Authors: Renee Simons
"Sometimes you don't have a choice."
He shook his head. "When we were trying to evade those guys, you stayed cool, no matter how dicey things got. You've got guts. I admire that."
"You called it stupidity. Remember?"
"There's a difference between taking foolish risks and toughing out a sticky situation."
"I'll try to remember that."
"How did you hook up with my brother?" he asked.
"I’d worked with him at the advertising agency when we did pro bono work for some of his pet causes. I’d just quit my job and was at loose ends. He needed help."
"Why'd you quit?"
Why indeed. Why walk away from a flourishing career, a condo on
New York City
's upper east side, a man who'd gone from ideal boss to close friend, to would-be lover? No one in her tiny circle of friends had understood her concern that Gray Hamill had gotten too close, that he wanted more than a working relationship, more than she could give. And she wasn't about to explain - then or now.
"The time had come to move on."
"Was it really that simple?"
"No,” she replied, “but in the end, it was necessary."
"And now you're Andy's assistant?"
"For the next few weeks."
"Doing what?"
"Helping him research his next book," she said, mindful of Drew's request.
"If you’re helping him do what he does best he must be worried about this one."
"He wants to get it right." Although no stranger to secrecy, somehow being evasive with Ethan over something that concerned him left her feeling uncomfortable. She was glad he didn't question the matter further.
"What happens when the book is finished?"
Jordan
shrugged. "I’ll move on, find something new."
"Not 'someone' new?"
Confused by the question, she stared at him until the implication became clear. "Drew and I are not 'hooked up' the way you apparently mean.”
Her voice shook with anger. “We work together. That's all."
"When you stayed behind last night, I guess I thought...” He cleared his throat. “...I'm not doing very well in the diplomacy department, am I?"
"Your technique definitely needs work."
"I know I don't deserve another chance but if you'll forgive me I will try to do better."
He looked so contrite she nearly bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, despite her anger of only a moment ago. What he lacked in tact he certainly made up in charm. "How many chances do you think you'll need?"
"To stop putting my foot in my mouth every other sentence?"
She nodded.
"I hope not so many you run out of patience."
Back at the car Ethan asked, "Where are you staying?"
"At The
Taylor
. Do you know it?"
"Of course. It's the kind of place Andy would pick - a rococo riot, genteel as all hell - and expensive. You'll be safe and comfortable there."
"And you? Where will you stay?"
"At the house."
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the hotel. A doorman stepped out from beneath the bronze marquee and opened the door.
Jordan
got out and waited for Ethan to join her. "How are you getting there?" she asked, handing her keys to the uniformed man.
"It's a healthy walk and there's the Green Line."
Drew had explained that she would use the subway system herself. Satisfied, she nodded and turned to leave.
Ethan called out. "If I rang you up and asked you to come out for dinner or a drink maybe, would you come?"
"Maybe."
He smiled. "Then maybe you'll be hearing from me."
* * *
Boston
on a Monday morning in spring hummed with a pleasant, understated excitement. Crossing
Copley Square
to the public library, she absorbed the energy of people filled with purpose, making their way.
Inside, she wandered through the reading rooms, getting the feel of the place, exploring card catalogs, enjoying the quiet as she gathered her materials. By noon, she'd settled at a table in Bates Hall with a pile of magazines, newspapers and a long list of books.
All the articles reported the same details of the accident. All mentioned pending investigations involving the builder, VolTerre, Inc.. Only one furnished details of the charges that the concrete hadn't been properly reinforced and that other materials hadn't been up to spec. That same article pondered the architect’s failure to recognize structural defects. This is not good, she thought. Not good at all.
Another article contained bios and photos of the victims. Captions listed names, ages and whether each had been injured or killed. Of course, the names and faces were unfamiliar. Except one.
She stared down at the photo in horror. She knew this man, or had known him, many years before. Hoping for a mistake, she searched for his bio.
"Terence Conlon, Jr., age 29," it read, "son of builder Terence Conlon, Sr. (owner of VolTerre, Inc.) and Candace Minton Conlon. Graduate of
Phillips
Exeter
Academy
, University of
Pennsylvania
Wharton School of Business, single. Pronounced dead at the scene."
The words blurred on the page. A sinking sensation gripped her, as if every drop of blood had drained from her body. Her hands began to shake and she broke out in a sweat.
This can't be true, she thought. Apparently, she'd said it aloud, because a neighbor half way down the table shushed her. Ignoring the scolding, she switched off the brass lamp. Without the glare, she compared the photo to the sixteen year old Terry living in her memory.
His face had lost its youthful fullness; his hair had grown longer. But his dark eyes held their familiar gentleness. Before life had changed, Terry, Jr. had been her friend and the object of her first girlish daydreams about love. Her parents hadn't approved of teenage dating, but he'd escorted her to dances at the girls' academy she attended. She'd gone to one or two functions at his prep school. It had all been very innocent and rather sweet.
