Try, Try Again

by Herne, Ruth Logan

  She eyed him as though weighing the sincerity of his words and life in general, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrow. “Goodbye.”

  Conor re-entered his office, sank into the chair he’d just vacated, folded his hands and prayed he did the right thing by asking her in, offering his help, encouraging her by using Grayce. Brian would most likely have his head on a platter for that move, but Conor had seen the sadness in Grayce’s eyes, her equanimity about being dumped by her mother. What kid feels good about being left by their mother, the one person in all the world who should love and cherish you no matter what?

  He’d square things up with Brian that night, fill him in, then take the blows as they came. Better to be upfront than uptight, and Brian had asked his help, although Conor was fairly certain the younger man didn’t expect this approach.

  Still, if he was any judge of character, Chloe Martin seemed disgusted with herself and her current lifestyle. Good actress that she was, or had been before coke messed up her mindset, she’d been able to pull off the show of bravado with little mis-step, but Conor sensed the nicks in her armor. Maybe, just maybe, with divine intervention, some time and some money, Chloe could regain the life she’d sought eight years before.

  The timeline didn’t surprise Conor. Not at all. About the same time he contemplated ending his life, Chloe Martin jumped into a way of life she didn’t want and made decisions that brought their paths together at a critical intersection.

  Some things in life were coincidental. Sometimes stuff just happens, he believed that. If you roll for snake eyes fifty times, you have an equal shot of getting them with each roll, despite the rolls that went before.

  People didn’t equate so easily though, and Conor sensed a path for Chloe Martin that could make all the difference, if only she saw her way clear to tough out the beginning. Starting anew might be harsh, he understood that reality, but the young woman had spunk. She could do it if she wanted to, and that would be the crux of the matter. Did she want it badly enough?

  Time would tell.

  *

  Conor stepped through the front door of Alicia’s new venture on Saturday morning and was fairly certain he’d interrupted a significant clinch between a shaggy-haired guy wearing casual clothing and a tall woman in what he thought was a Kaspar suit, light-toned stockings and really nice strappy heels. He cleared his throat and glanced away, trying to hide his amusement.

  Alicia appeared on the landing above, her hair a mess, a hole in the knee of ancient, well-washed blue jeans. Her black sweatshirt read: WARRIORS TAKE NO PRISONERS in flaked gold print across the front, a leftover from the girls’ high school years at St. Michael’s Academy. Minimum age of the ratty shirt was five years, and that was if Addie wore the thing her senior year. In actuality, it looked older than dirt, so he’d guess Kim, circa freshman. The fact that Alicia not only kept the ragged thing, but wore it, said more than he could possibly figure out in one lifetime.

  Alicia flicked a glance at her watch. “What are you doing here?”

  He held her gaze, ignoring her look of surprise and chagrin, wondering what bothered her more, his presence, or him seeing her looking like a bedraggled waif. He’d bet the latter. “I wanted to see the progress you’ve made, view Jerome’s work first-hand, and meet the artisan in person.”

  Disregarding her frown, Conor shifted his gaze to the couple, now significantly separated, to his right. “Jerome?”

  “Yes.” The carpenter stepped forward, his movements fluid and easy, no visible trace of embarrassment. “Jerome Biltman.” He offered Conor a strong, self-assured handshake. A guy’s guy, thought Conor, and judging from what Conor had witnessed, Alicia’s assessment of Jerome’s gender preference was spot on.

  Conor exchanged a brief look of understanding with him, then turned toward the woman as Alicia descended the stairs, appearing annoyed, disheveled and possibly murderous.

  The tall woman with great shoes moved his way. “I’m Sandra McGovern, Mr. Bradstreet. We spoke earlier this week.”

  “Conor, remember?”

  A hint sheepish, over the bugs or the clinch, he wasn’t quite sure, she extended her hand. “Conor.”

  He nodded, grinned, shook her hand, winked at the two of them, then turned toward Alicia. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “You know you are. I don’t know why you bother saying things like that.”

  “To annoy you.”

  “Done.”

  “Excellent.” Conor shifted his gaze to include Jerome and Sandra. “I just came from the house and I was hoping you were still impressed with Mr. Biltman’s endeavors.”

