Slightly Imperfect (13 page)

"Nice to see you, Magatita."

"Nice to see you, Zaccheus."

He didn't think so. Money changed things, no doubt about it. He approached the desk where Jan stood, and touched his lips to her cheek. "You smell good. How are Luke and Tita?" He eyed her bundle of rolled-up plans and fabric samples. "Big project?"

"It will be." Her smile slashed wide, triumphant. "Gerald wants Maggie and me to take over the interior of the multi-family dwellings in his new refurbishing project—Fischer's Landing. In layman's language, it's cloned-style decorating for a bunch of apartments. But it's wonderful."

"That's great." He made a stab at looking surprised.

"Good try. He says you twisted his arm."

"I told him you're the best. He likes excellence."

"You don't know anything about our work, Zaccheus," she admonished. "Except for that old house in Houston, and Ben did most of that."

"To me you're the best." He hugged her shoulders. "Congratulations. Tell Maggie for me. Will you?"

* * *

When Maggie arrived at the Fischer's Landing prototype unit, Ian McCumber was waiting, just as Gerald said he would be. On his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, he gingerly ran his finger down a stack of raw cabinet doors. He glanced up and jumped to his feet—an anxious, jaunty action—brushing his palms on his cut-offs. She glanced at the pocket lining hanging beneath the brief shorts, the red gold hair blanketing his tanned, muscled thighs. Taking his offered hand, she noted his curious expression settling on Angel nestled in the backpack.

"Mr. McCumber? I'm Maggie Abriendo. Gerald Fitzpatrick said you applied for the job of cabinetmaker. Hanger, actually." She adjusted the backpack a little, moved to the counter to put down her bag and some rolled up renderings.

"I want the job, if you'll have me," he confirmed.

Maggie fastened on his accent. English? Irish maybe. It was nice. "I read your application. This unit will be a trial run. You have the job, provided your ré sumé claims are all true and you can assure me you're able to meet production schedule."

"They are. And I can, Ms. Abri..."

"Abriendo." She applied Spanish inflection.

He cocked his head and the light from the bare window created a sheen across hair matching that on his body. A crooked grin, exposing slightly crowded teeth, flashed in his tanned face. One brow scaled his forehead. "Is that a papoose?" He nodded toward Angel.

Irritation spiked her hairline, running across her shoulders, before she saw his golden eyes were mischievous, cordial. Maggie smiled. "The modern version. My daughter, Angelita. We're Hispanic." She waited. He offered no more. "Is your accent cockney?" She gave him a barbed look.

"Australian. Are you going to be my boss?"

"Would that bother you?"

"Quite the contrary. But I hope, in time, it bothers you, Ms... It is Ms.? Have I got that right?" She nodded, and he said, "Ms. Maggie Abriendo." He pronounced the name perfectly, then seemed to remember, "Mr. Fitzpatrick mentioned a guy, a project manager. His name was—" He seemed to forget.

"Zac Abriendo. My ex-husband."

"Cozy." When she frowned he said, "But you'll be my real boss. It will be a pleasure to have a lady over me."

She searched for insolence in his demeanor. Either there was none or he was polished. Whatever, Fischer's Landing needed him. She gathered her things, assuming a busy air. "We'll see how you do. Can you hang these cabinets today? The painter is scheduled first thing tomorrow morning."

"I'll give it my all." His gaze riveted hers.

"I'll come back this afternoon, to evaluate."

"Then I'll give it my best. I like this job."

* * *

"So, Zac. What do you think?" Gerald looked across the desk at him, sipping his coffee, his blue gaze intent. "Are you game?"

Zac had gotten dressed for Gerald this time. He was wearing khakis, an eel skin belt, loafers with no socks and a real Ralph Lauren polo shirt. All gifts from Carron that he'd found still hanging in the Bay Shore closet.

Gerald wore another three-piece suit, this one navy.

"I really don't know much about architecture, Gerald. Actually, I don't know anything."

Gerald shrugged dismissively. "That's what school is for. Just a basic course so we can keep it authentic. And this refurbishing stuff is more common sense than construction. You're smart enough to know what's stable and what's not, to judge dry rot from sink holes. I'd really like you with me on this. I trust your judgment."

"This doesn't have anything to do with Maggie, does it?"

