Asking for Trouble (15 page)

“A week on the outside. I'd like to get it taken care of before that balloon payment on the first half of construction is due.”

“Right, of course.” The clock in her head that had been counting down doubled in speed.

“In fact.” Elliot frowned. “I think I have an email in here from Talbot and Sons. I went to grad school with their youngest, and since it's for a charity, he offered to do the audit free of charge.” Elliot shoved a stack of files aside and unearthed his keyboard. “Yeah. Let's see, they'll be sending someone over on the twenty-fourth. So, next Wednesday. I can have it moved up if you want.”

“No.” Morgan forced a laugh to cover the fear-induced urgency in her tone. “No, you're right. Getting it all in order before the big payment is due should be our main concern.”

“Well, the check from the fund-raiser has cleared, so we should be in good shape for that. I'm familiarizing myself with the bylaws now and we should all be on the same page to move forward.” Elliot smiled. “Glad to hear you're okay with me as your new go-to guy. We'll make a good team.”

“Great. Thanks.” Morgan pushed herself to her feet, grateful that her knees didn't fold under her. The walk to the door and into the hall felt like a mile hike, each step agony. Hugging her arms around her chest, she wandered to the window and stared into the blinding sunlight as she chewed on her thumbnail, the pain a welcome reprieve from her racing thoughts.

Five days to deposit money she didn't have.

“Morgan?”

“Huh?” Morgan blinked sunspots from her eyes as Sheila headed toward her. “Oh, hey.” She resumed chewing on her finger.

“I asked if you wanted to come see my new office. How did the meeting with Elliot go?”

“Um. Great. Just fine.”

Sheila pulled Morgan's thumb from her mouth. “Stop gnawing on your hand like a starving hyena. Did Elliot say something to upset you? Is there something going on with the foundation?”

“What?” Shocked at the suggestion, Morgan gaped. “No, of course not. What would make you say something like that?” What had she done wrong? Had she slipped the other night, said something that made Sheila think she was failing?

“Then what happened?”

For an instant Sheila's face shifted into their mother's—the same coloring, the same concerned green eyes. The same kind tone Morgan had longed to hear for the past year. In that desperate desire to confide in someone, in the mother she missed so much she ached with it, she blurted out, “Did you ever do something very wrong for the right reason?”

Sheila's hand tightened around hers. “Tell me what's going on, Morgan. What did you do?”

Morgan swallowed, considering, debating. She almost crossed over and trusted, but she couldn't take the chance. Anyone she told at this point could be held as responsible as she was, and she wasn't about to put anyone else at risk. “It's nothing. I'll figure it out,” Morgan said softly. “I'll, um, I'll call you.” She tugged her hand free, headed toward the elevator. Five days. A hundred twenty hours.

“Morgan?” Sheila called before hurrying to catch up with her. “If you can't talk to me about it, there is someone who will listen.”

Morgan's heart clenched. She'd been playing with fire getting closer to him, and now look. She was about to be incinerated. Was there any way to extricate herself from this mess without Gage finding out what she'd done? “Gage can't help me.”

“At least give him the chance,” Sheila pleaded as the elevator doors opened. “Do not turn away because you're scared of what could be. He's good for you. You and I both know how fast people we love can be taken away.”

Record heat and an overstressed air conditioner were not the welcome home Morgan hoped for Friday afternoon. While the swamp cooler in her apartment gave a coy rumble of protest before kicking into agreement, the ancient central air system in the main house copped an attitude the second the mercury hit ninety and turned the house into a sauna. By the time Morgan located and wrapped the exposed wire in electrical tape, she'd had enough.

Not even the exuberant squeals and laughter from the backyard as the kids ran through an obstacle course of sprinklers, fired-up mega water guns, and an endless barrage of water balloons were enough to drag her out of her self-imposed hobbit hole of depression.

It was all Morgan could do not to scream and cry and beat her fists against the wall to bend the world to her will. She was starting to suffocate, everything piling up on her, boulder after boulder landing on her chest. The center, the money, Nemesis, Gage, her father selling the house, the endless repairs, Lydia. The doctor and patient she'd had to turn away.

The desire to hear Gage's voice was overwhelming, to be reminded that even though he was unaware of what she'd done, what she was hiding from him, he was there for her. So she'd taken Sheila's advice and called Gage.

She'd hung up before the call connected.

An hour later she'd dialed again, let it ring once before changing her mind again, and turned her phone to vibrate.

She tapped the small stack of insert cards that had been included with Nemesis' “gifts.” Where they'd once brought her immense relief and bolstered her belief that all would be okay, now the cards mocked her and screamed failure in their vapid whiteness.

It was too late, they seemed to say.

The incessant vibrating of her silenced cell phone provided background music as she clicked through spreadsheet after spreadsheet, searching out extra dollars, any mistakes that might suddenly fix the foundation's financial woes. Another read-through of the foundation bylaws proved what she already knew: the operating and property fund accounts could not intermingle. There was no wording that led her to believe there was a legal “out” if and when her financial finagling came to light during the audit.