  That topic loosened her up. She bobbed her head and smiled at Jerome who, in turn, tried to look humble and failed. “Jerome’s excellent.”

  Conor shifted his attention to Sandra. “And you agree, Ms. McGovern?”

  She blushed clear to the roots of well done highlighted hair and nodded. “Amazing.”

  “Hmm.” Conor didn’t dare meet the laughing eyes of the craftsman. They’d never keep things under control then. He switched his interest back to Alicia. “Have you talked with him about the house?”

  Jerome glanced from Alicia to Conor and back, an eyebrow up.

  Alicia shook her head. “Not yet. I figured he’d want to see it and you’d be down this weekend.”

  “I see.” Without moving, Conor met Jerome’s look of interest. “We have a house—”

  “You have a house.”

  Chin down, Conor ignored Alicia’s declaration. “That’s in need of some major renovations. It’s on Teaberry, just a few minutes from here. My wife, excuse me, former wife,” Conor tipped his gaze her way as if to salute her sovereignty, “recommends you highly. If you’re interested, I’m here this weekend. I’d be glad to have you look the place over.”

  “The electric’s on?”

  Conor nodded.

  “And the fleas are gone?” queried Alicia, her voice way too helpful.

  Sandra groaned and glared up at her. “You don’t have to keep bringing them up, do you?”

  Heightened awareness brightened Jerome’s gaze. He arched a Buzz Lightyear-type brow. “You... bought a house with fleas?”

  Conor met his interest with equanimity. “Sandra sold me a house believed to be uninhabited. The non-contractual fleas came as an added bonus.”

  “I see.” Jerome hiked a brow in Sandra’s direction. “Fiendishly clever.”

  The flush of her cheeks deepened. “A totally unintentional bonus whose extermination I’m underwriting.”

  Conor flashed her a grin. “And unnecessary though it is, Alicia and I thank you.”

  “Alicia’s got nothing to do with this,” said Alicia from her perch on the third winding step. “This is your boondoggle, not mine.”

  “You offered your help.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Kitchen cabinets, ivory washed or light stained?” Conor quoted, holding her gaze, pretending not to notice the hint of interest she worked so hard to hide.

  Her expression said he got her, and the fact that he did delighted him. Tweaking her was an art he’d laid to rest a long time ago. He’d forgotten how much fun it was, and the delightful task that fell to him in soothing ruffled feathers afterwards.

  Jerome gave him a look of approval, stepped closer, chin down, and muttered. “Nicely done.”

  Conor matched his low tone, chin tucked. “Years of practice.”

  “Still...” The look Jerome offered was pure appreciation. “Impressive.”

  Alicia came down the last three steps and looked suddenly smaller without the artificial height bolstering her. “Let’s show him Jerome’s work or we’ll never get rid of him.”

  Conor nodded, affable. “And since I have a lot to do before our date tonight, I need to hustle.” The word ‘date’ brought Sandra’s head around, another half-smile from Jerome and a glare from Alicia.

  “I hardly think that getting together to talk about our girls is a date.�
�

  “For dinner?”

  “People have to eat.”

  Conor took a step closer, holding her gaze, taking far too much pleasure in watching her smolder. “Benedetti’s.”

  Her eyes widened at the name of the upscale restaurant, but she held her ground. “Conor, it’s not like price is a factor for you.”

  He acknowledged that with a slow nod and edged closer. “Don’t they have that dark chocolate/caramel/nut dessert you find intriguing?”

  Her cheeks pinked, no doubt remembering another night when they shared desserts from Benedetti’s. They’d done take out that night, for dessert, anyway. Most interesting evening. Conor let a few seconds slide by before he smiled. “Great stuff,” he noted before turning back to Jerome. “So. Care to give me a tour?”

  Jerome nodded and headed for the stairs. “The upstairs is done, that’s why Alicia’s cleaning up here. They’ll start installing the bookshelves on Tuesday as long as everything’s ready.”

