Hello, It's Me Page 12

  She rests her teacup carefully in its saucer. Then she says, “I agree,” so readily that it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall face-first into his baked Alaska.

  “You . . . agree?”

  “I was just trying to figure out how to tell you the same thing.”

  “You . . . were?”

  “I thought you’d be upset if I ended things. I’m so relieved.”

  “You’re . . . relieved.”

  She must be lying to protect her fragile ego, he tells himself.

  Yet, when he looks into her eyes, he’s fairly certain that he sees genuine relief.

  “I guess I just don’t see this going anywhere,” she tells him. “We don’t have much of anything in common, really.”

  “No,” he agrees, “we don’t.”

  Although, on the surface, they appear to have everything in common. Far more, certainly, than he has in common with Annie Harlowe.

  Annie, again.

  Thom dips his spoon into his dessert again and shovels a hunk of meringue-covered ice cream into his mouth, swallowing so quickly a numbing pain radiates up from his neck.

  “Head freeze?” Joyce asks, watching him wince.

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t eat so fast.”

  “No, I shouldn’t.”

  And Joyce shouldn’t nag him. But that, he supposes, is just her nature, and not the wifely concern he assumed.

  Perhaps he should be insulted that she isn’t any more in love with him than he is with her.

  Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, he’ll wake up with second thoughts. Maybe once she’s out of his life for good, Thom will want her back in it. Maybe . . .

  Nah.

  Watching Joyce watching him devour the remainder of his baked Alaska, Thom realizes that she’d be wrinkling her surgically enhanced nose if she were physically capable.

  He also realizes there’s only one woman he’ll wake up longing to hold once again.

  And now there’s no reason why I can’t.

  Thoughtfully, he savors the last taste of his rapidly melting chocolate ice cream—and the first of his newfound freedom.

  Chapter 8

  Late Thursday afternoon, climbing out of her car in the driveway after the golf luncheon in Bridgehampton, Annie finds herself several hundred dollars richer, and utterly exhausted.

  But it’s a nice kind of exhaustion for a change. Much different from the emotional, spiritual kind caused by sleepless nights and overwhelming grief.

  This is the purely physical exhaustion that comes from hustling a hundred folding chairs from the caterer’s van to the lawn and back again; countless full trays from kitchen to table and back again.

  Annie’s face hurts from smiling and her shoulders ache from lifting and her throat is sore from saying repeatedly, above the live jazz band, “Would you prefer the herb-roasted chicken with lemon and capers or the grilled red peppers and baby eggplant on a bed of fresh farfalle Florentine?”

  In fact, merely saying “fresh farfalle Florentine” over and over all afternoon without tripping over her own tongue was feat enough to keep Annie’s mind suitably far from her troubles . . . the disturbing kiss with Thom Brannock being the least of them.

  The accountant just sent an overdue bill for his tax preparation services, which Annie mistakenly assumed she had paid back in April. Meanwhile, Trixie has already outgrown her new summer sneakers, the washing machine is on its last leg, and the car just made a disconcerting rattling sound all the way down Route 27.

  Fingering the folded bills in her pocket, Annie concludes that after she pays the babysitter, she might have enough left to pay the accountant . . . but not for shoes, much less a mechanic or a new appliance.

  Trixie can probably make do with just her sandals for another few weeks. At least she can’t outgrow those as easily as sneakers. And with any luck, the washer will last until sweater weather and the car will make it through the summer without anything falling off or exploding.

  Mounting the steps to the porch, Annie stops to pinch a couple more spent blossoms off the leggy, flaccid pink petunia plant. She still hasn’t watered the poor thing.

  I’ll get to it later, Annie silently promises the wilted flowers, grateful that water, at least, is free.

  “Carly? Kids?” she calls, opening the screen door with a squeaky reminder of better days.

  “We’re in here, Mrs. Harlowe.”

  Wincing as much at the memory of her husband as at the sound of her married name, Annie allows the door to swing closed behind her with a satisfying bang.

  The house appears neater than it was when she left this morning; no sign of the dry cereal that was scattered on the coffee table or the maze of wooden train track that wound around the carpet.

  God bless Carly, Annie thinks, kicking off her sneakers and wriggling her bare toes before venturing into the kitchen.

  She finds her children and Carly seated at the table with construction paper, scissors, markers, and glue sticks. The kitchen, too, has been cleaned, with no sign of the mixing bowl and baking sheets Annie left in the sink after making cookies this morning.

  “Guys, look who’s home,” Carly says.

  “We’re making collages, Mommy!” Trixie exclaims, jumping up to hug Annie. “Carly says mine is the best.”

  “She did not,” Milo pipes up. “She just said it was good. She said mine was spectacular.”

  “Well, she said mine was speck-ular, too.”

  “They’re both spectacular,” Annie and Carly assure the children in perfect unison.

  Annie shoots a grateful glance at the perky redheaded babysitter, who smiles and says, “Hey, I didn’t realize you were an artist, Mrs. Harlowe. Uncle Jonathan never mentioned it. Milo and Trixie were telling me that you sell stuff at boutiques in town and in the Hamptons.”

