Try, Try Again

by Herne, Ruth Logan

  “Get the staff to quit their fussing and I’ll die a happy man. They think they’ve got to fawn over me night and day ‘cause I’ve got a rich benefactor.”

  “You do?” Conor frowned. “Who?”

  “Very funny.” Sarge glanced at his watch, squinted, frowned and pushed open his door. “Time for Wheel.”

  “Good night, Sarge.”

  The old man waved goodbye. The door swung shut with a swish and a click.

  Conor stopped at the nurse’s station long enough to have one woman flirt with him openly, one eye him with a bit of curiosity mixed with respect, while the other actually listened to his request to lay off Sarge a bit.

  “We do tend to smother patients when it’s slow,” she agreed, making a note. “And not just the rich ones, despite what Sarge thinks,” she added.

  Conor laughed. “You’ve got him pegged. And make a note, too, that if anything happens to him, anything at all, I’m to be called right away. No delays. My numbers should all be in the record.”

  She nodded. “They are, Mr. Bradstreet. I’ll make another note, just to heighten awareness. He’s...” she paused, weighing what to say. “He’s faltering.”

  “Going downhill.” Conor nodded. Sarge had been fighting cancer for nearly six months, his age and diminished health a deterrent to heavy duty chemo and radiation. His initial therapy bought him some time and comfort. At this stage of the game, that was all they could offer. Conor buttoned his coat as he contemplated the nurse. “I know there’s not much to be done, and the hospice staff is aware, but if he can be as comfortable as possible, as happy as possible, without the fussing that’s driving him crazy, I’d be most grateful.”

  She made another note and dropped him a friendly wink. “We’ll soften the fuss with a little sarcastic camaraderie and evening smokes. That ought to make him feel at home.”

  Conor laughed. “You know your patients. Thank you, Miss...?”

  “Barnes. Cassie Barnes.” She reached out a hand and gave him an ‘I’m not looking to get anything from you’ smile. Real. Genuine. Conor didn’t get nearly as many of those as he would have liked since life handed him an eight-figure salary per annum. Hers felt good.

  He grasped her hand and found her grip firm but relaxed, quick and businesslike. No nonsense. He wasn’t surprised. “Thank you, Miss Barnes.”

  Her smile flipped to surprise and chagrin as some sweet old thing began wailing about how Krakatoa Katie wasn’t a lady. Nurse Barnes stepped around the pass door quickly. “I’d better get down there. Mrs. Reinschmidt actually knows the dance number that goes with the tune. Creates quite the stir, you know.”

  Conor frowned, totally lost.

  She grinned. “You don’t get it? Vintage Mighty Mouse, circa 1940. Great cartoon. Total guy stuff. Check it out.”

  “I will.”

  Mighty Mouse, huh? A woman who watched classic cartoons? An oddity, for sure. He didn’t know a woman who actually took time to sit back and relax, laugh at nonsense anymore. Of course, the women he knew were as focused and driven as he was, so that narrowed the playing field considerably. And seeing them during work hours was more than enough.

  As he hailed a cab outside the facility’s door, Conor withdrew his phone and jotted Mighty Mouse onto his Saturday calendar. It wouldn’t hurt to take a few minutes, kick back and watch a little TV now and again. The Kid might like a Saturday morning filled with nonsense and goofy mice. He’d have to give Brian a call and see, right after he figured out what to do with Brian’s trick-turning ex-wife. Weighing up who had the harder row to hoe, Brian and the hooker or himself with Alicia, he had to give the “win” to Brian. Alicia might shrug her shoulders to the upper echelon of proper Princeton society, but she was every inch a lady, except when he got her good and riled, which he hadn’t done in a very long time.

  Of course she didn’t know that he was buying their old house, planning to spend time in Princeton, her private domain for the past eight years. That would tweak a reaction on par with nuclear disaster in her hallowed corner of the world. A half-smile tugged his jaw as he contemplated her response. Alicia was about to get jerked out of the comfort zone she’d maintained since Jon’s death and her husband’s betrayal, thrust into fast action mode by those who cared about her. Kim. Addie.

