Authors: E C Sheedy
Willy looked at him aghast.
"There was one thing I said about my dear brother that was absolutely true. He always gets what he wants. And you, sweet Willow, are exactly what he wants."
"And if I don't want him?"
"Completely irrelevant," he said airily.
When Willy gave him a scathing look, he only smiled—a damned irritating smile that reminded her of his brother. But then what didn't?
"By the way," Dan went on, "Elena and I are going to take off for a few days. So the place will be all yours if you want it."
"Take off? I thought we'd just organized the beginning of our work schedule." Willy was counting on the work to keep her mind off Taylor.
"We did. We're not leaving until Thursday. That should give us a good run at the layout." He gave her a guilty look. "I wouldn't go if it wasn't important. Elena thinks we need some time together—and so do I. We have some things to resolve. I thought we'd spend a few days in Torremolinos. We met there, you know."
"I remember." It was one of those rare moments when Dan was serious. "But by the looks of you two, I thought things were already resolved."
"Maybe. We'll see."
"You'd be crazy to let her go. You must know that."
"Yeah, I know, but—"
Willy stopped walking to look at him. His uncertainty was a mirror image of her own. "There are no buts, Dan. Elena is pure gold and you know it. And besides, if it's your damn height hang-up, in her eyes you're already ten feet tall. How much taller does a man need to be?"
"What's this I hear? Willy Desmond giving advice to the lovelorn? Damn bug must be catching. What I meant by that
maybe
was I plan to propose—you know—do the whole marriage thing. How do I know she won't fling the ring back in my face? I haven't been the most reliable guy in the world up 'til now. As for the height thing," he shrugged. "It was just a handy excuse. It wouldn't matter to me if she was seven feet tall. I love her. It just took me a while to admit it—to her and myself."
"Oh, Dan, that's great." Willy gave him a bear hug. Squeezing him one more time before stepping back, she added, "And I don't think you have to worry about Elena throwing the ring in your face. She loves you, you jerk—probably more than you deserve," she added. "You're a good guy, Dan. She's not about to let you slip through her fingers."
"I'm counting on that," he said, before turning his sharp blue eyes to hers. "Maybe you should take a lesson from her, Willy. You can't do any better than Taylor."
"Yeah, well, uh—" She scrambled for a response. It came from her stock inventory. "Love isn't for everybody."
Dan rolled his eyes. "Give it up, woman. You're hooked and you know it. And while we're passing out advice, let me give you some. Don't wait too long. Old Stanley's not a patient man."
* * *
A week later, Willy stumbled to the door, rubbing at one red-ringed eye. It felt as though half the sand from the Costa del Sol was lodged in it. She was exhausted. And by the feel of her aching body, this day would be her worst yet. Would she ever sleep again? And who in heaven's name was at the door this early?
"Rosa.
Buenos dias."
"Buenos dias, Senorita
Willee. You will take the
telefono.
Si?"
Rosa's tone was uncharacteristically sharp, and she was still wearing her bed clothes. Obviously, the call had woke her. Willy followed the plump, plodding landlady to her apartment.
"Si?"
Willy didn't stem the rush of irritation that poured into the phone until she heard the voice on the other end.
"Mother! When did you get here?"
She rubbed at her other eye, wide awake now. "I wasn't expecting you until next week. Where are you staying?" She glanced at a glowering Rosa and mouthed an apology before turning her attention back to the phone.
"Uh-huh... Sure. Okay... Breakfast in an hour at Los Monteros in Marbella... Uh-huh, me too. Bye." Willy hung up the phone, leaned heavily against the wall, and closed her eyes. Mother. Here. With her new husband. She'd almost forgotten.
Rosa coughed—loudly.
"Gracias,
Rosa
. Muchas gracias
."
Willy headed for the door.
* * *
Los Monteros was spread over the grounds of a former private estate. Although it claimed four or five swimming pools, tennis courts, and a golf course, it was more famous for its lush subtropical gardens—and room prices. It was upscale and expensive. The perfect backdrop for Michelle Desmond.