"Like what?" Eyeing him, Gerald rocked back in the big chair, sending Zac a whiff of wood and spice cologne.

"Like throwing us together. If so, thanks for caring, but that's over."

"Has the fat lady sung?"

"Yeah. She has." The blues.

"Do you two get along?"

"I don't know. We used to."

"Then this will be a good character builder for both of you. Will you do it? Can I count on you?"

How was he supposed to say no after what Gerald had done for him? But why hadn't Gerald just asked him to work for him the day he'd given him Carron's money. He guessed people didn't get as rich as Gerald by taking the shortest route to a goal. Maybe Zac could learn how to hold onto his windfall by watching Gerald Fitzpatrick.

"I have a problem," Zac ventured. "What about the
Ramona Tres
? I'm fishing again. Not every day, but I took Papa out yesterday. I think it really did a lot for him. I wouldn't want to give that up."

"I wouldn't want you to. Just give me the time you have, the days you don't fish—maybe drop by the site when you get in from fishing. I know you'll be fair."

Gerald's smile was as triumphant as Jan's had been in the outer office. Zac caught that through the haze of wondering how he'd balance it all, if he could swing architectural classes and philosophy, or if this was the end of his dream to get his master's and teach. Did Gerald Fitzpatrick own him now, or was he simply the world's nicest man? Maggie's position ran through his mind, Jan's enthusiasm. Gerald was too nice to turn down.

"And Zac?"

Zac's head snapped up. He didn't like the sound of that.

"I have another little project I'm concerned about. One that will benefit all of us. Especially the fishing industry."

Zac waited.

"I'm getting an agenda together to address groups of fishermen and small businessmen around the county on the gambling issue. When I have the schedule, I'd like you to come along with me and speak to them, too. I think it would mean a lot more coming from you, since you count yourself a fisherman."

"I don't know anything about public speaking."

"The hell you don't. I remember Carron's Christmas party. Everyone in the room was eating out of your hand. They got mesmerized just looking at you."

Zac's face warmed, his throat tightening.

"Remember that group of city council people who were there that night? They're still asking about you, urging me to pump you up on this gambling thing." He paused, eyeing him. "You're for it, aren't you, son?"

"We don't have a choice. Louisiana already has gambling."

"Good. That's just what I want you to say, but take half an hour to do it. Wear a brown suit like Ronald Reagan did. Get their confidence." He laughed. "I'll give you the schedule when I've got it worked out. It won't be for a while yet, but I need to know I can count on you."

Zac's nodded his head. His heart stayed rock-still.

"We're going to have fun. We're going to help Ramona and Texas and we'll make a lot of money—it's not the money, though, Zac. That's just the way we keep score. You understand that, don't you?"

"Got it, Gerald."

* * *

He had to ring the bell to the penthouse twice. When Victoria opened the door, he handed her a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee and the ragged flowers he'd picked along the hotel driveway. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Zac." Her voice sounded provocatively hoarse. Pillow marks marred her cheek and her hair spiked up here and there in disarray. She looked the best he'd seen her, putting Ralph Lauren to shame.

"Were you asleep?"

That got a smile. She glanced at her wrist. "It's five in the morning."

"I warned you. You said to stop by."

She stepped back, widening the entry. "Come in."

She fumbled to get the lid off the coffee. Taking the cup, he uncovered it, put the lid in his shorts pocket, and handed the coffee back. She sipped, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the foyer. He closed the door, trying to resist looking around the suite uninvited.

"Where's Marcus?"

"Sleeping."

"The twins, too?"

"Probably not now." A chastising smile accompanied her hushed tone.

She wasn't a morning person. He began to sense she'd only been solidifying his interest in Marcus by suggesting he stop by when he ran. Given his new agenda, this hour of day might be the only time he would have to visit.

"Do you want to talk about Spanish lessons?"

"Could you give me a minute?" She tugged her thin robe over her full breasts and glanced down at her bare feet.

"You look great," he said, smiling. "And look who's up."

Dismay filled her eyes as she followed his directive to a steep stairway across the room, but she did an admirable job of padding her greeting with enthusiasm. "Good morning, Ariana." "We have company." She caught Zac's arm and drew him into the gradually lightening suite.

He noted she took a quick gulp of coffee.