“Lawyers and computers don't make mistakes.” Morgan hit the stuttering mouse to get its attention when it stopped moving on the screen. “You do though. Mistake.” Click. “Mistake.” Click. “Mistake.”

The only thing her fruitless search produced was a carpet of scattered files and confirmation that she was out of time.

She'd even gone so far as to check mortgage rates against the house. Surely with her family's sterling reputation she could get one; she might even consider asking her father to co-sign. And that might have been the solution. If she still had a few weeks. But no bank, not even the one her father sat on the board of, was going to get her the amount of money she needed in five— Morgan glanced at the clock. Shit. The banks were closed for the weekend. Three days.

Morgan slammed back in her chair, disgusted that she'd even considered sacrificing the Fiorellis' and the kids' stability because of her rash decisions. The deposit she'd make next week wouldn't be all she needed, but it was something. She lowered her head into her hands, trying to uncover the bright side. Explaining a hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollar discrepancy was a little easier than two hundred thousand. Wasn't it?

Thank God Nico and Angela were taking the kids to the spring concert in the park tonight. They wouldn't have to witness the massive self-pity party she was throwing for herself.

“Enough.” Morgan pushed herself out of the creaky office chair and straightened up, stacked the files, and tapped the cards into a neat pile under her monitor. If only everything in her life could be put in order so easily.

Morgan grasped the cameo around her neck, dragged it along its silver chain. Her mother wouldn't have given up. No, her mother would have kept fighting, kept looking for another way, any way, before surrendering. There had to be something.

She heard the back gate bang open, more excited laughter pealing through the air as new voices joined the throng, but she didn't take the time to look out the window. Instead, she went into her bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress. She stared at the photos of her family surrounding the black lacquer jewelry box her grandmother had left her, resisting the overwhelming urge to wrap herself cocoon-like in the down comforter and bury herself in the mattress for the next week.

“Oh, Granny,” Morgan whispered as her gaze drifted over the photo of herself, Sheila, and their grandmother, Siobhan O'Donnal Tremayne, under the massive oak tree in the front yard. Between the Irish fire of her father's mother and the strong will of her mother, Morgan had received a double dose of genetic stubbornness when it came to doing what was right. Both women had always done what was necessary to take care of the family.

The stories Granny told of meeting and falling in love with Morgan's grandfather were family legend. Tales of skirting the law during Prohibition, the excitement of defying the rules despite the possible ramifications should they ever be caught, had never grown old—or been forgotten. Morgan embraced the irony that she was carrying on an unusual family tradition. She wished she could learn to live without regrets like Granny had.

Granny had risked going to prison to put food on her family's table and had ended up providing them with everything they'd ever need. Even now that Granny was gone she'd left Morgan this house along with a gorgeous jewelry box filled with her treasures.

Morgan's depression-logged mind cleared as if a fifty-mile-an-hour wind blew the thunderclouds away.

Morgan bit her lip, stood up, and lifted the latch on the box, exposing the treasure trove of antique jewelry. Oh, but she couldn't. Could she?

That late fall afternoon when Granny had sat both her and Sheila down and let them alternately choose their favorite pieces from her extensive collection was as vivid a memory as a Technicolor film. As was the reading of Siobhan's will four years later when the lawyer presented them with her bequests.

Lifting the box as if it would disintegrate at the slightest touch, Morgan carried her grandmother's jewels to the small table outside the kitchen. One by one, the jeweled brooches, the delicate necklaces, and the too-small bracelets were brought into the light. A rainbow of gemstones and tarnished silver glinted and littered the table.

Morgan looked down at them, sadness creeping over her like ivy around a trellis. Granny was a practical woman. Hell, she'd worked in a speakeasy in the twenties and, rumor had it, had done far more scandalous things than Morgan could ever conceive of. Morgan ran her finger along the edge of the antique diamond engagement ring she'd hoped to wear one day. The thought of parting with it, with any of it, made her belly churn like a whirlpool in the middle of the ocean.

Granny would understand.

Morgan looked up at the ceiling. “Tell me what to do, Mom. Granny. Please, before it's too late.”

A water balloon exploded against the front door. Smack!

Morgan jumped. Another smack, this one followed by a peal of laughter that echoed throughout her apartment. Morgan returned the ring to its velvet housing.

The second she pulled open the door, a balloon hit dead center of her chest. Water cascaded down her tank top, soaked her cutoffs, splashed against her bare feet and floor.

“Uh-oh.”

The back yard went silent, as if all sound had been sucked into a vacuum.

Morgan swiped a hand over her dripping face and down her neck as she scanned the lineup of suspects. Kelley and Brandon in drenched shorts and tank tops; Drew carrying a loaded water gun over his shoulder like a soldier of fortune and earning appreciative glances from Liza Juliano, who, still in her school uniform, guided Lydia as she waded in the thigh-high kiddie pool.

Lydia was walking. On her own.

Tears clouded her eyes before her gaze landed on Gage, who was frozen in mid-launch with another water balloon in his hand.

“Um. Wanna come out and play?” he asked.