  Conor sent Alicia a look over his shoulder. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  The look she flashed him mixed frustration with grudging admiration, enough so that he paused and smiled down at her, openly flirting with the wife he’d turned his back on, the wife who lost her son and husband in one fell swoop because he wasn’t faithful enough or man enough to cling to her in his sorrow.

  Moron.

  But the smile he gave inspired one in return, albeit smaller and a little more hesitant. Another part of his heart opened full size. Over the years Conor had come to realize that heart expansion was a slow and somewhat tedious process unless you were a fictional Christmas character like Scrooge or The Grinch. Mere mortals grew bigger and better hearts step by step, day by day, laying a base that proved sometimes painful and often gut-wrenching.

  But today, seeing Alicia smile up at him, her eyes bright and a hint wistful, the heart expansion was virtually pain-free.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jerome’s countenance stayed unreadable as he walked through the vintage two-and-a-half story brick home that afternoon. To Conor, the lack of emotion translated to extra zeroes in the upcoming estimate. With every thoughtful hand Jerome raised to his chin, Conor saw dollar signs. As Jerome finished his inspection in the nearly hundred-year-old basement, he pointed to the six-inch wide beams suspended above their heads, eyes wide, tone reverent. “Masterfully done.”

  Conor eyed the dark wooden supports, arched a brow and nodded. “Yes.”

  Jerome flashed him a grin, the first emotion he’d shown since Conor pushed through the front door. “Stick to finance, I’ll do wood.”

  Conor acquiesced with little provocation. “That’s why I brought you here. You’ve got the knowledge, I’ve got the funds.”

  As they moved back upstairs, Jerome withdrew a small notebook from his back pocket and scribbled a number across the page, then handed the entire notebook to Conor, who whistled and stopped. “You’ve ascertained this from one look and no measurements?”

  Jerome hiked a brow. “When you’re good, you’re good.”

  Conor mulled the number. “Alicia loves your work.”

  “And you want her happy.”

  “I wouldn’t go straight to happy,” Conor deadpanned. “Less than confrontational would be a good start.” He waved a hand, indicating the house around them. “I want Alicia comfortable when she’s here, that’s all.”

  Jerome gave him a skeptical glance and drawled a question. “Christmas together?”

  Little hairs rose along the nape of Conor’s neck. “Something like that.”

  “Right.” Jerome reached out and regained control of the notebook. He slashed out the first estimate and wrote a new one beneath. “Price just went up.”

  Conor stared at him, then the paper, then back at Jerome. “You can’t do that.”

  “Can. Did. I like Alicia. More so, Sandy loves your ex-wife. If you in any way, shape or form do her dirt and I’m working for you, I stand to lose.” Jerome shook his head. “I don’t lose well.”

  Conor stood his ground, arms folded, jaw tight. “Neither do I.”

  “I figured that.” Jerome nodded. “Which is the only reason I agreed to come over here, but I work on my terms.”

  “Pricey because I’m rich.”

  “I prefer to think it’s because I’m the best,” Jerome shot back. “And because if you’re going to pretend that this isn’t all about getting your wife back, then I’m going to charge more to deal with levels of stupid insincerity a gifted artist like me finds to be a pain in the—”

  “I get the drift.” Conor swept the kitchen a look. “I want this done to suit Alicia. She’s got a good eye for detail and appeal—”

  “Ever tell her that?”

  Conor worked his jaw, his emotions rising. “Not often enough. Anway, she did say she’d lend advice on how to restore things, so for details, you’ll need to work with her as she’s available.”

  “She’s not available,” came a stressed-out woman’s voice from behind them. “She’s so not available as to be a non-entity. Conor, I’ve already explained that.”

  Conor turned her way, but not before exchanging a quick look with Jerome. The other man’s expression said he had no idea how long she’d been standing there either. “We’ll work around your schedule, Leash.”

  She cast him a frenzied look, but her appearance softened as she gazed around, then down to check her pants. “No bugs.”

  “No.” Conor smiled at her. “I had them especially killed for you, dear.”

  “My hero.” Walking forward, she gave Jerome a poke in the chest. “My store comes first.”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  She jerked a thumb in Conor’s direction. “No matter how much he offers you. Got it?”

