Try, Try Again

by Herne, Ruth Logan

  She preened at him through the rear-view mirror. Alicia visibly relaxed by his side, any nuance of attraction gone with the backlash of winter cold. As he wound through the town and curved onto Route 206, he wished the day could go on, spend a little more time with her, make her laugh. She didn’t laugh like she used to, not nearly as often, or nearly as well, and he took full responsibility for that.

  She’d laughed a lot when she liked him, and more when she loved him, and it would be good to hear her laugh again, see her unwind. Did she know how beautiful she was? How desirable? How cute her expressions were? Well...

  Some of them, anyway. She had developed a few un-enticing ones as well. Watching her that morning, sensing her unease, he was pretty sure their break up did a serious number on her self-esteem.

  Kids don’t deserve stupid parents.

  Sarge’s words flooded back to him as he contemplated the woman at his side. If Alicia was a big case with major components, he’d break them down one by one, stretching time and effort to piece a mosaic that provided a full and accurate picture.

  Part of him wanted to beg her forgiveness, ask for the second chance he didn’t deserve, but the slightly smarter lawyer side of him promised that actions spoke louder than words.

  Prepare ye the way...

  St. John’s words soothed him, their simple message a light at the end of a decade-long tunnel.

  He hadn’t won Alicia’s heart overnight, nor lost it in a day. Romancing a woman took time and heart, qualities he’d developed in his more recent past.

  Pulling the car into her driveway, he angled the Mercedes around the curves and pulled up to the garage door. Getting out, he unbuckled Grayce while Alicia messed with the door lock, her hands awkward. Did the cold make her fingers fumble, or was it his presence?

  Once the door swung open, she reached for Grayce. “Thanks for bringing us home, Conor. And for the fleas.”

  No invitation in. Not like he expected one, but a guy could hope. He nodded. “I’m at the Nassau Inn if you need anything. You know. Like bug spray. Anti-itch cream.”

  She tried hard not to smile.

  A tiny corner of his heart relaxed. “Or have any ideas about the house.”

  “An exterminator?”

  “I was aiming for post-extermination ideas.”

  “Burn it and start again?”

  He tilted his head, his gaze on hers. “Leash.”

  She sighed, dropped her cheek to Grayce’s knit hat and nodded. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.” He wanted to touch her, just once more, raise his hand to her cheek, so fair, so soft, a hint of ruddiness from the day’s cold, but she stepped into the doorway and the chance was gone.

  “Goodbye, Conor.”

  Grayce suddenly realized he was leaving. “Grandpa, can’t you stay and have hot chocolate with us? Please? I’ll play Memory with you.”

  He wanted to. Longed to.

  Sensing Alicia’s withdrawal, he shook his head. Prepare ye the way... “Not this time, Kid. Grandpa’s got to figure out how to fix up the old house so your Grandma doesn’t get attacked by fleas when she visits.”

  Alicia’s eyes darted to his, as if the idea of visiting him was totally alien. He met the gaze head on and smiled, keeping his voice low. “We can’t have bugs bothering Grandma ‘Licia, now, can we?”

  “Oh, no.” Grayce gave an emphatic shake to her head as though protecting Alicia was the goal of the day. “We love her.”

  “That’s right, Kid.” Conor flicked his gaze from the girl to the woman and let his eyes say more, then stepped back, raising his hand in a quick salute. “You girls have a good day.”

  He refused to turn back to check Alicia’s reaction, despite how much he wanted to. Good or bad, he needed to let her find her own balance, her own way, without undue pressure. Besides, the idea of romancing her took hold in his brain, a seed working toward fruition. His only concern was that if he messed this up, Kim and Addie stood in line to be hurt again. He didn’t want that.

  Then don’t mess up.

  A stab of doubt needled him as he remembered Alicia’s jabs and thrusts. She’d been hurt and angered by his choices. Re-establishing a trust relationship wouldn’t be easy, but he’d faced plenty of difficult situations over the years. He understood the framework, the importance of laying groundwork before building a case. And being in Princeton on weekends meant he’d have the opportunity to run into her on a more regular basis.

