Sleeping Alone (14 page)

She wanted to tell John everything, spill her pathetic story on his lap like a glass of wine. She wanted to tell him about her parents. About Griffin. Even about Claire Brubaker and her enormous belly. Thank God his offhand remark about her independence had stopped her in her tracks. He’d made it clear where he stood on matters of the heart. No strings. No complications. They’d both agreed to that.

She wouldn’t be the one to break the promise.

Alex’s roof managed to survive a Christmas snowstorm, a New Year’s ice storm, and a minor blizzard in mid-January, only to succumb to high winds on Groundhog Day. Punxsutawney Phil not only saw his shadow, but he also saw the last of her roof tiles flying into the Atlantic Ocean.

She called the roof guy that Eddie had recommended to her a few weeks ago, then called John.

“Sea Gate Roofing’s going to rip you off,” he said, his voice gruff. “You should have called me first. I did some roofing when I was in college.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t call you,” she said, cradling the phone against her shoulder. “I need someone who’s done roofing in this century.”

There was a long silence, followed by a deep, rumbling laugh that made her grin. “In other words, back off.”

“Yes,” she said. “Not that I would phrase it so indelicately.”

“Don’t sign any contracts before you talk to me,” he said. “I—”

“John.” Her voice was firm. “If I like Sea Gate Roofing’s bid, I’ll give them the job.”

“I’m not talking about the bid. I’m talking about the contract itself. They have some clauses that—”

“John,” she broke in again. “I appreciate your concern, but if I have a problem with the contract, I’ll take it to a lawyer.”

“You don’t want to end up owing the roofing contractor your firstborn.”

No problem there,
she thought as she hung up the phone. There would never be a firstborn.

* * *

“You’re in one hell of a bad mood today,” Eddie observed as John pounded nails into the side of the
Kestrel
an hour later. “What’s eating your butt?”

“Nothing,” John growled, swinging the hammer with deadly force.

“You have a fight with Alex?”

“We don’t fight.” He landed a blow that would have shattered a lesser boat. “We don’t talk. We don’t fight.” How could something as simple as choosing a roofing contractor turn into a battle for independence?

Eddie raised his hands, palms up. “I get the picture. Just don’t turn the
Kestrel
into kindling.” Eddie turned and started to walk away.

“Pop.” John stopped hammering in mid-swing. “Where are you going?”

“None of your goddamn business, that’s where. I’m sixty-eight years old. I don’t have to answer to my kid.”

“Shit.” John tossed the hammer down as his old man stalked off. He couldn’t keep Eddie under lock and key. You didn’t strip a man of his freedom or his dignity just because he was getting forgetful. He drew his arm across his forehead. It took a lot to work up a sweat in weather like this. It took even more to work up a thirst for a cold beer. So what if it was only eleven in the morning; he’d take an early lunch and treat himself to a bottle of Sam Adams. Maybe two bottles if his mood didn’t lighten up.

It wasn’t as if he had anything to do, he thought as he let himself into the office. Every goddamn time he repaired the
Kestrel,
some SOB came along and bashed another hole in her side. Probably the same SOB who’d damaged the other boats. Rich men put their boats in dry dock for the winter. Poor men watched their boats destroyed by sons of bitches with nothing better to do than make life even tougher for people who were already at the end of their rope.

He pulled a bottle of beer and a sandwich from the small fridge behind his mother’s old desk. Hell, he knew all about being at the end of his rope. Alex was pushing him away with both hands, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her. The connection he felt to her scared the living shit out of him. He didn’t want to feel that for any woman, not ever again.

He’d dreamed about Libby and the boys last night. He was standing in the doorway of Eddie’s house. Libby was in the foyer, struggling to get Jake into his snowsuit while Michael tried to wriggle his way out of his. She’d hated the Jersey Shore. She was a Manhattan girl, born and bred, and she couldn’t understand the pull his old hometown had on John. When he told her he wanted to stay an extra day, she’d balked, and after a noisy fight he’d told her to go back home without him, that he’d take the train when he was ready.