Willy saw her first and smiled. She was in one of the outdoor courtyards, wearing a wide brimmed sun hat and sipping pitch-black coffee. Tall—though not as tall as Willy—her fair skin and hair enhanced by years of experience and a practiced hand, she was spectacular. She wore white and lime green. She was, as always, perfect.
It had been more than three years since they'd been together. Looking at her now brought a lump to Willy's throat. She loved her mother and had missed her more than she cared to admit. More than that, she missed the loving, connected family that
might
have been. For a second, she analyzed that, wondering how you could miss something you never had.
She was at her mother's table now, just behind her.
"Hello, Mother," she said quietly.
"Willow." Michelle was instantly on her feet and the two women hugged each other, long and hard. "Oh, how I've looked forward to this. You look—" She held Willy away from her to take a good look, her eyes glistening. Willy was suddenly ten years old again, hoping for approval, but expecting a critique of her too casual outfit. She was wrong.
"You look terrific," she said in all sincerity and then laughed and hugged her again. "If I could look like that in rumpled cotton, I would never wear anything else. Sit down. Have you had breakfast?"
Not waiting for an answer, she hailed the waiter. He was there in triple time. Beauty always gets good service. When the waiter left to get their orders, Michelle turned back to Willow, reaching across the table to take her hand.
"So, sweetheart, how are you—really? Tell me everything. The phone, your letters, they were never enough. Are you happy? Are you working? Are you in love? I want to know every detail."
Not ready for a heart to heart with her mother about love and happiness, or the lack of them, Willy looked for a safer topic. Without thinking, she withdrew her hand from her mother's.
"I think I'm the one who needs filling in. By the way, where's the new husband?" Willy hadn't meant to phrase the question so carelessly, but it seemed nothing could dampen her mother's good spirits.
"The
new husband,
as you so ungraciously put it, will be along any moment. And although new, he's definitely permanent, darling." Her laughter was soft.
"You're happy then?"
"Ecstatic, overjoyed, delirious. All of the above. You'll like him. He's— Well, let's just say I'm crazy about him. And just as important, he's crazy about me. I haven't been this happy in years."
"I'm glad, Mother. Truly glad." And that was true.
She was glad. She was also stunned and slightly blinded by her mother's radiance.
"Do you ever see Dad?" Willy asked. The question came hard and rushed.
"I see him. Although we don't have much to say to each other. He always asks about you." Again she reached for Willy's hand. And this time Willy let her keep it. Actually it felt good. "He's getting a divorce, you know."
At first Willow was surprised, then sad. There truly must be a curse on the marriages in her family. Even her father, a success at everything he touched, couldn't make a relationship work. Didn't leave much hope for her. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sorry to hear it."
Her mother gave a delicate shrug. "So am I. Very."
The sincerity in her mother's quiet words was more shocking than her own admission. Willy looked thoughtfully at her. Amazing.
She had to shake herself to attention as her mother went on, "Your Aunt Christa saw him at—would you believe?—The Museum of Modern Art. I still can't figure that one out. I can't remember your father
ever
going there." She shook her head in puzzlement. "Not only is he on his own, he told her he plans to stay that way. It's sad really. It's no fun to be alone, I can tell you. I had four years of it, and I suspect your father won't cope with it any better than I did. But I wish him well. I truly do. He's a good man."
Willy gaped at her mother. Was this the heartbroken, weeping, and, yes, vengeful woman of four years ago? The transformation was extraordinary and perplexing.
Where had all the agony gone? How and when had it been supplanted with what could only be called serenity?
"You should go to see him, darling. Call him at least. I know he misses you dreadfully. He never stopped loving you, you know. What happened between him and me didn't change that." She pulled her hand from Willow's and stirred her black coffee, the gesture nervous, uncertain. She seemed hesitant but determined to continue. Willy waited for her to go on.
"If I did anything, said anything, that came between the two of you, I didn't mean to. And I was wrong. I know I didn't handle his leaving well, but I was afraid—so terrified of facing the fact that my marriage was a failure I'd have hung on to him no matter what. I didn't want to be another family statistic, even though the marriage, our relationship, had been on ice for years."