  Patience. Groundwork. Framework...

  But first things, first.

  Fleas.

  Chapter Ten

  Conor lifted his office handset as he scanned the latest figures for Homeward Bound on his laptop screen, a half-eaten sandwich spilling crumbs across his executive desk. Why didn’t they ever pack enough napkins? “Conor Bradstreet.”

  “Mr. Bradstreet, Frank Antori here, from Princeton. I just wanted you to know that the rather delicate matter you brought to our attention has been eradicated.”

  Delicate matter? Fleas? Conor pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Only in Princeton. “You’re certain about this, Mr. Antori? The women in my life have a strict ‘no flea’ policy. Go figure.”

  The other man laughed, discreetly, of course. “You have not only the reputation of our company, PPC, but my own as well and my personal guarantee, Mr. Bradstreet. We zapped the little creatures with our most strident measures.”

  Conor envisioned a team of masked, armed men storming his beleagured house, opening fire on the unsuspecting bugs in “Caddyshack” fashion. “I’ll be there this weekend, Mr. Antori. Did your inspection show any other problems?”

  “A small mouse or two. Nothing of import. A basement window was improperly closed, allowing possible entry along the gap. I closed the window personally and set the lock. I also put out residual poison in the attic, which I’ll remove on Friday. With no other food source, we should be in the clear by the middle of the week. If a strange, musty odor should occur...”

  Oh, Alicia would love that. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to strange, musty odors? “Yes?”

  The exterminator cleared his throat. “Dead mice emit such an odor, and are sometimes trapped between walls. A few days of olfactory suffering and then they’re history. Probably a better solution than removing the wall to reach the remains.”

  Conor choked back a laugh. “Mr. Antori, I appreciate your concern, but I live in New York. Do you really think I’ve never smelled decaying rodents?”

  “Of course you have, sir. I mean, why wouldn’t you?” The Italian man backpedaled with nowhere to go. Finally he paused, took a breath, and asked, “If there is anything else you need, please call us.”

  Conor’s lips twitched. He kept his voice easy. “I’m hoping I won’t be in need of your services again, but I’ll keep your card, just in case. Because you never know. Even in Princeton.”

  Antori’s voice dropped a level. “Yes, sir. Even in Princeton.”

  Conor laughed out loud as he hung up the phone, the exterminator’s attitude a reminder of why he liked the city. New York attitudes were tough because they had to be, no ifs, ands, or buts. If Mr. Antori worked in Brooklyn, he’d be shouting his number of kills from the rooftops, and the people would respect him. Probably throw him a party.

  In Princeton such matters were handled with arched brows and quiet dignity, rarely spoken aloud, even when sloppy student housing encouraged the proliferation of wee beasties. Grinning, Conor recalled his undergrad housing at Penn State, prior to swearing off weekend parties and before he met Alicia.

  He and his friends had given up naming the mice when they got to number seventeen. Prolific little creatures. A few actually met their demise by drowning in leftover beers, an effective method of pest control by Conor’s early standards. You couldn’t exactly recycle the bottle, then, but that was okay.

  “What’s so funny?” George Bleu stepped into Conor’s office, a folder in one hand, an envelope in t
he other.

  “Mice. Rats. Fleas.”

  “Positively hysterical.” George’s look said he didn’t get it and was singularly okay with that.

  Conor sat more upright. “The difference in how they’re perceived between New York and Princeton.”

  “Or Venus and Mars.” George nodded, his expression grim. “Same difference. We have a problem.” He voiced the words in a tone that meant they really had a problem.

  “Oh?” Conor reached out a hand, scanned the folder, left brow up, jaw working. “When did we hear about this?”

  “Now.”

  Conor growled, flipped through a few pages, then shook his head. “This is big trouble for Ehrmentraut. Who did the audit?”

  “Schlueter and Schuth.”

  Conor whistled through his teeth at the mention of the top-notch firm. “I’ll need a team.”