  Him.

  She might hate him, no, scratch that, hate him more, but he was willing to take the risk like Han Solo in his quest to save the irascible Princess Leia in the original Star Wars movies. The princess’s appreciation of Han’s efforts ran nil through three long movies and multiple solar systems. Conor would be content with one well-mixed, traditions-valued New Jersey town.

  He paid the cabbie and strode into his apartment building, whistling the zippy tune he’d heard at the adult care facility.

  The night doorman broke into a grin, his white teeth a flash against dark chocolate skin. “Krakatoa Katie.”

  Conor frowned. “Frankie, am I the only person on the planet who hasn’t seen this cartoon?”

  The doorman laughed outright. “Believe me, once you’ve seen her, you’ll remember, Mr. Bradstreet. That mouse can dance.”

  “Ah.” Conor pondered that a moment. “I see. Good night, Frankie.”

  “G’night, sir.”

  He entered the elevator with a quick nod, his head a montage of images. Sarge, gruff but weakening, his aged body wearing under the weight of years and illness. The crew of nurses, and their divided reactions. Kim, busy with her wedding when she wasn’t counseling derelicts on the streets of Manhattan. Addie, shining in school, probably not eating enough, too focused and too driven, her father’s child to a “T”. Brian, dealing with a past that granted them Grayce, but came fully equipped with a trick-turning, cocaine-addicted ex-wife, and Alicia, nursing her wounds for way too long.

  Through them all wove a cartoon mouse, dancing to the upbeat tune running through Conor’s head like an advertising jingle on cable, super-hyped.

  The sight of Foster’s lean frame soothed him as he stepped into the apartment, the houseman’s calm countenance a welcome reprieve. “Foster, do you have any deep, dark secrets I need to know?”

  Foster never blinked. “Myriads, sir.”

  “Great.” Conor handed off his coat and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Just wanted to thank you for keeping them to yourself all these years.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” As Foster moved to put away the coat and hat, he arched an eyebrow in Conor’s direction. “Would you like a drink, sir?”

  “Like, yes, want, no.” Conor regarded the employee who’d become so much more than that over the nearly sixteen years they’d been together. “Will you join me in Princeton, Foster?”

  The speed with which the older man answered told Conor he’d already contemplated the question. “I think my place is in New York for the most part, but I’m willing to do whatever you’d like, sir.”

  “I hate that you’re always right, Foster. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, but it gives me great pleasure that you recognize the fact.”

  Conor grinned. “You’re a New Yorker, Foster, despite the British accent. I’m beginning to understand that persona better now.”

  As Foster moved toward the kitchen, Conor followed, determined to eat, relax and hit the sheets in quick order. “Foster, have you ever heard of a mouse named Krakatoa Katie?”

  Foster raised both brows, his glance approving. “As has everyone. World War II, Indonesia. That mouse had legs.” Foster’s expression smacked of total male appreciation. “And she knew how to use them.”

  “It’s a cartoon, Foster.” Feeling suddenly out of the loop and a mite irritated, Conor sank into a kitchen chair, snapped open a napkin and knit his brows into a distinct and uncomfortable furrow.

  “When one has seen Katie, one understands the understatement involved in such a cavalier assessment,” Foster returned. He served Conor a bowl of steaming, thin soup, stocked with mushroom and barley. The scent alone cried
total Fifth Avenue.

  Conor sipped the broth, savoring the blend of beef, onion, mushroom and grain. “I could make a meal on this alone, Foster.”

  The houseman nodded. “A nice blend all in all, but I think I’ve outdone myself on the steak to follow, sir.”

  Conor thought of the lunch he missed while he wrangled an extra thirteen-point-five million out of a recalcitrant tech firm that stepped on the wrong toes as they clawed their way to the top. Expensive lesson, but affordable because their stock was on fire at present, ready to split at any time. Next time they’d be more careful, or at least more discreet.

  “Have you eaten, Foster?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “You know it’s okay to have dinner with me, right? We’ve trod this ground before.”

