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “Please?”
A part of her despised him. What he’d done, that he still looked good, that the girls loved him despite the past when she couldn’t move two solid feet away from that anger without feeling like she was falling into a bottomless pit, with nothing to catch her, bolster her fall.
He smelled wonderful. A hint of wool and cotton mixed with spicy aftershave, outrageously sexy. Most of all she hated that he still had the power to attract, she knew that the moment she wrenched open the door, seeing him framed there, all power and subtle sex, and all she could imagine were the hordes of successful women in New York, waiting to be loved by the oh-so-wonderful Conor Bradstreet.
She gripped her hands, steeling herself immune to his tone and his proximity. “I’d do anything for Kim and Addie.”
He said nothing, but her answer disappointed him. She could tell. Well, what else was new? She’d had more than enough practice doing that while they were married, right? Why should today be any different? She stood, abrupt, and thrust her shoulders back. “That’s all I can do, Conor.”
He stood as well, but with more thought and caution. “It’s a beginning.”
It’s not, she wanted to shout in “Green Eggs and Ham” fashion, like the guy who gets dogged by Sam-I-Am no matter which route he tries to take. It’s not a beginning, it’s not a start, it’s not anything.
She wanted to smack him, and that reaction surprised her, but why should it? He deserved that, and so much more. A beginning? No way, no how. They’d had their beginning, a long time past. Then they had their ending, not quite so noteworthy, with all the aspects of cheesy day-time TV in between. Love, pathos, gratuitous sex. Nope, no way, no how, there’d be no beginnings with Conor Bradstreet, not ever again.
He stepped aside to allow her to pass through the door in front of him. Her toe caught the edge of the braided rug. If he hadn’t been there, right there, she’d have fallen, but his arm reached out to brace her.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice soothing and protective. The tone put her in mind of other moments with this man, moments of warmth and romance, passion and peace. She sucked in a breath, wondering if the local doctor had access to anti-memory drugs, and if so, would he prescribe them to a scorned woman possessing a stupid penchant for pain?
“You okay?”
Alicia jerked back, her heart fighting her brain. “Fine.”
She strode ahead, wishing he were different, or maybe wishing she was, wishing she could be near him and not want to murder him with her bare hands or possibly fall into his arms and stay there forever. She’d found out the hard way that forever didn’t exist in Conor’s dictionary of legal terms or moral standings. Just as well. At least she’d discovered the truth early enough to change things.
He stepped into the kitchen directly behind her and placed a hand to her shoulder. She quaked inside at the move, quelling the war of emotions, sealing her expression from the frankly curious eyes of her daughters.
“We’ve called a truce,” Conor stated, his tone easy, but not casual enough to minimize the seriousness of her feelings. Probably a trick he learned in the courtroom. “As in many battle plans, arbitrary lines of disarmament may need to be redrawn from time to time, and truces re-established. I think that’s to be expected. But,” he gave her shoulder the lightest of pressures before dropping his hand to his side, “we’ll try.”
“It’s a start,” approved Kim, her eyes glancing from one to the other. “And my crazy work schedule wants you both to know that I’m grateful. By the way, Mom, this spinach salad is amazing.”
Alicia was still trying to shake off the feeling of Conor’s hand on her shoulder, his presence behind her, almost...sheltering her. She stepped aside and nodded a brisk thanks to Kim. “Glad you like it. And if your job with the foundation doesn’t allow you enough time to get things done, we’ve got a couple of options.” Alicia picked up a plate and moved to the food bar. “You could find a mental health position not quite so labor intensive, even though you love what you’re doing. Charitable work is definitely a Morrisey trait.”
When she glanced over her shoulder to Kim, she saw Kim exchange an arched-eye glance with both Brian and Conor.
“...or let me know what needs to be done, and I’ll take care of it, according to your plans.”
Kim smiled. Addie turned Alicia’s way. “Even with the bookstore and all?”
Alicia shrugged. “A lot of the initial bookstore work will be hired out so I just have to oversee the process, at least until the opening. It’s not like I’m building shelving and constructing walls on my own.” She held up Princetonian hands. “I’m okay in a barn, not with a power saw.”
Addie flashed her a smile. “You’re great in a barn, unlike Dad here, who isn’t even sure which building is the barn.”
“I was sure enough when I signed the check for it to be built,” he retorted.
His words brought Alicia’s gaze up. His jaw twitched into the classic Bradstreet smile that got her into so much trouble nearly thirty years before. A little crooked, a little nice and more than a hint naughty.
Addie laughed and gave him a shoulder nudge, her grin a reflection of his.