That was the last time he’d seen his wife and children alive. Fifteen minutes later their minivan was hit head-on by a drunk driver on his way home from happy hour.

His fault. For now and for always, his fault.

In the dream he tried to talk to Libby. He tried to tell her he was wrong, that they could find a way to compromise, that she shouldn’t drive off when she was angry and the snow was falling, but she couldn’t hear him and he couldn’t stop her and even in his dreams the ending was always the same.

He polished off the first bottle of Sam Adams and ignored the sandwich. He opened the second bottle and took a long pull. He was all sharp edges and angles. Scotch would have done a good job of rounding him off, but beer was better than nothing.

Alex made no demands, wanted no promises, asked nothing about the life he’d led before she came on the scene. Their physical relationship was fiery and intense, and if she sensed the deeper connection between them, she gave no hint. It was the perfect setup for a man who was determined to keep his heart under lock and key. Instead he felt as if something important was about to slip through his fingers and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

There was the shadow of Libby and his sons. Of Alex, who seemed to need no one. Of Eddie and his downward spiral.

And then there was Sea Gate.

Whoever it was who wanted the town suddenly wanted it bad enough to pay a hell of a lot more for it than it was worth to get it. Since the first of the year Alex had fielded two offers to buy her place. The first one was fifty percent higher than she’d paid Marge Winslow’s kids. The second was twice as high.

“What are you going to do?” he’d asked her as they lay together in her narrow bed after making love. He felt as if he were trying to hang on to quicksilver.

“I’m not going to do anything,” she said, burrowing closer to him. “This is my home.”

There was no reason for him not to believe her, but the image of life without her was never far from his mind.

Not everyone professed that kind of loyalty to Sea Gate. Rich Ippolito and his wife were selling their house for twice its appraised value and were heading down to Florida come spring to live near their grandchildren. The dry cleaner was teetering on the verge of following the example of the butcher, the baker, and the barber. So far, Sally Whitton was hanging tough, but John was afraid it was only a matter of time until the bait and tackle shop closed its doors.

The marina had received its share of offers. Every two weeks, like clockwork, a pleasant-faced woman in a navy blue suit showed up at the office to make an offer, and every two weeks, also like clockwork, John turned her down flat. “My clients usually get what they want, Mr. Gallagher,” she said last week with a brisk professional smile. “You may as well profit from it.”

It wasn’t until she was gone that John recognized the threat behind those words.

* * *

Alex had no problem getting the day off work. Will had come back to the Starlight not long after making his dramatic departure, and the two of them had managed to find a way to accommodate one another. She was a morning person. He was a night owl. It should have worked like a charm, except for the fact that lately she was sleeping right through the alarm clock and struggling to get to work at all.

By 9 a.m. the roofing contractor had come and gone, leaving behind a slip of paper with the bad news scrawled on it. Alex looked at it, winced, then glanced up at the sky through the enormous hole in her living-room ceiling. John had told her not to sign a contract without running it by him first, but she was determined to make her own decisions. She might make a mistake, but it would be
her
mistake.

A pair of seagulls circled lazily overhead. The sky had that thick creamy color that meant snow was on the way. She had to make a decision and fast or she’d be shoveling out her house come morning.

What choice did she have? At the very least, she had to arrange for a temporary roof of heavy-gauge plastic to be nailed into place so she could weather the storm, but that was only a stopgap measure. If she was going to continue to live here, she needed a proper roof and ceiling, and in order to get them she’d have to sell her diamond earrings and maybe the matching bracelet as well. She’d known that day was coming, but she had hoped to postpone it a little longer. Once the last of her jewelry was gone, she’d have nothing to fall back on but her wages from the diner, and that was a frightening thought.

Well, she’d cross that particular bridge when she came to it. She didn’t have time to worry about it right now; she had to call the contractor and have him send a crew out to the house. Then she’d change into her best upper-middle-class city clothes and drive up to New York and see about turning her jewelry into cash.

