To their right, close to the channel, was the narrow sandy stretch of the barrier island, a mix of sea grass, palmetto and palms, the rise of the bank barricaded by a dark green border of mangroves. To their left, the bay widened to include small islands, overgrown with mangroves whose gnarled limbs were frequently covered with birds—seagulls, heron and egrets. Phil gasped as a dolphin broke the surface, frisking alongisde the cruiser.
“Keep watching,” Garrett instructed. “He’ll come up again.” Suddenly embarrassed, Garrett clamped his jaws shut. Who was he, to instruct Phil Tierney in the habits of dolphins? She too had lived here all her life.
So this is what it’s all about, Phil thought, recalling all the people she had steered toward the good life in this particular corner of paradise. And yet, when was the last time she had been on a boat, seen a dolphin, taken the time to look around her? Years, hissed the rusty voice of reflection. Years and years and years. Real estate was a twenty-four/seven job. Phil Tierney sold paradise. She didn’t live it.
“That’s Ginny Bentley’s house,” Garret said, pointing across the shallow bay to the imposing white Key West with its large square cupola rising above the surrounding trees.
“Today was Claire’s last day,” Phil said, her voice carefully neutral. “She’s going to sit Brad’s models.”
“I heard. Not the best timing, is it?”
“I understand Brad’s taking extraordinary security precautions. Claire’s going to be wrapped up like a mummy. She’ll be lucky if Brad doesn’t hedge her about so much he scares the customers off.”
“Do you mind?” They were both well aware that Garrett wasn’t asking about T & T losing its marketing specialist.
“Brad and I will probably always be best friends,” Phil admitted, “unless Claire slits my throat. But I’m the one who walked out. I’m the one who wasn’t there when he came back from whatever godawful mission he was on that time. I’m the one who had an opportunity to take over daddy’s business, and I didn’t say no. Until that moment I thought I was a starry-eyed kid content with all the traditional goals, and then . . . then I discovered I wasn’t. I leaped at something that required all my time and attention. I loved Brad to distraction . . . and found it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t just sit around all day wondering what was happening to him. I guess . . . I guess, as a human being, you could say I failed the test.”
“It was a long time ago,” Garrett assured her, thoroughly regretting he had to keep his hands on the wheel. “You’ve both mellowed since then.” For a moment he seemed to give his attention to a heron’s nest perched precariously on top of a tall channel marker. “I thought . . .” he added cautiously, “I thought when Brad came back you two might get together again.”
“Claire will be perfect for him,” Phil said. “She’s independent, but not cursed with my driving ambition. She’ll fight Brad, but not all the time. And in the end . . . in the end she’ll let him win. I was never any good at that.”
Damn! Garrett still couldn’t tell if, deep down, she still wanted Brad. He powered down and, keeping an eagle eye on his depth gauge, nosed the Lori out of the main channel. When they were in a sheltered area behind one of the mangrove islands, he told Phil to take the wheel and keep the cruiser steady while he tossed in the bow anchor. Later, as he popped a champagne cork and poured the sparkling bubbles into the two glasses that had come with the elaborate picnic he had ordered from Golden Beach’s finest caterer, Garrett began to feel more cheerful. He’d done it. He’d gotten Phil to himself. Far enough away from the world so he could actually talk to her. Of course he might have to throw her cell phone over the side. And his.
“There was a nasty scene today,” Phil confided as she opened a container of caviar. “Diane Lake showed up at the office. I don’t understand that woman. Brad broke with her before he started dating Claire, and she just won’t accept it. She’s been calling him almost constantly. And yet I’ve heard she goes through men like a shark through a school of fish. She’s left a trail of bruised egos, if not broken hearts, through three counties, so what’s she so exercised about just because the shoe’s on the other foot?”
“That’s just it. She’s not in control. You ought to recognize that,” Garrett said, biting his tongue the minute the words escaped his mouth. He was a politician, for God’s sake, rapidly developing a reputation as a negotiator, a man of sound common sense. Women were a menace. They could make any man play the fool.
