Children of Dynasty

by Christine Carroll

  “We might want to show our folks,” she said, “or our …” She broke off before the word “children” formed, but she heard her voice say it inside her head.

  Perhaps Rory understood, for he told Molly, “We’ll have video.”

  “Got rings?”

  “Yes,” Rory replied, showing the velvet box.

  “No,” Mariah said.

  They looked at each other.

  She hadn’t thought to ask him if he’d even wear one. “Do you …?”

  “All right.” His face bore a noncommittal expression, as though he were wondering if he wanted to advertise his marital status.

  She wished they were alone so she could ask him what he was thinking.

  Maybe all weddings were like this. Her friends who had gone through the ceremony had spoken of pre-wedding jitters and how they felt alone in the back of the church, even with their fathers at hand to walk them down the aisle. If only Dad were here to give her away, and Rory’s father stood by, an accepting — no loving — smile lighting his black eyes.

  Some things were not to be.

  Reverend Molly went to a panel in the wall and lowered it. “Men’s.” She pulled out a rack of rings.

  Mariah looked at the confusing array. Even the plain bands came in different widths and textures, along with more intricate styles set with diamonds. In deference to Nevada’s gambling, there were even golden horseshoes.

  Rory selected the widest of plain gold bands.

  The Reverend did not offer a box, so Mariah clutched it in her hand. The gold warmed against her skin.

  “That should do it,” Molly said.

  “Not quite.” Rory bent to a bucket of roses. He bypassed the red ones like he’d given her in Carmel and chose a single white bud on the end of a long stem.

  As they walked out onto the pier, the wind caught her hair that she’d spent such pains with. Rory’s bow tie flapped.

  He held her arm in a protective gesture. “Will you be warm enough?”

  Though the breeze was cool, she couldn’t imagine going back and being married inside the dark little chapel.

  The ceremony was short and surreal. The video camera wielded by Molly’s pimpled nephew made Mariah nervous. The lake wind raised gooseflesh on her bare arms and she pricked the sensitive tip of her index finger on a rose thorn. In a voice that sounded remarkably steady to her, she promised to love, honor, and cherish Rory for as long as they both should live. He recited the same.

  Prompted by the Reverend, Rory brought the ruby from his pocket and slipped it onto her left hand where it glowed in the sun-washed light. She slid the wide gold band onto his finger, and they clasped their ringed hands between them.

  A wave of elation lifted her and she clung to him with a grip so tight she wondered why he didn’t ask her to stop. He could have stayed at DCI without challenging his father and let her and Dad both go down the drain. He could have married a senator’s daughter.

  Yet, he was marrying Mariah and the sight of him beside the cobalt water with his tuxedo snapping in the breeze was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “And now, by the power vested in me by Almighty God and the State of Nevada,” the Reverend intoned, “I pronounce you man and wife.”

  It was done. For better or worse, and now that Rory had stood with her in the sun and promised everything, Mariah wanted it all.

  At a restaurant on the mountainside overlooking Lake Tahoe, where the last light of day had an ethereal quality, they toasted with champagne and ate briny, yet clean-tasting, Puget Sound oysters.

  Though Mariah deplored the reason they’d been forced into a hasty elopement, when their talk turned to business, she was surprised to find she welcomed it. It was the first time she’d felt free to speak with Rory without wondering what his father would do with the information.

  She took a bite of crusty French bread, savored it, and swallowed. “What shall we do with Grant Plaza? Dad and I were planning to office there, but now maybe we should lease it out.”

  “Hell, no. It’s a great plan.” Rory raised his flute. “Let’s move our joint offices to the top floor.”

  “Even after …” Despite her hopes for the skyscraper, seeing Charley die there had her feeling superstitious.

  Rory gestured with a forkful of oyster he’d dipped in a horseradish sauce. “Especially after the accident.” He looked at the mouthful of food and set it back on his plate.

  Pain knifed through her as when her friend had fallen to his death. These last weeks had been filled with so much that she’d been repressing her sense of loss.

  “Charley was such a darling cut-up.” She imagined him and Rory joking together as they had on that long-ago day on the Bay. Charley hauling on the jib sheet while she cranked the winch, Rory manning the wheel with his legs braced against the seas. “I wish you’d known him better.”

  “I knew him enough to understand how you cared for him,” Rory answered. “You remember when I said we should have a memorial sail for Charley?”

  Mariah nodded.

  Rory leaned forward and put his hand over hers on the table. “Since he died working on Grant Plaza, that whole masterpiece of edifice, complete and filled with tenants going about their business and their lives … that will also be his memorial.”

  Though Charley had accepted that his limited abilities precluded shining in the boardroom, he’d been happy as part of the Grant Plaza crew, his contribution to the company his father helped build. With Rory’s words, Mariah realized she didn’t want to give up on the building, either.

  “You’re right.” She turned her hand over and twined her fingers with Rory’s. “I couldn’t see it.”

  Their synergy made her see she and Rory could be a team, designing and implementing projects even more spectacular than Grant Plaza. Working together through the years began to seem real.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say something about it, but a fear of jinxing the situation kept her quiet. For, as night fell over the Sierras, she wondered if their marriage would be enough to make Davis stand down.