* * *

Brian leaned back in his office chair and listened as Clay Cantwell listed their latest acquisitions.

“Number Twelve Soundview won’t budge, not even with a twenty-five-percent increase.”

“Up it to thirty,” Brian said, scribbling a note on his legal pad. “You might try painting a bleaker picture of the future while you’re at it. Not everyone responds to the straight financial approach.”

Cantwell grinned. “We let Mary handle that end of the business,” he said, riffling through a stack of documents. “She has a nice subtle touch that doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass.”

“What about the bait shop?”

“The old broad’s a tough nut to crack. She’s down to less than three thousand dollars in her bank account. Throw in a few unexpected repairs to her building, and she’ll have no choice but to sell out.”

“Do it,” Brian said, remembering the way Sally Whitton had shunned him when he decided to leave Dee and Sea Gate behind in favor of school. They should have known he’d have a long memory. “What about the old Winslow place?”

“Nothing,” Cantwell said. “Curry actually laughed in Mary’s face. She said Mary must be even crazier than she was to offer that kind of money for that dump.”

“Increase the offer,” Brian ordered. “Keep increasing it in ten-percent increments.” One of the things he’d learned was that his brother was sleeping with the beauteous Ms. Curry, which made winning her over to his side all the more appealing.

Cantwell arched a skeptical brow. “Indefinitely?”

“I’ll tell you when to stop.” Except for the fact that she was sleeping with his brother, Brian knew absolutely nothing about Alex Curry. He needed something more than that in order to know where and how to apply pressure.

Cantwell removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got to keep your emotions out of this, partner. If we spend it all now, we won’t have any capital left for the overhaul.”

“If we don’t get the old Winslow property, there won’t
be
an overhaul,” Brian pointed out, annoyed at the man’s presumption. He didn’t need some blue-blooded asshole telling him how to do business. “Remember that old lady who blocked Macy’s from building its Queens store in the sixties? They offered her millions, and she wouldn’t budge, so they ended up building the store around her. That’s not going to happen to us. You make the deal, I’ll keep it legal.”

Cantwell slid his glasses back into place. “I’m going to hold you to that.” He gathered up his papers, then rose from the chair. “I’ll call you this afternoon after we draw up a current map.”

“Fax it to me,” Brian said, standing up. “I want to see how it looks.”

“Will do.” The two men shook hands across Brian’s desk. “Give my best to Margo.”

Brian smiled broadly. “Absolutely.”

The smile faded the moment his office door closed behind Clay Cantwell. He couldn’t give his best or anything else to Margo—or to the girls, for that matter. Margo was still in Aspen with her parents, and had been since Thanksgiving. He supposed he should have seen it coming, but he honestly hadn’t. He’d assumed their brittle, by-the-book marriage suited her down to the ground. When she called the Sunday after Thanksgiving to tell him she wasn’t coming home, he’d felt as if he’d been hit with a two-by-four.

“What the hell do you mean, you’re not coming home?” he’d roared into the telephone, fueled by Scotch and solitude. “The car’s picking you up at JFK in two hours.”

“Then perhaps you should cancel the car,” she’d said in a calm voice he’d never heard before. “I need time to think, Brian, and I’d recommend that you take some time to think as well while I’m gone.”

“Fuck you,” he’d bellowed. Then he’d thrown the cordless across the room, where it crashed against a Chinese screen that had belonged to Margo’s grandmother. When she came home, she’d see how little her absence had really meant.

The days went by. And then the weeks. She’d come home for Christmas, he told himself. She wouldn’t keep the kids away from home at Christmastime.

“You’re welcome to join us here,” Margo had said when he asked her about her plans. “Daddy’s going to take us all out caroling in a horse-drawn sleigh on Christmas Eve. The girls are beside themselves.”

He’d locked himself up in their New York apartment and got blind stinking drunk, and the next day he had gone out and picked up a Ford model in a downtown club and fucked her brains out. It hadn’t felt like much of an accomplishment.