“Possibly,” Phil mused, a gleam in her eye as she spread black caviar on rye toast points, “but I suspect it’s because she can’t find a replacement who measures up.” Phil, who was discovering that Garrett Whitlaw was the only man who could make her blush, took a large bite of caviar, effectively stopping her runaway mouth. And yet, she was glad she’d said it. How about that, you reluctant Romeo?
“I have to concede,” Garrett said, not bothering to conceal a rueful grimace, “that Brad is the stud of the family.”
Phil chewed, swallowed convulsively. Her Irish temper and stiff-necked pride were close to blowing something very precious, a glimmer of a life beyond the carefully circumscribed world she had constructed around herself. A diversion was needed. Fast.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “Stupid remark. I have no idea what makes Diane tick. I only know she’s a true bitch. I’m surprised Brad never throttled her. That woman marched into the office today and staged a scene you wouldn’t believe. Unfortunately, Claire’s far too much of a lady to fight with anyone. At least in public. She turned pale as a ghost but made a real effort, in that quiet voice of hers, to reason with Diane. It was hopeless. The woman just ranted on and on. She actually went so far as to say she was sure the killer would find Claire a tasty morsel when he visited Amber Run. That’s when I had Jake and Don throw her out. Bodily.”
“Good God,” Garrett breathed, “why didn’t someone tell me? I could have taken care of her quite easily. We don’t need someone that unhinged coming into our living rooms with the evening news. Tell Claire to rest easy, I’ll take care of Diane Lake.”
Phil had no doubt that he would. The Whitlaw power, not to mention Garrett’s seat on the County Commission, reached into a lot of boardrooms. In fact, if she recalled correctly, Garrett owned a hefty amount of stock in the local cable TV company. Somehow the champagne and caviar suddenly doubled in flavor.
Much later, when the sun had finished its nightly spectacular and the short dusk had been followed by a cool seabreeze and the gradual appearance of the brightest stars, Garrett and Phil lingered at the galley table, sipping brandy and reminiscing about their early years in Golden Beach. “You were all of six,” Garrett recalled, “and there you stood, shoulder to shoulder with Brad, taking on what must have been a half dozen other first graders. It was my senior year, and I was walking by on my way to the parking lot . . .”
“And you grabbed us both by the backs of our shirts, then ordered the other kids to get a move on. You were my absolute hero from that moment on.”
“Really?” said Garrett, astonished. “What about Brad?”
“Brad was my friend. You were my hero,” Phil admitted, keeping her eyes on the dregs of her brandy. “You were like God. Not only were you that ultimate achievement, a senior, you were captain of the football team, and I’d heard the awe in my parent’s voice when they called you the Heir. I could never think of you as human, you know. You were an icon. Something to be worshipped from afar.”
Garrett sank his head into his hands and moaned.
“And nothing ever changed,” Phil continued relentlessly. “You were always up there on some magic carpet above the rest of us. I remember being absolutely astonished when Brad came back and you and I actually had a chance to talk. I couldn’t believe you spoke plain English, drove your own car, and honestly cared what happened to your hulking nephew.”
“While I kept wondering if you and Brad were going to get back together,” Garrett admitted.
Their eyes locked, the dawning
light in Phil’s chocolate depths confirming the meaning of her confession. Garrett took the plunge. “Living down being a god is bad enough, Phil, but when are you going to stop thinking of me as an uncle?”
“I stopped thinking of you in the avuncular about a year after Lori died,” Phil admitted. “It was the night I walked into the club and saw you dining with a girl half your age. She was practically sitting in your lap.” Phil was so busy watching the twirl of her nearly empty brandy glass in her nervous fingers that she missed Garrett’s sudden gleam of satisfaction. “When I got over the initial shock,” she continued, “I had to admit that most of my outrage was sheer envy. That I wanted you to be dining with me.”
She’d done it. She’d actually humbled her pride enough to admit to a yen for her ex-husband’s uncle. If Garrett had not signaled his interest so clearly, it would have been humiliating. She was an independent businesswoman, thirty-seven years old, for God’s sake. She should be well past all this nonsense.