Tears stung her eyes. Although they’d lost touch after her parents died, she felt deeply bereaved. Further on in the article, she found a reference to his father as a man mourning the loss of his son and his friends.
What does Terence Conlon know about friendship? Where was he when my parents needed him? And after their death, where was their old family friend when I needed him?
As for his son, she'd forgiven his lack of loyalty to her. He'd been a kid, as she'd been. Now, struck by the irony of his death through his father’s actions,
Jordan
felt only regret that she’d never contacted him.
Unable to concentrate further and feeling sick to her stomach, she gathered the periodicals together, returned everything to the front desk and went outside. At the top of the steps, she paused to rub the back of her neck. A voice reached out from off to her left.
"Tired, eh?" Ethan's words rested easily on her ear, his soft tone a comfort.
"A little."
"Too tired to eat?" he asked.
"I'm never too tired to eat."
"You'd never know by looking at you."
"You don't have other plans?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I saw you working away in there and didn't want to interrupt or I would have asked earlier. What d'you say?"
Despite her flippant response, food was the last thing on her mind. Still, she found the idea of spending the evening alone even less attractive. She felt no sense of urgency coming from him, no desire to pressure her, only a friendly gesture that, for the moment, filled a void.
"Why not," she said, pasting on a smile.
A few minutes later they left the busy center of town and walked through a quiet neighborhood of brownstone buildings and cobbled streets.
"We're going to a pub called Durgin's Midstream," Ethan said.
"I’ve heard of
Durgin
Park
."
He shook his head. “No connection. My mate bought this pub as a fortieth birthday present to himself when he decided to quit teaching - changing horses in... well, you get the idea."
Inside the mahogany paneled room, electrified railroad lanterns bracketed the bar and brass lamps with green glass shades turned each booth and table into an oasis of warmth. The soft hum of quiet conversation greeted them as they stepped further inside. A pretty woman dressed in black broke into a smile at the sight of them, or more accurately, at the sight of Ethan. The two embraced warmly; tears sparkled in her eyes as she spoke.
"It's sure good to see you. We worried."
"I'm all right, love," he said.
"Had a rough go, did you?" she asked in an accent much like his. Because her concern was readily apparent,
Jordan
wondered if here stood the woman she'd imagined waiting somewhere for him.
"A bit," he said, "but things are better now." He turned to
Jordan
. "This is Lacey, Kevin's partner for life, partner in business and one of my best friends."
Jordan
refused to validate the feeling of relief that flooded through her. She was tired. She was disturbed by Terry's death. She was definitely disturbed. But certainly not by Ethan Caldwell.
Lacey led them to a booth whose walls were hung with photos. Stark red deserts, a yellow river lined with trees and flowers unlike any she knew and a house standing alone on a vast tract of land, the low hanging eaves of a metal roof shading its wide veranda.
"Ethan took those. Of home," Lacey explained. She put down two menus and added, "I'll be back with some wine."
Jordan
pointed to the bottom photo. "Is that the cattle station?"
A tinge of the pain she'd seen before washed over his features. He nodded and cleared his throat. "My folks died there, in a fire, when I was sixteen. I was out larking about with my mates. By the time I got there it was too late to save them. It still hurts, even after all the years."
"Unfinished business,” she said. “Like with my parents.”
That's why I'm going to help you,
Jordan
thought. You and Drew will be able to let go of the accident, let go of the guilt. Because all your questions will have answers. "How do you work things out with someone who's gone?" Ethan asked.
"It isn't easy."
"Sounds as though you tried. Did you get it done?"
"To a degree, but never to my satisfaction."
“Well, well," boomed a cheerful voice from behind Ethan. "Sure’n I’d about given you up for lost, boyo."
Ethan's surprise was unmistakable, but the eyes that rolled in droll amusement held an obvious affection for the newcomer. "Give us a break, Kevin, and ditch the brogue."
She smiled as Ethan moved over to make room for the brawny redhead fixing them with an injured look.
"Ah, but mate," Kevin protested, "I always favor our new customers with a bit of color and atmosphere. They seem to appreciate it."
"A bit of blarney, you mean," interrupted Ethan, exactly mimicking Kevin's lilt. Then in his normal speech he continued, "Well,
Jordan
’s not a customer. She's a friend. And I believe she'd appreciate you more without the window dressing."
"Is that true, darlin'? Would you prefer my plain old Aussie way?"
She laughed. "Yes, but promise you'll dust off the brogue once in a while, just for fun."
Kevin smiled at her. "You're beaut, love." Then he glanced at his friend. "I expect you've noticed she’s beaut?"