She laughed mirthlessly. "When little Miss Scarlett came along, your father was no doubt more than ready to be thawed out. Looking back on it, and feeling what I do now—for Milton—I can understand why. Neither one of us knew what we were missing."
Willy drank her coffee slowly, while her mind worked double time. Both her mother and father had moved on with their lives, living, learning, and loving—and yes, losing—while she'd stayed static, emotionally trapped in a tiny crease of time formed by events and feelings long past. She'd shaped her life on her father's infidelity and her mother's
temporary
fear and insecurities. She thought of her father, his vow to stay alone, and smiled, knowing with certainty that wouldn't be the case. Thomas Desmond would love again. He was a man full of power and vitality, and unlike his daughter, he wasn't a coward.
Her mother went on, her tone fervent. "If you don't want to go back to New York, call him, ask him to come here. I guarantee you, he'll be on the next plane out. He loves you, Willow. You can't throw that away. It's worth too much."
Too much. There was too much for her overtaxed brain to process. "I have to ask. Why this bridge building? And why now?"
Michelle played with a fork before fixing her eyes on Willy's. The look was not from mother to daughter; it was from woman to woman. "I could answer that with a thousand words. Certainly there's guilt—about all my moaning, self-pity, and acting out. All my…bitterness." She paused. "But in the end, I think it's just … me wanting the best for you. And there's nothing better than love. It matters—terribly. I know that now. And I want you to have as much of it as this world offers. From me, from your father—and someday—from that special man who'll walk into your life and transform it."
Willy's spirit quickened, even as her breath stilled in her chest.
"So, darling, will you at least call your dad?" Her mother gave her a hopeful smile.
"No. I don't think that's a good idea."
Michelle's disappointment was clear. Her smile faded.
Willy rushed out the words to bring it back. She hadn't yet thought things through, but—
to hell with the microscope.
"I think it's better if I go to New York and, uh, surprise him."
Him and a certain green-eyed man,
she added inwardly.
"How wonderful! He'll be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled."
"I hope so, Mother. I really hope so."
* * *
Taylor hung up the phone and leaned back into the soft leather of his chair. He rubbed at the base of his neck a moment before reaching for a pale blue folder.
He slid it toward the front of his desk, glanced at his watch, then opened the file, planning to give it a scan before heading home. Might as well work. Sleep was sure as hell out of the question. He heard the clink of glasses and glanced up.
"Now why did I know you'd still be here?" A man of medium height wearing an expensive suit and no shoes held up two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He gave Taylor a questioning glance.
Taylor nodded and closed the file. He probably wouldn't be able to retain any of the data long enough to make any rational decisions anyway.
God, but he missed her!
"So when are you heading back to Spain?" Paul handed Taylor a glass, then settled himself in the opposite chair. He propped his stockinged feet on Taylor's desk.
"The end of next week. Sooner if I finish a couple of analyses." He sipped thoughtfully on his drink.
"Anything I can do?"
"You could take over on the Gresham Industries file. The data on their third acquisition is sketchy. Before recommending it, we should fill in the blanks."
"Done."
"Thanks."
The two men sat in companionable silence. Taylor swiveled his chair and sat gazing at the building across the street. He watched idly as someone turned out the lights on the floor directly across from theirs. Neither man made an attempt at conversation. Finally Paul stood up and stretched.
"The traffic down there look navigable?" he asked.
"It looks like New York on a rainy Friday night in July," Taylor answered.
What it doesn't look like is a mile-wide stretch of beach glowing white under a Spanish sun.
What would she be doing now, he wondered, sleeping, eating, writing in that notebook of hers with some stub of a pencil?
"That's helpful. They could use you on the weather report. Really liven things up.''
Taylor gave his partner a vacant look.
"The traffic, friend, I asked you about the traffic." Paul shook his head.
"Like I said, navigable."
Paul picked up the bottle of scotch and headed for the door. He turned back at the door and grinned. "I hope this damned trip to Spain works out for you, Taylor. If you can't bring the woman back, give me a shot. I can't take many more of these scintillating conversations we've been having. And another thing, why in hell don't you go home? It's past ten. There's nothing in there," he nodded toward the file on Taylor's desk, "that can't wait until Monday."