“Damn it, Phil,” Garrett groaned, “you were Brad’s wife. Ex-wife. I needed a hint, just some little sign you were interested. You don’t know what I went through thinking up an excuse to ask you out.”
“Neither a Tierney nor a Blue ever sucks up to a Whitlaw,” declared Phil, head high, struggling to keep a surge of elation from sending her flying across the minuscule table.
“Proud, stiff-necked and prickly as a porcupine.” Garrett chuckled. “But the walls are scalable. And so are mine. I’m no icon, Phil. I’m very much flesh and blood.” Garrett rose to his feet, holding out his hand. “And I’d very much like a chance to prove it to you.”
By the time Garrett hauled anchor in the wee hours of the morning, the tide was at low ebb and he was forced to use his engines to plow a trough through the mud bottom. While he inched his way back to the channel, he just kept smiling. He was still smiling when he docked the Lori at the marina next to The Pelican.
It had been one hell of a night.
Chapter Nineteen
Claire worked her last day at T & T on a Friday and began her job as sole salesperson for Amber Run on Saturday morning. The contrast in working conditions was glaring. Until the first model was ready, she was sharing Brad’s office, a wooden trailer built more like a fortress than habitable living space. An eight by fourteen cell with two small windows, and a wall air conditioner, it sported a variety of ugly and battered wood furniture, which appeared to be mid-twentieth century rejects resurrected from the dusty recesses of some derelict warehouse.
Claire stifled a moan. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what she was getting into. This was Brad’s on-site construction office, but visiting it, she discovered, was not at all the same as being trapped inside this wooden sarcophagus for six hours a day.
The small trailer, perched on two wheels and a double stack of cement blocks, made an ugly brown splotch against the white latticework that framed the garage area beneath the largest of Amber Run’s model homes. Yet in spite of the drab confinement, the clutter of papers on Brad’s desk, the rolls of blueprints leaning against the wall, she never felt isolated. The construction site hummed with life. The reassuring squeal of electric drills, the steady rhythm of hammering, the occasional shouts of the construction workers, the softer snatches of conversation as the men setting windows into the wall along the deck just above Claire’s head discussed their wives, lovers, dogs, and the goddamn tourist traffic.
“It’s only for two weeks, maybe less,” Brad had assured Claire when he realized the model wasn’t going to be ready by the time she began work at Amber Run. “As soon as the carpet’s in, you can move upstairs. Meanwhile . . .” Brad’s pseudo hang-dog look spoke volumes, as did the light that danced at the back of his startlingly blue eyes. Charm was Brad Blue’s most lethal weapon.
So . . . here she was in a godawful trailer out back of beyond. Claire sighed and pressed the switch on the surge protector, sending the computer whirring into life. Immediately, she felt more comfortable. This at least was something familiar. While the computer booted up, she investigated the various drawers until she located a phone book, pens, pencils, paper clips, ruler, legal pads, all the absolute essentials of an office. Stacked on a wooden countertop at one end of the single room she found sales brochures with floor plans, and most important of all, sales contract forms. Claire sat down and began to read.
Unfortunately, the words refused to make sense. She kept hearing Diane Lake’s spiteful epithets, seeing the shock and disbelief on the other faces at T & T. Echoes of Diane’s shrill diatribe, so unlike her well-modulated tones on the evening news, seemed to fill the tiny trailer, accusing, demanding. Threatening.
And Claire Langdon had sat like a dummy and taken it. No brilliant ripostes, no lethal counterattacks. Dignity had been her only defense. When Jake and Don escorted Diane to the door, she’d felt no triumph. She’d sat there like a lump, frozen to her chair, too numb to move. Or think. She longed to tell Brad all, but he’d just go charging off . . . Best to let sleeping dogs lie. Enough fireworks. Let it end.