Ariana, in a ruffly pink nightgown, started slowly down, one step at a time, gripping the iron railing.

"Careful, darling," Victoria cautioned.

"I'll get her." He brought her down.

Ariana leaned for Victoria.

"Let Mommy drink her coffee," he crooned, and Victoria smiled gratefully, gulped, striking with no make up. Vulnerable.

They moved into the main room. Zac carried Ari to the window and looked down seven floors, across the lawns, across Seawall Boulevard to the gray-blue Gulf beyond. Aransas Pass lay one hundred miles to the west. To the east a few blocks was Ramona.

Victoria stood beside him, holding the stolen bouquet.

"Nice," he said. He felt her agreement. A little awestruck, he looked around the oversized cream and blue room, unable to resist. All white furniture, like Carron's—his now. Oriental rugs, intricately perfect cream and blue hues, scattered about the bleached hardwood floors. From the crystal-bowl suite a full view of Galveston Bay could be enjoyed. "This is too beautiful to live in."

She smiled.

"Not exactly childproof is it?"

"The children have quarters upstairs. Tommy lived—" She wasn't sleepy enough to forget Tomas Cordera, but she was alert enough to recover, for Zac's sake. "It works out very well," she assured him. "Upstairs was constructed especially for children."

Before she could ask,
whose children
, they heard a movement, turned in unison to see Lizbett and Alexander descending the stairs slowly, Lizbett in a white terry robe with a hotel insignia, Alex in blue sleepers with feet. Zac began to feel even more complete. At the bottom of the stairs, Alex tore his hand from the girl's and ran to Victoria.

She sank to her knees. "Good morning, darling. We have company." She nuzzled his neck, muffling her words.

Zac stared, then looked away, aching to the core.

Holding Alex in her arms, she rose with difficulty. "Good morning, Lizbett. Do you think you could make coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am." Lizbett moved toward the kitchen with a wry smile and a curious look for Zac.

"I could order room service—breakfast," Victoria offered.

"I thought you'd make
sopapillas
. And
chorizos
."

She smiled, her sleepy face lighting.

"Actually, I can't stay." He liked watching her smile fade with his announcement. "I'm taking the boat out today, with Josh and Papa. I'd like to take Marcus."

Gratitude and concern skittered across her face.

"I'll take his life preserver and make sure he wears it. When I bring him home we'll have the Spanish lesson."

"Wonderful."

"In fact we'll make a permanent schedule."

She smiled, nodding.

"The lessons will have to be in the evenings, though. I'll be fishing days with Papa, plus working with Gerald Fitzpatrick, and going to school three evenings a week, but—"

"Gerald Fitzpatrick?"

He wasn't sure she'd heard the rest. "Carron's father."

She stared at him, taking too long to nod knowledgeably.

"Is something wrong?" Evidently. "What?"

Shaking her head, she crossed with Alex to the sofa and sank into its vastness. His revelation appeared to have winded her. "Pierce—my father—knows him. His name was a household word when I was growing up."

"As in household dirty word?" A sudden disturbance gnawed his gut.

"No—well, yes."

She released Alex, and he came to Zac. He picked him up and waited for her to go on.

"They're both activists—causes. But it's a small community, and they always seemed to pick different ones."

"Opposite ones?" He hoped it was that simple.

"Exactly. Diametrically opposed causes." She looked up, her brow deeply furrowed. Arms crossed on her breasts, her hands gripped her forearms as if suddenly chilled. "Gerald wanted to rebuild Puerto San Miguel. Pierce wouldn't let him. He stopped him through the editorial section of the
Sun
. Pierce owns—"

"
The Puerto San Miguel Sun
. Why did he stop Gerald?"

She tried to shrug. "Pierce saw Gerald's plan to refurbish Puerto San Miguel as nothing more than turning it into a tourist Mecca for personal profit. They... locked horns." Zac watched recall cloud her eyes before she said, "Gerald gave up on San Miguel and concentrated on Ramona. Now they're at opposite ends on the gambling issue."

Zac's gut clinched shut. "Have you ever met Gerald?"

She shook her head.

"He's nice, Victoria. Maybe your father is wrong."

"Pierce has been wrong before." She appeared to sink into reverie again before she rallied. "Should I wake Marcus?"