  “Countless times, sir, and even so, it’s still aggravating conversation. When you’re here, my task is to take care of you. I believe that’s why I’m paid, is it not?”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t eat together.” Conor offered the retort with a sardonic look.

  Foster shook his head, his expression bland. “All that jumping up and down to wait on you.” He patted the general region of his stomach. “Not good for the digestion. Might I suggest a woman friend in my place? Considering Katie the mouse, someone long and leggy might be in order.”

  Conor choked, coughed and sputtered. “All right, I’ve

  got it, I’m now officially dropping the topic of conversation.”

  “Excellent, sir. How is your steak?”

  “Perfect, as always.” Conor cast him a glare the manservant ignored. “Any calls this evening?”

  Foster shook his head. “None, sir. I believe most people attempt your mobile phone first, knowing your schedule is harried.”

  Only Foster could use the word harried in his gently imperious tone and sound perfectly normal in Manhattan. Conor chewed his steak slowly, washed some down with a long swallow of coffee he shouldn’t have, and eyed his houseman-slash-trusted friend. “Am I doing the right thing, Foster?”

  No explanation was necessary. Foster had been around long enough to know Conor, know Alicia, love the girls and miss little Jon. He maintained a firm profile, but nodded. “I believe so, sir. Finally.”

  Leave it to Foster. “Well, man, if you thought I should do this long ago, why didn’t you say something? It’s not as if you’re generally afraid to speak up on matters that are none of your concern.”

  “Quite right, sir, but some matters require a need for perfect timing and an air of extreme delicacy. I believe you’ve achieved those.”

  Obviously Foster hadn’t witnessed Alicia’s reaction when he visited Princeton the previous week. Delicate, it wasn’t. “You might be wrong on that one, my friend.”

  “I doubt it, sir.”

  Conor laughed out loud. Foster joined in with a slight smile that faded with Conor’s next words. “I hope you’re right. My goal is to not make matters worse.”

  “Hardly possible, sir, so I sense good things from your full frontal assault.”

  Conor humphed. “Full frontal would have been to let her know what I was doing. I believe my actions would be better classified as covert and possibly devious.”

  “Most full frontals begin in the trenches as furtive actions, sir. Then they escalate into full blown war.”

  “To what end, Foster?”

  The houseman grasped Conor’s empty plate and steered it toward the sink. “That, sir, remains to be seen.”

  Conor nodded. “Yes, it does.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alicia checked her messages as she crossed the library parking lot, then pondered her choices when Conor’s name flashed five separate times. Seeing the intermittent blink, blink, blink of his name, she curled her lip, then thought of wrinkles and straightened her face with a tired sigh.

  If there had been an emergency, he would have called the library direct. Instead, he’d piled her voice mail full of flashing Conor Bradstreet’s, not exactly what she had in mind when she agreed to a peaceful and equitable working arrangement for Kim’s sake. What was she, his new BFF? Um... No.

  She stared at the phone, contemplated her choices, tempted to discard her promise to play nice. She’d behave when absolutely necessary, or when Kim was around to bear witness, but no way was she about to let Conor barge into her work, her barn time with the horses and her peaceful, well-organized existence. End of story.

  Conor’s name winked like the steady beat of a faithful heart, but Alicia understood the likelihood of that scenario, so the analogy didn’t exactly cut it with her.

  She weighed her choice quickly, then deleted Conor from the phone’s system with somewhat vicious stabs, her toes frosty and her ears stinging with the force of the wind. She pulled her scarf tighter and climbed into her SUV, ruing technology that made her more available than she ever wanted to be for certain people.

  The message light on her home phone flashed a hearty welcome as she walked in. Kim’s voice bounced into the air when Alicia depressed the play button. “Mom, Dad’s been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon about the horse-drawn carriage we wanted to use on the wedding day. He got a line on what seems to be a really nice service just over the border in Pennsylvania, not far from Newtown. He wondered if you wanted to check them out, or should he do it, but when he didn’t hear back from you, he went ahead and booked them.”

  Alicia hit Kim’s number on the speed dial. You will be civil, you will be civil, you will be civil...