  George nodded. His shoulders lightened, as if relieved. Conor flicked his gaze upwards. “You didn’t think I’d take this?”

  “You’re busy,” George explained. He shrugged, his hands out, palms up. “You just wiped up that Asian catastrophe and I know Homeward Bound has you tied up—”

  Conor refuted that. “The art of finding the right people for the right jobs has me untied, other than benefits and schmoozing New York’s elite.”

  George nodded toward the folder marked CONFIDENTIAL. “This will bill a lot of hours.”

  “At some mighty impressive bucks,” Conor agreed, “on top of a hefty percentage.” He shook his head, eyeing the report. “What on earth were they thinking?”

  “CFO and Comptroller got greedy. If you’re good enough with figures, and have collusion, you can make a lot of funds disappear in a relatively short space of time when dealing with a billion dollar industry.”

  Conor sent him a look of disgust. “These guys are already rich. What makes a man like that reassign funds to offshore accounts?”

  George tapped a finger to the CFO’s name. “Gambling. Women. Likes the big life at the casinos. Amazing how many millions a man can go through in one weekend.”

  His words sickened Conor. The lack of respect for hard-earned funds ran epidemic among some of the privileged. Too many forgot where they’d been, what they’d done before and developed a ‘never enough’ mindset. “And the Comptroller?”

  “Drugs. Blackmailed by his suppliers. A real interesting network. Liked to frequent the high priced girls on the Westside as well.”

  “Great.” Conor already had one problem to deal with in that venue. Why not two? “Are the police aware of this?”

  “If not, they will be. Once the e-trail began to open up, the CEO got us on board to protect their interests.”

  “He might have thought a little harder about who he employed, in that case.” Conor knew the CEO of Ehrmentraut Consulting, a huge firm with international ties. The corporate leader was well respected, but obviously not attentive to business. Ehrmentraut was the company other businesses called when they needed to polish the workplace, tidy things up, let people go, cut spending and payroll. Pity they didn’t bother to do the same thing internally. “We haven’t had a case like this since MacMillan and MacMillan.”

  “No. And that one rocked the nation. Who do you want on the team?”

  Conor listed a handful of names, then paused. “Addie’s going to be here as a summer associate in May.”

  George nodded.

  “Slot her with me when the time comes. It’s rare that an early associate gets a peek at what happens when a big company like this plays dirty. The snowball effect will fascinate her.”

  “And other associates?”

  Conor stood and stretched. “I’ll hand pick them, with a nice cross-group of people to avoid any appearance of favoritism toward conservative males.”

  George laughed. “If that girl of yours is any example, I think the company profile may be changing in the coming decade.”

  “A lot of smart women out there,” Conor agreed. He tapped the envelope in George’s hand. “And this is?”

  “Your bonus.”

  “Hand delivered?”

  “Actually just the receipt as requested. The bonus itself was electronically deposited in your account at twelve-oh-one this morning.”

  “To the tune of...” Conor slit the envelope, smiled, whistled and nodded. “...an incredibly significant figure.”

  “Earned and deserved,” declared George, no doubt making himself feel better for a similar deposit.

  Conor shook his head. “No one deserves this, George. It’s ridiculous. But I’ve got plenty of places slated for this baby, to keep it on task for the future.”

  “Your homeless project...”

  Conor nodded. “And there’s a church in Cleveland struggling to stay open while they keep their school up and running. It’s in a disadvantaged area, the kids’ test scores are wonderful comparatively, so this little school has a big effect on a minority group, but they’ll need to close without an influx of funds.”

  “Which you feel pressed to provide.” George shook his head. “Make sure you keep enough for a sandwich. Or a Venti Machiato.”

  Conor laughed as they crossed through the door. “You’d be surprised to know how much you can keep once you start giving things away. Trusts? Scholarship funds? Compound interest on bulk sums with multi-year guarantees? Seed money is the wonderful cornerstone of an ongoing American economy.”

  “The hand up theory.”