Claire jumped as the door swung open and Brad appeared, all six feet two inches of blond and bronzed macho male. Claire gulped for air as she examined his face. Had he heard about Diane’s visit to T & T? Unlikely, as there was no sign of a thundercloud marring his striking good looks. Sun shone in the sky blue eyes topping the high rise of his cheekbones; his full, sensuous lips tilted in an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, sweeping his hand to encompass the four walls of the trailer. “We have to get all the cabinetry done plus the inside painting before I can let the carpet people in.” He tilted Claire’s chin with one finger and favored her with his most charming, most conning smile. “You’re a good sport, Ms. Langdon. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“You must have an Irishman on the family tree somewhere,” Claire grumbled.
“The Russians are as gifted as the Irish in that department, my dear,” Brad replied in his best Clark Gable imitation.
“Obviously, there’s a Russian version of the Blarney stone,” Claire retorted. “Now suppose you show me how your customer database works.”
For a moment Brad looked blank. Then with a wicked grin he pulled out a drawer Claire had opened—and just as promptly shut—when searching for office supplies. Inside was a haphazard collection of scraps of paper, phone message notes, envelopes with return addresses, and—glory be!—an inch-thick printout of names and addresses from the Chamber of Commerce. “Database,” Brad announced triumphantly. At the look on Claire’s face, he added, “Well, what do you think I hired a marketing expert for? Your good looks? Your charm? Because I love you?” He patted the computer monitor, smiled benignly. “A little Langdon magic et voilà . . . database.”
Claire sighed. Well, of course, what else had she expected?
“To be perfectly truthful,” Brad said, “databases are not top priority this morning.”
Instantly suspicious, Claire watched as he settled himself on the corner of her desk. “You know,” he drawled, “school’s going to start next week. It’d be a shame for Jamie to start in one school and then have to transfer. Makes a lot more sense if he could start where he plans to go on.”
Claire missed most of Brad’s carefully planned subtlety. “Next week!” she choked. What do you mean next week? This is the middle of August.”
“Today is Saturday,” Brad said patiently. “School starts in nine days.”
“It can’t,” said Claire, stricken.
“Claire, wasn’t Jamie in school last spring?” At her nod, Brad added, “Didn’t they tell you when school started? Haven’t you seen all the bus schedules in the newspaper? This isn’t New England. We start school the third week of August.”
“Oh, dear,” Claire wailed, “I thought they were kind of early with all the school supplies in the stores. I haven’t bought him any clothes, shoes, a new lunch box . . . Oh, blast! How could I be so stupid?”
Brad took her f
ace in his hands, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Do you think you may have had other things on your mind?” he inquired, lips twitching. “Don’t panic. A week is plenty of time.”
Claire moaned. “I’m hopeless. A monumental mommy failure.”
“That you’re not,” Brad assured her. “Jamie’s one of the nicest kids around. Which brings me back to my original point. If we set a date sometime in the next few weeks, the school will probably let Jamie start at Golden Beach Elementary rather than the school he was in last spring . . .” Brad waited. The silence lengthened. Finally, with a quirk of his lips and a stiff set to his shoulders, he stood up. “Think about it,” he said. “Get Jamie in the right school, give Ginny a rest, and save yourself the drive back to a lonely bed each night. I don’t know about you, but it sounds like a plan to me.”
There was no reply. Claire sat at her desk, head in her hands, shoulders slumped in dejection. Brad left, closing the door behind him. Softly. Very softly.
After marathon sessions at Wal-Mart and Target, Jamie made it back to school on time. At the same school he had attended in the spring. Claire had married Jim Langdon for all the right reasons only to have her world turn to disaster. She was not going to be bowled over by love, lust, Russian charm, or Whitlaw arrogance. The harder Brad bulldozed, the more Claire balked.
It was an impasse. Even the workmen sensed that all was not well. When the Boss disappeared into the trailer several times a day, there was the usual spate of ribald remarks: “Hey, Kevin, you see that trailer rockin’?” was among the cleaner comments drifting out of the model. But, frequently, the remarks were more cynical than suggestive: “It ain’t his dick that’s rockin’. It’s that woman’s tongue.”
“Don’t bet she can get a word in edgewise. Brad’s got the slickest tongue in the county.”
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