  On the drive up the mountain to their rented condo, Rory was amazed at how he felt. Perhaps knowing Mariah’s friend Charley was gone, while the blood continued to flow through his veins, was what made Rory so glad to be alive. He hadn’t been this happy in … God, it was eight years and that meant the source of his joy was sitting beside him in the front seat.

  He reached for Mariah’s hand and pressed her wedding ring. It didn’t matter that his feet had felt a little cool before the ceremony; that happened to most guys.

  As he negotiated the winding road, she asked, “Where should we live?”

  “How about my place for a while?” he said easily. He’d never had a woman there, keeping his social life separate from his home. Even so, the townhouse wasn’t the kind of place he wanted to live with Mariah long-term.

  He shook his head and chuckled. It was exactly like some of his married buddies had said. If you married the right woman, the minute the wedding was over, you felt different. You suddenly thought ahead to things like houses and hearths.

  That house off the 17-Mile Drive … Rory made a mental note to call and find out if it was still on the market. If it were, he’d pack them for a weekend down the coast and present the key as a surprise wedding present. That is, if he had the funds after the chips finished falling with his father.

  The driveway for the condo came up, and he turned down the steep hill to the complex. Lights twinkled from windows and balconies, welcoming. He imagined bringing Mariah here during snow season, building a fire and taking off her clothes in dappled light beside the hearth.

  When they reached the top of the stairs and he unlocked the door, he pointed down at the threshold. “See that?”

  Her brow furrowed prettily. “What?”

  He scooped her up and carried her inside, depositing her on the kitchen counter.

  Mariah put her hands up and twined them in the hair at the back o
f his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. “I seem to recall a prior countertop experience.” Her voice went husky.

  Though his body urged him to take her up on what sounded like an offer, he bent and kissed her earlobe. “Tonight, I think we’ll use that king-sized bed. But first …” He lifted an index finger and went back to the car for an extra bottle of champagne.

  On his way up back up the stairs, he found himself whistling. A pulse in him spoke of having all night. All of many nights.

  When he came in, Mariah had disappeared and the master bath was closed off. From his suitcase, he brought out the black velvet robe she had left at McMillan’s. It felt soft in his hands, as he tapped on the door panel.

  Mariah opened up a crack and peeked around. “It’s bad luck to see the bride.”

  “You’re not a bride anymore. You’re my wife.” After all the negative noises he’d made about marrying again, he did like the sound of it. “Slip into something more comfortable?” He held out the robe where she could see it.

  She took it with a smile he thought promising and closed the door again.

  The urge to whistle came back as he iced the champagne and brought it to the bedside. He turned back the comforter and plumped the pillows, like room service in a five-star hotel. Remembering the candles they had lit aboard Privateer long ago, he found one in the living room and lit it, turning down the other lights. From his kit, he brought out a bottle of the ginger massage oil he’d taken home from Ventana.

  There were aspects of being married to Mariah he was going to like very much.

  In the bathroom, Mariah put on the robe. The lining matched the center stone in her wedding ring, and seemed to cast a warm light onto her skin. In the other room, she heard Rory whistling. She’d never heard him do that before.

  With a deep breath, she opened the door. He stood at the foot of the bed, jacket off and shirt open, removing his ruby studs. His hands stilled when their eyes met.

  She went to him and pushed his hands aside. Gently, she took the stones from his shirtfront, placing them one by one on the dresser. The mirror reflected the scene of domesticity. She shifted her attention to his cuffs, loving his fine-boned hands, from their clean, square-cut nails to the sprinkling of dark hair on the backs. When she reached to push the shirt off his shoulders, he helped her, shrugging out of it to reveal his bare chest.

  Planting an open-mouthed kiss in the hollow where her shoulder met her neck, he let her strip him down until he was as bare as when he’d been born, with a notable exception. The gold ring branded him as hers.

  She took his hand and looked at it. “Are you still afraid?”

  He gave her a steady gaze. “I’m sure there will always be something to fear. Right now I’m not.” He slipped his hands inside the robe she’d left loose and circled her waist. “You?”

  “No.”

  Rory’s eyes seemed enormous, drawing her as if she might float off the floor. She let her palms take in his skin’s texture, smooth in places, in others hair-roughened, like reading Braille. He kissed her and she realized she was crying from the salt taste of tears at the corner of her mouth.

  He urged her down on the bed and began to make slow love with his hands and lips. The clean geranium smell of his cheek mixed with the spice of an aftershave she hadn’t noticed on him before. She lay taut and proud, the hand wearing her wedding ring cradling the back of his neck.

  Impossible, but it was once again better than she remembered, for this time they were one, at least in the eyes of the Reverend Molly and the State of Nevada.

  “When we were younger, you said you would always love me,” she dared through a languorous haze.

  Rory raised his head and stopping caressing her.

  She felt like curling up and pulling the comforter over her. Instead, she waited.

  He pushed up on an elbow. “I didn’t know what I meant by ‘love’ then.”

  Mariah maintained her silence.