  Conor waited.

  George cleared his throat. “My grandmother used to say that when they were young, older siblings reached a hand out to younger ones, to help with education, or their first house, the down payment on a farm. Nothing was expected, it was just how things were done. They gave them a hand up.”

  “So.” Conor hiked a brow as they walked through the quiet corridor leading to the elevators. “Who have you given a hand to, George?”

  George’s expression was enough of an admission. Conor clapped him on the back. “Still time. Plenty of stuff out there that could use a little spare change. How’s your grandson doing? The one with autism?”

  George straightened his shoulders. “Between the government and university funding grants, hordes of money goes into medical research.”

  Conor shrugged. “What about the private sector centers that teach kids like Wyatt? Autistic kids, kids with disabilities. There are a lot of them that could use help, and it’s something that hits close to home. Or the Special Olympics.”

  George twitched as if uneasy. “It’s hard for me to be around that many kids with problems.”

  Conor longed to smack some sense into his partner, but swayed in favor of logical argument. He leaned closer. “I’m not suggesting actually seeing them, George, visually.” Conor made a ‘V’ with his pointer and middle finger, indicating George’s vision. “Write the check. Start a foundation. Share the wealth.”

  “You make it sound easy.” George expelled a lungful of air on a huff. “I thought my job was to make the big bucks and employ the trickle down theory.”

  “By the time our funds trickle down, people are dead,” Conor reminded him. “Hire a secretary to set things in motion, and oversee them. Fund him or her with your own money, thereby insuring a happy taxman with good write-offs and an overseer of the fund. Designate specific uses or general use, sign the transfer, and done. Piece of cake.”

  George eyed him. “You’ve changed over the years. It’s either revolting or positively refreshing.”

  “Thank God for that.” Conor glanced at his watch and paused by Colleen’s desk. “Have we heard back from Chloe Martin?”

  Colleen shook her head as she tapped her keyboard with nails that should have made the task impossible. “Not as yet.”

  “Then I’ll try her again this afternoon.” Conor flexed his jaw, made a face of dismay at the slow progress of the corporate elevator, and headed left. “I’m taking the stairs.” He quirked a brow at George and tapped the folder one more time. “Stupid.”
/>   “Very.”

  “But in terms of billable hours...”

  “Magnificent.”

  *

  “Fleas?” Sandy stood stock-still and stared at Alicia. “You’re kidding.”

  “Millions of the little suckers, hopping about, trying to eat me alive. Great fun.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” Alicia eyed the perfect planes of the ivoried oak trim in contrast to the cranberry upper wall of the centered, second floor bedroom, perfect for displaying New England folk art. “He’s just lucky none of them hitchhiked home with me.”

  “They had a dog, but I never realized...” Sandy’s voice died off. “Conor must hate me.”

  That comment drew Alicia’s attention. “Why?”

  “He paid some pretty big bucks for a flea-ridden piece of property.”

  “He can afford it.”

  Sandy shook her head. “That’s not the point. I’m going to offer to take care of the exterminator.”

  Alicia’s jaw dropped open as Sandy withdrew her cell phone. “You’ll do no such thing. Conor’s made of money.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I presented the house to him in good faith, and the deal didn’t include fleas. It’s the right thing to do. What’s his number?”

  Alicia sighed, huffed, then recited Conor’s cell phone from memory.

  Sandy met her gaze, one brow elevated just the tiniest little bit. “Memorized, huh? I thought you never called him.”

  “Not calling doesn’t mean it isn’t important to know how to call him in case of emergency.”

  “Hmmm...” Sandy’s eyes narrowed slightly, listening, before she spoke. “Mr. Bradstreet, Sandra McGovern of McGovern and Associates in Princeton. I just found out from Alicia that your new home is flea-infested. I’m so sorry. Since that wasn’t how I presented the sale, I would feel much better about things if you would allow McGovern and Associates to pay any extermination costs you might incur to fix the problem. My number here is 555-SALE, and I should be available for the next several hours.”