Fast Track (Buchanan-Renard #12)

Fast Track (Buchanan-Renard #12) Page 9

The hotel wouldn’t have been important to the congressman if it weren’t for the fact that the mayor of Fallsborough had gone after the Madisons and boasted to everyone in the district that the hotel would bring jobs and money. She’d also told them that their congressman, Chambers, had blown the deal and with it all their hopes and dreams for a better tomorrow. In public the mayor may have acted all distraught about the lost deal, but since she planned to run against him in the next primary, she privately had to be jumping for joy at the windfall that had just come her way.

Although he gave it his best shot, he couldn’t put a positive spin on what had happened. The only solution he could come up with to charm the voters back into his pocket was to find a way around Aiden Madison.

SEVEN

Cordie called Sophie and Regan and asked them to meet her at the Palms for lunch. She explained that she had something important to tell them.

Cordie was early, Regan was on time, and Sophie was fifteen minutes late as usual. Cordie had asked for a booth near the back so they would have a little privacy. The three friends met often at this restaurant, one of their favorites, especially when there was news to share. They knew the waitstaff by name and didn’t need to place their drink orders after they were seated. Adam, their waiter, immediately appeared with three iced teas and recited the specials. They all agreed on a spinach salad with chicken, strawberries, and feta.

The moment Adam stepped away, Sophie turned to Cordie. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“You look beat. Aren’t you sleeping?” Regan asked, her concern evident in her expression.

“I was up most of the night on the Internet doing research,” Cordie said. “I’ll explain why in a minute.” She was suddenly feeling tongue-tied as she stared across the table at the two dearest friends she could ever have.

“Tell us what’s wrong,” Sophie said. “You’re worrying me.”

“Regan, have you talked to your brother-in-law today?” Cordie asked.

“Which brother-in-law?”

“Nick.”

“No, why?”

“I called him and bought his town house. I’m going to move to Boston.”

There were at least twenty seconds of stunned silence, then an explosion of emotion.

“No way,” Sophie came close to shouting. “You can’t leave Chicago. We’re all staying here, remember?”

“No, you and your husbands are staying here. I need a change,” Cordie explained. “I need to shake up my life . . . try new things . . . take risks . . . and move.”

“You love Chicago,” Regan reminded her.

“Yes, I do. I love Boston, too.”

Regan became teary-eyed. “No, this is wrong,” she said. “After the death of a loved one, you shouldn’t be making any rash decisions for at least a year. I read that somewhere.”

“I think that might apply to widows,” Cordie said. “And this isn’t a rash decision. I’ve always loved your brother-in-law’s town house, and I’m ready for a change.”

A long minute passed. Regan was digging through her purse looking for a tissue.

“Please don’t cry,” Cordie begged.

“I’m trying not to,” Regan said. “Why not mull this over for a couple of months? Then decide on any changes.”

Cordie shook her head. “I need your support on this. Boston isn’t that far away. It’s a direct flight. You can come see me all the time.”

Sophie and Regan continued to argue with her for another fifteen minutes. When they finally realized their protests were getting nowhere, they relented. “I know you love Boston,” Regan said. “But what will you do for work?”

“Like she has to work. She’s a multi-multimillionaire,” Sophie reminded her.

“Yes, I do need to work,” Cordie said. “I’m going to put some feelers out. I’ll find something I like.”

“Teaching again?”

“Maybe . . . or maybe something different.”

“Alec’s family will help you get settled and introduce you to people. You won’t be all alone.”

“What about your brownstone here?” Sophie asked.

“I’m going to sell it.”

“But you just finished renovating it, and selling it makes it all seem so final,” Regan said.

Searching for any argument she could think of, Sophie rushed out, “What if you move and then realize you’ve made a mistake?”

“Then I’ll move back,” Cordie said, trying to sound cheerful even though the conversation was depressing her. What if she was making a mistake? What then? She couldn’t come back to Chicago. “I love Nick’s town house, and I love Boston. And both of you will come often, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course we will,” Regan promised. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“When is this going to happen?” Sophie asked.