  “I do . . . only lately, there hasn’t been much demand for seashell art and driftwood sculpture,” Annie admits to the girl, as her thoughts once again dart to her mounting household expenses.

  “Well, now that the summer people are coming out again, I bet business will pick up.”

  “I hope so.” Speaking of which . . . “Did I get any phone calls while I was gone, Carly?”

  Devonne Cambridge, proprietress of the Harborside Emporium in Sag Harbor, still hasn’t returned Annie’s call about bringing in more sea-glass mobiles before the end of the week.

  “Actually, somebody did call . . . I wrote down the message on the pad of paper by the phone in the other room,” Carly informs her with precocious efficiency.

  Annie opens the fridge in search of something to quench her thirst. “Was her name Devonne Cambridge?”

  “Actually, it was a he, and his name was Thom. Thom with an ‘h.’”

  Annie turns her head so quickly she hits it on the refrigerator door.

  “Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Harlowe . . . are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She rubs the sore spot above her ear. “Did you say his name was Thom with an ‘h’?”

  “That’s what he told me. He didn’t say why he was calling, but he left a phone number and he wanted to know what time you’d be back. I told him late afternoon.”

  Frowning, Annie closes the refrigerator door, her thirst forgotten as an unsettling hunger seeps in to replace it.

  She tells herself that Thom is probably only calling her because . . . because . . .

  All right, she can’t think of a solitary logical reason he might call.

  Sure, you can. Use your brain for a change, and not your imagination.

  Okay . . .

  Maybe Thom needs to hire a waitress for some event.

  Or he really does want to buy her house for a million dollars.

  Or maybe she inadvertently lost some other piece of jewelry at his house and he wants to return it.

  Yeah, right.

  As if she even owns another piece of jewelry that would be worth the effort.

  Okay, so maybe he called because he’s . . . interested.


  In Annie.

  That scenario is about as likely as . . .

  As snow on Christmas, Annie?

  The inner voice sounds suspiciously like Andre’s.

  That could happen, she reminds herself—and Andre—with her usual stubborn persistence.

  All right, then Thom calling because he’s interested in Annie is about as likely as Annie suddenly finding out that the faux-fancy cubic zirconia earrings she once bought on clearance at Target are authentic one-carat diamonds.

  In other words—it ain’t happening.

  Brain, Annie. Use your brain. Common sense is in order. Surely you have some.

  All right, so why did Thom Brannock call?

  There’s only one way to find out, Annie tells herself, sensibly—and reluctantly—heading into the next room.

  There’s nothing quite like rush-hour traffic on the Long Island Expressway in June, Thom thinks, tapping the steering wheel impatiently as he brakes to a standstill once again.

  All right, there is one thing like it: The parking lot at the Meadowlands when the Giants are playing at home. In other words, a sea of cars that aren’t going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

  Apparently, everyone and their brother—not to mention their brother’s broker, personal trainer, and private chef—is en route from Manhattan to the Hamptons to usher in the first official weekend of summer a whole day ahead of schedule. It used to be that just Friday nights were insanely busy, but now the weekend seems to start on Thursday and end on Monday.

  Thom, who usually opts to make the trip late Friday nights in a chauffeured limousine and passes the time conducting business from the backseat, finds himself relishing the opportunity to drive out alone on a Thursday . . . even if the actual driving consists mainly of inching forward between bouts of brake lights.

  What matters most is that Thom is now a man in control of his own destiny.

  And his destiny . . . which he may not reach until tomorrow, at this rate . . . involves a certain brown-haired widow, whom he called this afternoon on a whim. Not that he regrets it. No, not one bit.

  As though triggered by the thought of Annie, his cell phone rings shrilly.

  Reaching into his pocket to answer it, Thom wonders if it can possibly be her returning his call.

  No.

  It would be too coincidental for her to call him at precisely the moment he was thinking about her. So coincidental that he’d have no choice but to take it as some cosmic sign that he should . . .

  Well, that’s out of the question. Settling down with a ready-made family is out of the question.

  “Thom Brannock.”

  “Hi. This is Annie Harlowe.”

  His heart stops.

  It’s her. Annie Harlowe. Head of the ready-made family he doesn’t want. Really, he doesn’t. Still . . .

  What are the odds that it would be her?

  Pretty high, he reminds himself, considering that he left her a message to call him at this number.

  Well, what are the odds that she would call at the precise moment she was on his mind?

  Pretty high, considering that he’s spent almost every waking moment thinking about her lately, when he should be thinking about what will happen if Saltwater Treasures rejects his takeover bid.

  Nonetheless, he chooses to take this phone call from Annie as a cosmic sign.

  “So how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Annie says in the pleasantly detached tone one might use with a doctor’s receptionist. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s great.”

  “My babysitter said you called,” Annie says tentatively.

  “I did. I called.”

  She’s silent.

  Waiting, he realizes, for him to tell her why he called.

  Suddenly, he isn’t entirely sure of the reason.

  He’s been so busy obsessing about Annie and yearning to connect with her again that he never managed to plan exactly what he would do when and if it actually happened.

  “I was wondering if you were free for dinner,” he blurts.

  “Tonight?”

  Tonight?

  Well, why not tonight?