Alicia pulled her attention back to Kim’s wedding and away from crooked grins that took her into dangerous territory. “Anyway, I’ve got the time and if it doesn’t feel like I’m trying to take things over, I’d be glad to help.”
“And I’ve got the checkbook,” Conor added. “Well, credit card. Cards. Plural.” He handed one to Kim and held the other out to Alicia. “Just put everything on here. Using these ensures cool point rewards. Might even get a power drill out of the deal, or some hip new iPod thing.”
Kim frowned, glanced a
t Brian, and tried to hand the card back. “Dad, this is nice, but—”
Brian chimed in. “Sir, I—”
Alicia took the card without argument. She gave Kim and Brian a strict look and held her card aloft. “Stop being silly. It’s our privilege to pay for your wedding. Well...” She shot Conor a glance, then dropped her gaze back to the card in her hand. “His privilege, but it’s definitely my privilege to help you spend his money.”
“Our money, Leash.”
His words paused her sarcastic rant. First a hand to her shoulder, now an inclusive suggestion.
Stop the presses. This little exchange was way too up close and personal for the bickering Bradstreets. She gripped the card but didn’t dare chance a glance at Conor, see his face, read those eyes.
Gaze down, she gave a brisk nod. “Our money, then. And I’ll be glad to help you spend it, Kim. But not ‘til after lunch.”
She felt Conor’s eyes on her, felt his presence, his attention, even across the room. The knowledge brought heat within her, an increase in temperature despite the January chill.
But at her age it was most likely caused by estrogen imbalance, so she wrote it off as peri-menopause and ate her salad with a heightened degree of attention to chewing, swallowing and breathing.
All because Conor was in the room.
Chapter Seven
Part of Conor wanted to speed his escape as he directed the Mercedes down Alicia’s curving drive toward Route 206. Another part longed to linger, walk with Addie to visit her smelly horses and give the beasts a carrot or an apple, something crunchy, moist and no doubt, saliva-producing.
But he’d refused Addie’s offer to go to the barn, sensing that Alicia had reached her limit, probably before he stepped foot in the door.
She looked...
Hardened? A bit. Maybe more than a bit, her hair still dark with hints of red, but her jaw tight, her gaze fierce, the sleek, snazzy woman he’d married hidden somewhere beneath the chilled façade.
Toughened? Most assuredly. He saw that in the flat look of acceptance, her pretty blue eyes dulled by the mottled gray sweater she wore like a suit of armor. He’d felt it in the tension of her shoulders. At one point he was pretty sure she wanted to belt him one, give him a good, old shot to the face, but she’d restrained herself, and didn’t appear all that happy by the fact.
Her obvious reaction almost made him smile, but then he probably would have gotten smacked, deservedly so. To keep the peace he’d bottled his reaction in good legal fashion.
With Kim’s wedding on the horizon, they needed a new game plan, decent parameters both could respect. No matter what else happened, he wanted the girls to have the shot he’d blown. A chance for a normal, healthy, happy marriage.
And he’d managed to scan the rooms for any visible sign of a man’s regular presence, a boyfriend or significant other.
Nothing.
Conor refused to wonder why that made him happy when he should be hoping she’d moved on and kicked him out of her system like a pesky computer virus smacked down by Norton 360.
Turning left, he steered the car away from the municipal buildings, heading toward Nassau Street and the town center, past Palmer Square and its upscale shops, nicely appointed. He paused at Washington Road, the university campus spreading to his right, a good share of the town proper to his left. Moving further, he took the turn onto Poole, remembering years of coming home on the “Dinky”, the short train linking Princeton to Princeton Junction, where the mainline shuttled him into the city every Monday, then back on Fridays. Coming home at night...well, that didn’t happen as often as it should have. He knew that now. Another wave of remorse sideswiped him as he parked the car, fed the meter and walked up the block to the proposed bookstore’s location.
Facing Poole Street, Alicia’s new venture would combine the best of small town country and New York upscale. The expansive two-and-a-half story house faced the street with the dignity of old wood and the charm of gingerbread. Eyeing the interior through a thin strip along a front window’s edge, Conor noted a curving staircase and a broad-backed room which seemed to taper into some kind of alcove beyond.
A nice layout, the arching staircase a great focal point, its easy proximity inviting customers to lofty second story rooms. Finely tooled display windows balanced both sides of the carved walnut door. The matching bays sported multi-paned panels framing picture windows. Built for display, the lay of the windows allowed for seasonal appointment with their deep-seated shelving beneath.
Studying the gracious old building, Conor nodded his approval, glad he’d intervened. Alicia had picked well, the cozy appearance an instant draw. As he turned toward his car, he paused, eyeing the church across the road with its quaint cemetery beyond.