“In a couple of months,” Cordie explained. “Depending on the work that needs to be done. I’m going to make a few minor changes and paint all the rooms. Maybe even refinish the hardwood floors. Nick thinks I should. I’m going to fly out next weekend and sign all the papers.”

“Are you going to stay at the Boston Hamilton?” Sophie asked.

“No, Nick and Laurant insisted I stay with them. It will be fun to see their kids.”

Cordie and Sophie knew all of Alec’s family and kept in touch with his five brothers and two sisters through Facebook. Alec’s parents, who lived on Nathan’s Bay, an island accessible by bridge north of Boston, were warm, hospitable people and always insisted that Cordie come for a visit when she was in the area. Cordie imagined she’d spend a lot of time on the island next summer.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “I promise.”

She was doing her very best to sound enthused. She should be excited about the future, shouldn’t she? It was a brand-new beginning. Why, then, did she want to cry?

         • • •

The next two weeks were crazy busy. Cordie flew to Boston, loaded down with presents for Nick and Laurant’s two young children, and ended up spending three nights with the family while all the papers were being prepared. She paid cash for the town house by simply transferring funds, and she didn’t feel quite as nervous about the move once she went through the house because she remembered why she loved it so much. All the wonderful architectural details gave the place a classic timelessness, which was exactly what appealed to her. By the time she left Boston she was convinced she would be happy in her new home.

Once back in Chicago she tackled the task of getting her house ready to sell. She finished going through all her father’s boxes, and when she was done, she was all the more frustrated because she couldn’t find any information about Natalie, especially since her father had been such a pack rat. He had kept all of Cordie’s grade school and high school papers and art projects in three boxes labeled Keepsakes, and she knew that if he kept every single one of her drawings and test papers, he certainly would have kept mementos of his marriage. And where were all the photos? Surely he would have kept those in a safe place, but where? Was there another safe-deposit box at the bank, or did the law firm that managed her father’s affairs have a folder with her dad’s personal items? Doubtful, but she would still ask.

Monday morning she called her father’s lawyer, Jared, at his law firm and asked him for his help locating information about Natalie Kane, formerly Natalie Smith.

Jared was happy to hear from her. “This firm didn’t start representing your father until he opened his first automotive repair shop. That being said, I’ll be happy to go through the files and see what I can find. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“No, just anything and everything having to do with her. I can’t find any photos or mementos, and I know there have to be some . . . somewhere. I thought maybe he had the firm hold on to them . . . maybe when he moved into the house from the apartment,” she said. “I’ll be surprised if you find anything, but I’d appreciate it if you would look.”

“To be honest, I can’t imagine there’s anything here. She died before your father hired the firm. Isn’t that right? And you were just a baby back then.”

Jared didn’t know the truth about her mother, but then why would he? Her father had kept the secret until his deathbed. Cordie decided she didn’t want to explain. Let him continue to think that Natalie had died years ago.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find.”

They chatted a bit longer, and by the end of the call Jared had talked her into going to dinner with him that evening. He picked her up at seven thirty, and they drove to an Italian bistro a few blocks from her house. As they sat at a table with a red-checkered tablecloth sipping glasses of rich red wine, Cordie was relieved that Jared kept the conversation light and relaxed, but by the time the dinner was over and they were waiting for the check, Jared’s demeanor changed. He looked very serious when she told him about her upcoming move to Boston, and he cautioned her against making any more decisions in her current state of mind.

“Exactly what is my current state of mind?” she asked, trying not to take offense.

“You’re in mourning,” he reminded her. He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Wait to put your home on the market. Don’t do anything that can’t be reversed. You could wake up one morning and realize you’ve made a mistake.”

Sophie and Regan had given her the same argument. Like Jared, they didn’t know the real reason she wanted to leave Chicago, and she wasn’t about to tell them.

“It’s sweet that you’re worrying about me, but moving to Boston is something I really want to do. I think I’ll be okay there,” she added.

“Maybe I’ll come see you in Boston.”

“I’d like that.”