  “Yes,” he says like a child who’s just been offered a three-day Park Hopper to Disney. “I’m on my way out to Southampton for the weekend.”

  “On a Thursday?”

  “I’m working from home tomorrow.”

  “You mean, home in the city?”

  “I mean, home in Southampton.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I thought I could pick you up later and we could go to—”

  “I can’t,” she interrupts.

  “You can’t?”

  “The kids. I don’t have a sitter.”

  “I thought a sitter answered the phone when I called this afternoon.”

  “She did, but . . .”

  “But . . . she’s gone?” he prods when she trails off.

  “No, she’s still here, but she’s leaving.”

  “Well, maybe she can stay.”

  “I don’t think she can.”

  Hmm. Where there’s an “I don’t think,” there’s a way, Thom reminds himself.

  “Don’t you want to check with her, at least?”

  “I don’t think she can,” Annie repeats so firmly that it’s clearly out of the question.

  Either she’s not interested in seeing Thom, or . . .

  Or what?

  Clearly, she’s not interested in—

  Then it hits him. Sitters cost money.

  Relieved at an explanation that involves something other than Annie not wanting to see him, he wracks his brain for an alternative.

  He can offer to pay the sitter . . .

  But something tells him Annie might not take kindly to that.

  He hears himself offering, “We can bring the kids with us.”

  They can?

  Sure they can.

  Kids are allowed in restaurants.

  Aren’t they?

  What is he getting himself into?

  He should probably cut his losses and when she turns down the perfunctory offer to include the kids, as any sensible woman would, he’ll just wish her well and hang up.

  “Oh, Thom, I don’t know,” Annie says . . . and he’s a goner.

  It’s that simple. Hearing his name on her lips is all it takes. Never has he heard that single syllable spoken quite that way.

  “The kids aren’t really used to going to restaurants,” she goes on.

  Resisting the urge to beg her to say his name again, Thom attempts to vanquish the image of Trixie shattering fine china and Milo flying from table to table in his pillowcase cape.

  Aloud, he says, “I’m sure they’d be fine.”

  “Well, maybe if it wasn’t a fancy place . . .”

  “What do they like to eat?”

  “Chicken nuggets.”

  “Great. Okay. So we’ll go to a kid-friendly place that serves chicken nuggets.”

  Silence.

  Then Annie asks, “You know kid-friendly places?”

  Nope.

  “Of course I know kid-friendly places,” he says, as though she’s asked whether he’s certain he is, indeed, a man.

  He’s a man, all right. A red-blooded man with one thing on his mind. And it isn’t chicken nuggets.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,” he says, after checking the clock on the dashboard.

  Normally, Montauk would only be an hour from this spot, but he figures with the traffic, he’d better allow extra time.

  “All right.”

  “You don’t sound very enthused, Annie.”

  “I guess I’m wondering why you want to come all the way out here and take the three of us to dinner.”

  Truth be told, a part of him is wondering the same thing.

  Frankly, he has no idea what’s come over him lately.

  But he honestly suspects that it’s more than a subconscious desire t
o rebel against his mother and his sister and the trappings of their world. That it’s more than spring fever, more than good old-fashioned lust, more than a sympathetic need to help destitute Annie and her charming children.

  The only thing Thom knows for sure is that for the first time in his life, he’s going with the flow. And it feels good.

  To Annie, he says simply, “I like you. And I like your kids. Does that make sense?”

  She laughs. “Not really. But we’ll be ready at eight-thirty anyway.”

  Suddenly, a loud rapping infiltrates Annie’s dream . . . a sensual dream about Thom Brannock, featuring languid kisses warmer and sweeter than sugared molasses cookies fresh from the oven.

  She bolts out of bed . . . only to find that she isn’t in bed after all. Nor is she naked, as she was in the dream. She is—or was—on the couch, in her living room, fully clothed . . . and alone.

  No, not alone.

  But not with Thom.

  Dazed—and yes, disappointed—Annie looks around and sees the kids sprawled on the floor facing the television, also fully clothed . . . and still sound asleep beneath the blanket she tossed over them earlier. The Rescue Heroes video they were watching earlier has been replaced by a meteorologist and a weather map of the tristate area. It can’t be that late . . . can it?

  Annie peers at the curved wooden antique clock nesting in the Andre photo gallery on the mantel.

  Yes, it’s past ten . . . and there’s that loud banging sound again.

  As always, Annie’s instinctive reaction is extreme. Is the roof caving in overhead? Are they under machine gun fire? Is a crazed killer trying to break in?

  In the next moment, those wild visions give way to the levelheaded realization that the banging is actually knocking, and it’s coming from the front door.

  Okay, somebody’s at the door. Crazed killers tend not to knock first, so . . .

  Once again, icicles of dread pierce Annie’s heart.

  Flashback: that warm evening last June, sirens in the distance, a knock on the door . . .

  No. That’s over. Andre is gone, and the children are here, safe and sound, and . . .

  Thom.

  He was supposed to be here a few hours ago.

  It all comes back to Annie as she hurries toward the door, her sleepy legs wobbling from both the abrupt movement and the wave of panic that’s sweeping toward her.