  Jerome put up his hands in surrender. “I can’t be bought. Got it.”

  Alicia seemed to evaluate their combined sincerity, then gave up altogether. “I’m done at the library this week. That’ll give me more time.”

  Conor gave her a brisk nod. “Perfect. Jerome, am I bumping work you’ve already contracted?”

  Jerome shook his head. “No, there’s enough of us to go around. My younger brother runs the construction side of the business as a general contractor, dealing with subcontractors, coordinating the work, and using only the best people. I do the artsy side of the wood, the finished product that tricks out an old place into an even better edition of itself. My sister handles the books and plays the fiddle. A real Dixie Chick, complete with attitude. Imagine that.”

  Conor leveled a gaze to his ex-wife. “You in?”

  She frowned and hesitated, one hand gripping the other. “Yes, but I’m not sure why.”

  He softened his expression and held her gaze until she shifted away, arms folded.

  “Price is good. How absolute is it?” he asked Jerome, shoving the small notebook into his inner jacket pocket so Jerome couldn’t hike the final tally again.

  Jerome shook his head. “I’ll work up price estimates on a room-by-room basis, but that’s the top end for the moment.” He raised his chin and stared Conor in the eye. “Unless we run into a problem, of course.” His look drifted to Alicia, rife with meaning.

  Conor acknowledged the silent interchange with a brief nod. “So noted.”

  As they moved outside, Jerome waved toward the former carriage house near the back corner of the southern property line. “Does that need work?”

  Conor patted the notebook in his pocket. “Isn’t this more than enough to feed you for the rest of your natural life?”

  Jerome shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the brick and cedar building. “It’s shoddy to redo the house and ignore the outbuildings. The Conor Bradstreets of this world don’t do shoddy.”

  “We could start.” Conor shot him a bemused look, applied a key, and slid open the first bay of the old carriage barn.

  A sub-human noise stopped them in their tracks. Conor looked at Alicia. She shrugged, eyes wide
then narrow as she peered into the dark recesses of the three-car garage. Reaching to her right, she flicked the light switch between the bays.

  Nothing switched on.

  The noise came again, from the back right corner. Jerome touched Conor’s arm. “I’ve got a flashlight in the car.” He headed down the drive at a trot and was back by the time Conor lifted the second and third bay doors.

  “Aaarrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmm.” The mournful plea weakened toward the end, then faded completely.

  “There.” Alicia grabbed Conor’s arm as the flashlight beam caught the silhouette of a dark, prone form in the farthest corner.

  The sound came again, smaller this time, while the thin beam of light penetrated the shadows. “Conor, it’s a dog.”

  Conor’s sensibilities didn’t want her to be right, because if this was, indeed, a dog tied to the eye-hook on the back stud, that could only mean one thing. The poor creature had been there for weeks. He grabbed Alicia’s arm as she started forward. She tried to jerk free, but he held tight. “I’ll go. We don’t know if he’s hurt or diseased on top of being starved and neglected.”

  When she wrested her arm free with a glare, Conor dipped his chin, concern edging his voice. “Just let me check him first.”

  Her lips thinned, but she gave a quick nod. “All right.”

  The wretched animal moved. The action created a stench of unwashed dog, urine and feces. While a well-used dirtied area to Conor’s left showed the dog tried to move away for bathroom facilities, the fouled area around him meant he’d probably lost the energy to extend that far. An old bag of dog food lay empty and out of reach. A scarred Dutch-oven kettle, not unlike those Conor’s mother used, stood off to the side, long since empty of water. As Conor approached, the dog tried to stand, his tail making a concerted effort to wag a greeting.

  The wag was all Alicia needed. She moved forward, cooing warm, maternal sounds that took Conor back to another place and time. For that reason alone his tone came out harsher than originally intended. “I told you to stay back. Let me check him.”

  “Conor, anything that wags a tail like that has got to be perfectly harmless, aren’t you boy?” Alicia sank to her knees, ignoring the fetid smell. With gentle hands, she worked her fingers into the scruff of the dog’s neck, kneading carefully. “There, fella, that feels good, doesn’t it? Of course it does.”