She meant what she said. She really did like Jared. Although she knew he would disagree, there just wasn’t any chemistry between them now, but who knew what the future held? Could something like that grow from friendship?

Later he walked her to her door and kissed her good night. He didn’t press to come inside, and she was thankful she didn’t have to say no. As old-fashioned as it made her, she didn’t sleep around. When infatuated with one man, it was impossible to substitute another. At least for her, anyway. Once she was settled in Boston, she would be able to get Aiden out of her head, and then she would change pretty much everything else about her life. She didn’t plan to become promiscuous—that thought made her smile—just not so reserved. It was getting easier to pretend nothing had happened with Aiden. Obviously their kiss hadn’t meant anything to him, and that helped her put it all in perspective. Still, until her move to Boston, she would do her best to avoid him.

The next week was spent painting bedrooms and closets and thinning out clothes and clutter to get the house ready to put on the market. By Sunday evening all the bedrooms had been turned into showrooms that could grace any home magazine cover.

Jared called to tell her he hadn’t been able to find anything in the firm’s records relating to Natalie Kane or Smith. Cordie had known it was a long shot but was still a little disappointed.

She had donated all her father’s clothes, and of all the boxes he had brought with him to her house, there were only three left, the ones that had Keepsakes printed across the tops in black Magic Marker. She had sifted through the contents once already, but feeling nostalgic, she decided to go through them again. She sat on the floor and lifted the lid on the first box. Her father had saved nearly every paper she’d brought home and had everything organized in folders labeled by grade. She laughed as she looked at some of her art projects. Nearly every one of them had something to do with cars.

In the second box, nestled between the sixth- and seventh-grade folders, was a plain white legal-size envelope. It was stuck to the back of the sixth-grade folder. The first time she’d gone through the boxes she’d flipped through the folders assuming everything in them was her schoolwork. She hadn’t bothered to pull out any of the papers.

She opened the large envelope and emptied the contents onto the floor. And there they were. Not many mementos, but a few. A faded black-and-white photo of the first Kane Automotive Shop, and another photo of her father’s truck with Kane Automotive painted on the side. She thought it must have been his first truck. There was one other photograph of a stretch of beach and a beautiful sunset on the water. In the distance she could see several people standing on the beach, but they were all turned away from the camera, looking at the horizon. Next she found two flyers for art exhibits, a couple of ticket stubs for a rock concert, and a wedding invitation without an envelope. Hillary Swanson was marrying Jonathan Black at the First Presbyterian Church on Second Street. The wedding date was exactly six months before Natalie married Cordie’s father in Las Vegas. Under the invitation was a birthday card. It was signed, Love, Natalie. A pang of sorrow stabbed at her heart, imagining her father’s happiness at receiving the card, unaware of the insincerity . . . or the grief that was coming. There was a smaller envelope. She opened it, and inside she found a flyer from Las Vegas with a picture of the Forever Wedding Chapel, where she assumed her father and Natalie had gotten married, a matchbook from a Vegas restaurant, a chip from a casino, and a small square of tissue paper. She unfolded the tissue and revealed a simple gold wedding band.

That was it? This was all her father had saved from his marriage? There wasn’t a single photo of Natalie. Had he not taken any, or had he destroyed them in a fit of anger? Reading the farewell letter would have done it, she thought.

Now wasn’t the time to delve into her father’s motives, she decided.

She had enough information to call in the big guns to pinpoint Natalie’s exact location. Alec and Jack would do anything for her, and she didn’t think it would take them any time at all to get Natalie’s address.

She lured them over to her house with pizza and beer. Their wives came with them, of course, and while Regan and Sophie made salads, Cordie let Alec and Jack read the letter her mother had left for her father. She shouldn’t have been embarrassed, but she was, and she couldn’t understand why. You can have her. Maybe that was why. Maybe being tossed aside as though she had absolutely no value to her mother was the reason.

The doorbell rang, and she went to collect the pizzas from the deliveryman, thankful to have an excuse to leave the room. When she returned, they had finished reading, but neither Jack nor Alec commented on the letter. They followed her to the kitchen, where she put the pizzas on the table and quickly got out of the way.