  “I thought we settled this at McMillan’s.” Rory pushed up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Neither of us had the gumption to fight for each other, so was it really love or were we enamored with the idea of it?”

  Perhaps he was right and her younger self hadn’t understood the full meaning of the word. She’d been a kid with no idea how deeply she could need this man who was now her husband.

  He ran his hands over his chin “If I’d loved you the way you deserved, I’d never have let you go.”

  She looked into his troubled brown eyes. “I’m here now.”

  “When I think of the wasted years we should have been together …”

  Mariah scrambled up and knelt before him, a hand on each of his thighs. “Don’t go back there. Even after we talked about our breakup, I was still hung up on the past. I believed the worst when you decided not to leave DCI and when you came with Davis to Dad’s office. God, Rory, let’s be done with the past and look forward.”

  He took her mouth with a desperate tenderness she had never felt in him. “I do want us to have a future,” he vowed. “I want that with all my heart.”

  Her pulse thudded as she weighed pride against this man who still wrestled with their past breakup, his failed marriage, and his parents’ rocky relationship. She could walk away because Rory could not or would not say certain words, but the ones he’d just uttered meant even more than the rote ritual of their wedding ceremony.

  “I want our future, too,” she whispered against his lips.

  CHAPTER 25

  Rory awoke in a cocoon of covers with Mariah’s arm around him. There was no instant of wondering where he was or with whom. Just a slow drifting up from sleep to a place that felt safe. He’d slept restlessly, sometimes pushing her away, at others holding her hard against him. Now he breathed deeply and evenly, as though in some dream of her he’d found peace.

  Last night he and Mariah had left the drapes open, letting in a rose dawn light that fingered the nearest mountain peak. Not yet ready to face Grant Development’s last day and all the uncertainty it brought to both him and his wife, he closed his eyes and pressed his back to her warmth.

  “You’re awake,” he whispered.

  “How did you know?” She shifted slightly and curled her legs so they spooned snugly.

  “I sensed you there.”

  He turned over to face her and kissed her neck softly. His hand on her side moved to beneath her breast. His breathing became more deliberate, as images of last night readied him for more lovemaking.

  For, it was love.

  How utterly stupid he’d been to hesitate over the word. After the jubilation he’d felt as soon as they were married, he should never have suffered the old knee jerk reaction against giving a woman the ability to hurt him. Those days were past, and as Mariah had said, neither of them must ever go back.

  He brushed her hair back from her face. “Last night …” he whispered.

  The pealing tones of a muffled cellular phone began. They both jumped and he swore.

  “It’s mine,” she said, gesturing toward her purse on the nightstand.

  Mariah was closest, but he cleaved up, reached it, and handed it to her.

  “Hello.” She threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. “Dad?”

  On the drive down from the mountains, the soaring heights of the Sierras gave way to the broad San Joaquin valley. Summer row crops and fruit trees brought forth bounty, but the optimism Mariah had felt at their marriage saving Grant Development had blackened on the vine.

  Her father’s terse words, “You’d better get down here as soon as possible,” had been a rough wakeup, but then he’d said, “Don’t ask for details now, but Davis knows what you and Rory did.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll explain when you get to the house, Daughter.” The weariness in his tone made her accept the wait.

  Just before ten a.m., Rory steered his Porsche onto her father’s street in Stonestown. She jumped out, ran up the walk, and used her key to let them
in.

  John wasn’t in the house; the back door stood open. Bougainvillea on a trellis was in full bloom, cascading tiers of bright fuchsia and coral.

  “Out here,” he called.

  Mariah and Rory went through the kitchen and stepped onto the patio. She bent to kiss her father’s cheek.

  He held out a hand to grip both hers and Rory’s. “Congratulations, you two.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rory said. “Now, what happened with Father?”

  The pleasant set of John’s face turned sad. “I’m afraid I made a huge mistake. Instead of calling and accepting DCI’s offer, I decided to tell Davis the truth. That you had gone to get married and that it was time we buried the hatchet.”

  As Mariah formed the same thought, Rory said, “Bad idea. What happened?”

  John’s expression hardened. “He buried it in my back.” He shook his silver head. “His offer is no longer good. After Grant goes under, he’ll cherry pick the properties at the foreclosure auction.”

  Rory slammed his hand against the post that held up the bougainvillea. His ring glinted, mocking her with the futility of what they’d tried. “Let’s go.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’re going over there and confront him with his blackmail of Tom Barrett. He’s going to by God stand down as head of DCI or I’ll drag his name through the dirt. Lyle Thomas would be happy to prosecute.”

  The sight of Rory’s rage brought John up straighter in his chair. “Hold on. Tom made it clear he approached Davis. There was no extortion involved.”

  Mariah found her hand on Rory’s arm. “He’s right. There’s nothing to be gained by going over there and starting a brawl.”

  “You always wanted me to stand up to him,” Rory told her. “Now you don’t?”

  Before she could speak, John said, “I’ve been sitting here thinking about what Wilson McMillan once told me about winding up on the rocks. Well, I’m there now, and you don’t need to join me.”