Every minute she'd fought, every second she'd wanted to scream, every tear she'd wanted to shed walloped her like a sledgehammer.

But it was the sight of Gage standing there surrounded by her kids, dripping wet in slacks and a tailored button-down shirt as if he'd come straight from work, that brought the sob up from her toes.

She covered her mouth, but it was too late. Another sob built against the pressure in her chest.

He launched the balloon over his head. “Liza's turn.” Morgan heard Gage's sister squeal even as she laughed.

And then he was there, in front of her, his hands cupping her elbows, drawing her against him. Morgan burrowed into his chest, grabbing onto him, absorbing the feel of him, the presence of him, into her as if he were the only thing in her world.

“Bad day?” he asked, pressing his hand against the back of her head. She nodded. “Really bad?” She nodded again. “Is that why you called me?”

She wanted to deny it, didn't want to give in to the weakness of wanting, of needing him. But she took a deep breath, took a chance.

She nodded.

Gage leaned away, stooped down so they were eye to eye. “Thank you.” He kissed her hard on the mouth, triggering another sob which made him frown. “Not the reaction I was hoping for. Gotta fix that.” The next sob came out as a laugh as he bent down and dumped her over his shoulder, shaking her depression loose.

“Gage.” She slapped at his back and kicked her feet as his arm locked around her knees. She choked on the tears, on the laugh. “Put me down! I'm too heavy.”

“Make way!” Gage bellowed at the kids. Morgan stretched to one side, and saw Liza pluck Lydia out of the pool and heft her onto her hip. “Take a deep breath,” he shouted over her shoulder before he tumbled them both into the water. “Duck and cover.”

She came up sputtering just as the kids unleashed their arsenal of water weapons.

***

The Tumbleweed version of the Battle of Waterloo lasted until Angela called a halt to the war and ushered the kids inside to get changed. Halfhearted protests followed them, but not before Kelley tossed the last water balloon in the air and giggled when it landed on Gage's drenched shoes.

Gage made to catch her, but she shrieked and dashed out of reach.

Morgan lay in a heap on the grass, her shorts and tank soaked, her hair dripping, laughing so hard her sides burned. She knew she must look a fright, but any feminine insecurities threatening to take hold vanished under the heat of Gage's heart-searing gaze.

He turned off the hose before heading over to her. “Now that's the way to start a weekend.” He tugged her up, covering her mouth with his so completely that any hesitation, any doubt she had when it came to her heart, vanished.

“You really have a knack with that,” she murmured against his lips, the guilt and doubt she had about whatever time she spent with Gage going silent under his touch.

The patio door banged open. “Sorry. Ignore me,” Liza called, holding up her hand as if to shield her face and make herself invisible. “I'm not here. Go about whatever it is you're doing. See you tomorrow.”

Morgan dropped her forehead onto Gage's chest, wrapped her arms around, and held on. A sliver of her heart was petrified that if she let go, he'd see the truth, uncover the lies, and walk away.

What would she do when he walked away?

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, locking that part of her heart in the darkness until she was forced to open it. Live for the moment.

Love for the moment.

A soft breeze wafted across them, cool against her damp clothes, the whisper on the wind calling in her mother's calming, strong voice, as if finally giving Morgan the answer she'd been waiting for.

Lead with your heart and you'll never have regrets.

Morgan looked up at Gage, the words frozen behind her parted lips, but she knew.

Angela banged on the kitchen window, held up a towel, waved them inside.

“We're being summoned.” She took his hand and led him inside and took the towel Angela offered, not sure what good it was going to do. She handed it off to Gage, who looked just as flummoxed. He left his sopping shoes in the washroom as Angela finished packing up the family picnic basket.

“Where did this come from?” Morgan approached a second smaller basket on the counter, only to have Angela slap her hand away.

“That's a surprise. Leave it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Instead, Morgan plucked a Greek yogurt ice pop from the tray Angela pulled out of the freezer and tried not to look at Gage as he joined her by the sink. He trailed his fingers down her arm. She shivered.

“Angela? Morgan? You home?” Nico bellowed.

“He knows we're leaving in a little while. Where else would I be?” Angela shook her head. “Crazy man. In here!” She glanced up from packing a container of fried chicken. “Well?”

Morgan slurped the pop, frowned. “Well what?”

“It's a go.” Nico's face could have put the Rockefeller Christmas tree to shame. “We just signed a contract to supply J & J Markets with fresh-baked bread, muffins, and pastries. Three deliveries a week, with an option for more depending on sales.” He picked Angela up and spun her around the kitchen. Morgan looked up at Gage as he draped an arm over her shoulders.

“And if all goes well,” Nico continued, “in three months Angela says they'll consider expanding the main store downtown into the next building so they can include an in-house bakery.
Our
in-house bakery, exclusive to J & J.”

“I knew Mom was up to something the other night,” Gage said. “That bread you sent with Morgan for Stephen's birthday did the trick. Mom couldn't stop raving about it.”

“Nutmeg, I tell you.” Nico came over and shook Gage's hand. “Miracle ingredient. I've always said.”