Unlike his ex-wife, Conor didn’t visit Jon’s grave often. Now and again, maybe, when he needed a boy to talk to, a son to share secrets with, but the mature Conor understood that his boy didn’t lie beneath the burnished stone with the image of a child and a dog chiseled along its eastern face.
Jon’s bones might lie there, but not his boy. Not his little son, the kid he’d dubbed Dennis the Menace because of the mischievous brown eyes and Dutch-bobbed hair.
For a long time Conor had shrugged off the existence of a higher being, a celestial power. Right up until he needed to pray for his son, beg for his life, plead for his soul. Somewhere in there, despite losing the boy, he’d gained a seed of faith that lay dormant until that Christmas Eve on the Brooklyn Bridge when he first met Sarge.
He’d almost gone over the edge that night, almost called it a day. Checked out. So close. So ready to die. Who but God could have sent the disheveled old cop his way, had him intervene in such a timely manner?
Jon was gone, yes. Gone from him, from Alicia, from the sisters who loved the funny, scrappy little boy. But Conor believed that his boy lived still, in heaven’s embrace, that somehow, someway, God engineered amazing things beyond the ken of mortal man. He had no proof, not an iota, but he didn’t need any. He believed, simple as that.
He passed the historic Catholic Church with a wave to the priest who bustled from the rectory toward the arched main doors. The priest waved back, a friendly smile on his ruddy face despite the brisk wind, then disappeared into the recesses behind the tall oak entry.
Conor wove his way between the mix of headstones dotted with angels and saints, sure of his goal. Jon’s stone stood out near the back corner, a spark of color in a sea of sun washed gray.
Conor circled the marker and stood before it, then crouched, reaching out to trace the letters, one by one. J-O-N-A...
The headstone showed little wear, unlike its historic counterparts, wearied by decades of wind and rain. The polished look of the marker made Jon’s passing seem suddenly more immediate. Conor stood, the past rushing up on him like a tunneled train, thundering, rattling, consuming the ground surrounding its rails like a raging storm of arcing sparks and tempered steel.
“Mr. Bradstreet?”
A hand touched his sleeve. Conor jerked back. The onslaught of emotions hiked his breathing. His fingers quivered with pinpoints of electricity. Turning, he recognized the priest he’d waved to minutes before, and felt the sudden urge to explain his presence. “I’m—”
He was...what? Words eluded him, but the priest made them unnecessary. He nodded, his aging face a compilation of compassion and gentle grace. “No explanation needed. I see Mrs. Bradstreet out here quite often—”
Conor nodded acknowledgement, knowing Alicia’s visits outweighed his.
“Maybe too often,” the priest continued, his hand warming Conor’s arm. “A stone that’s well polished is still just a stone.”
A weight in Conor’s chest eased with the kindness of the words. “I don’t see Jon here.” He waved a hand in the direction of the russet-flecked grave marker. “What’s here isn’t my son, isn’t what made my son special and wonderful. What lies here is just...bones. Jon was more than bones, more than dust. He
was...”
“Special.” The priest filled in the blank with a quiet nod of understanding when Conor’s throat refused to allow him to form the word. “It’s a horrible thing to lose a child.” He shook his head, his expression more understanding than sympathetic. “It goes against the order of things, and we mere mortals like our order. Indeed, we do. Then life hands us chaos and we begin to see how little control we actually have.”
Conor took a deep breath and released it, easing into the conversation. “I liked control.”
The priest nodded. “Most of us do.”
“But, now,” Conor stepped back and cast a glance to the gravesite then back to the priest, “now I want peace. Joy. Fulfillment.”
The priest’s face relaxed into an open smile. “I happen to be a reigning expert on that.” He waggled five fingers toward the church behind him. “They don’t call it amazing grace for nothing, you know.”
Conor eyed the back of the familiar church that had been a weekly tradition when the girls were younger. Back then he’d gone because it looked good and fit the part, the focused, hard-working, striving-for-success father coming home to attend church with his picture-perfect family. What a scam artist he’d been. So shallow, so cool. No wonder Alicia...
“Are you living here now?”
The priest’s inquiry interrupted Conor’s litany of self-degradation. He shook his head. “Planning Kim’s wedding.”
“Ah, yes. September.” The priest nodded. “She called and set the date with us before she booked the reception hall. She scored major points with the rectory staff by doing that, let me tell you.”
Conor stared, not understanding.
The priest grinned. “These days a lot of our young people have skewed mindsets.” He ticked off his fingers as he recited the list. “Dress, veil, reception site, flowers, cake, girls’ dresses, tuxedoes, music, and, oh, yes, we should book a church. Pretty much in that order. Your daughter called us first.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “We appreciated her priorities.”
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