  The mantra paced through her brain. After all, it wasn’t Kim’s fault that her father lived the life of a manipulative powerhouse, ready, willing and able to crook a finger and have things happen on demand. Some people had real lives. Real jobs. Like hers, at the library, cataloguing books. Not earth-shaking like Conor’s, but she liked to think she made a difference in her own Dewey Decimal System way. Kim picked up her phone, interrupting Alicia’s musings.

  “Hey, Mom. Where’ve you been?”

  Kim sounded hurried, but since taking her job with that big foundation in New York, she often sounded that way. Hassled. Harried. Frenzied. So New York.

  “Working, honey. Just like you.” Only not as frenetic.

  “I’m glad you called. Dad tried to get through to you earlier, but he never heard back from you, and we were afraid this livery might get booked.”

  Alicia took a deep breath. “Kim, we’re talking a few hours here, nothing major. I was tied up.” You weren’t any such thing, scolded her conscience. Stubborn: check. Bull-headed? Yes. Still ticked off about things long since past? Bingo. Lighten up, why don’t ya’? Seriously. The internal scolding made her clutch the phone tighter. “What’s the scoop?”

  “I mentioned to Dad that you were having trouble finding a horse-drawn carriage service available on September fifteenth, and he and Colleen managed to track down a place outside of Newtown, near Langhorne. They had a cancellation for that day.”

  “And?”“And that’s why Dad was trying to get a hold of you, to make sure we booked them.”

  “Kim it’s not like these are the last horses on the planet, right? I told you I’d take care of it.”

  Kim’s voice tightened. “I know, Mom, and I appreciate all you’ve done, but there really are only a few places that service the Princeton area with horse-drawn carriages. It seemed prudent to get them locked in. Teams of horses aren’t like limo service these days, a dime a dozen. Did you know they make Hummer limos?”

  “Can’t say I did, nor imagine any reason why they’d be desirable. So...” Alicia sucked back words of recrimination. “We’re all set then? Dad to the rescue?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  Alicia paused, realizing she was taking her anger out on the wrong person, when what she wanted to do was smack Conor for being so totally efficient, outrageously self-assured and wretchedly good looking. She drew a deep breath at her overuse of adverbs and changed tactics. “You said someone helped your dad?”

&nb
sp; “Um, what?”

  Obviously Kim’s attentions were split. Hearing Ryan Seacrest’s voice in the background, Alicia understood that the rival for her daughter’s attention was about to ax two initial Idol contestants. Time to hang up. But, before she did...

  “You said your father and someone researched this.”

  “Colleen helped him,” Kim offered. “She’s his executive assistant at the firm.”

  “How nice. So important to have competent help.”

  “Mom.” Kim sighed. The sound meant she really did not want to get into this with her mother. For the life of her, Alicia couldn’t figure out why the whole thing took on an air of such importance, but it did. Mr. Perfect strikes again.

  “It was no big deal,” Kim continued, placating her.

  For just a moment Alicia hated that mollifying had become a necessary method for the girls to deal with her on more than occasional rants. What was the matter with her? Didn’t she used to be...nice? Kind of? At least a little? Where had that person disappeared to? And if, like Sandy implied, that outgoing person actually had existed, how could she get her back, retrieve a part of her, long gone?

  Nothing came to mind. That in itself said too much. Alicia fought the urge to sigh. Or throw something.

  Kim’s matter-of-fact tone interrupted her examination of conscience. Good thing. She’d found herself in seriously uncharted territory. Dangerous past-time. “Dad found the sites and Colleen placed a few calls. She’s cool. You’d actually like her.”

  Of course she would. Alicia bit back both the grimace and easy retort, took a breath and asked, “We’re good to go, then? Mission accomplished?”

  “Yes.” Kim lowered her voice a notch. “Mom, if this is going to work, I mean, the whole truce thing between you and Dad, you’ve got to be willing to do your part. Meet him halfway from time to time. He’s only trying to help.”

  Meet him halfway? Like this was her fault that he meddled where he didn’t belong, just to look good and come out smelling like a rose?