That Summer Place (10 page)

T
he Letni building in the Silicon Valley was tall, slim, and coolly modern, exactly the kind of place that impressed California. It had an expansive view of the other sleek glass office buildings and complexes that housed Sun Microsystems, IBM, Xerox, and the other techno-conglomerate companies that surrounded a small green on the north side of a sprawling business park.

There was an all-natural whole food deli on the first floor plaza, where they served sandwiches on seven grain pita bread layered with sprouts and avocado, along with warm crocks of specialty soups garnished with floating squares of tofu instead of chunks of meat.

Trendy coffee carts and frozen yogurt stands flanked a wide bank of elevators with glass doors and electronic eyes that spotted you on the lobby level so you never even had to press the call buttons.

On the fourth floor was a mirrored gym with the latest weight equipment and muscular blond trainers who had all-over suntans compliments of the corner tanning booth. You could get a massage or a manicure, even a shave and a haircut on the third floor spa located next to a travel agency that offered deals to Mexico or the Virgin Islands.

And deep in the ground, well below the limestone-tiled lobby, there were rollers under the foundation to make the building flexible during earthquakes. The Letni building had everything to ensure you would look healthy inside and out when the “big one” hit and you died under a pile of steel and glass.

Catherine tossed her empty latte cup into a shiny, bullet trash can made of chrome. She hadn’t been in this building for four years—the last time she’d called on this account. She had forgotten how intimidating it was, so stark and hard and steely, as if it housed weapons of mass destruction instead of offices filled with people.

The elevator doors slid open and people filed out. She stepped inside and watched the doors close. She hadn’t slept well last night and had been working fourteen-hour days ever since she came home.

There was dampness on her forehead as she stared up at the lit numbers above her.

Floor three…four…five….

She took a deep breath to calm herself and looked up again.

Floor fifteen, sixteen…twenty.

So fast, she thought. That was how quickly time could get away from you. One single breath and you were past ten whole floors. You could wake up one morning and find out that suddenly most of your life had passed you by.

The floor numbers blurred together into the image of a man she had loved for what seemed like forever.

She was miserable. So very miserable.

Since she’d left the island and her anger had faded into something painful, she had done some soul-searching, while lying awake at night. And she discovered she had been lying to herself. Letting herself believe that she didn’t need to be loved or in love.

She was so wrong.

For over the past eight years she’d had a stronger relationship with her dreams than she had in her real life. The truth was plain and simple; she was scared to death to trust a man again. Because of Tom, and perhaps because of Michael, too.

She was like a small child who was afraid of the monster under the bed. She had spent all this time being frightened of something that might not even exist.

The elevator doors opened. She tightened her grip on her briefcase and checked the floor number. Thirty-three. She walked through the doors.

Come on, silly. This is the biggest presentation of your career. Get focused.

She stood there for a moment, feeling scared and nervous and human, then she took a deep breath, told herself she could do this and walked toward the reception desk.

Jim Edmonds opened the conference room door for her. Catherine stepped inside with a bright smile plastered on her face. Her gaze flew to the man at the head of the table.

Her smile died.

Michael didn’t say a word to her. He just sat there at the head of the conference table while he studied her face. He was wearing a gorgeous silver-gray suit that made him look better than any man had a right to look. And she wanted to kill him.

She said nothing, but the longer she stood there, the more she felt like a butterfly about to get stuck with pins.

Jim gestured to a seat at the conference table. Catherine put her briefcase down, then opened it and took out the presentation folders, wondering what would happen if she just reached across the table and slapped Michael with them.

Jim said, “This is Catherine Winslow, executive vice president of Carlyle Relocation.”

Michael stood up. “Catherine.” He extended his hand to her.

She wanted to cut it off.

“Michael Packard,” he said as if they had never met before.

“Michael is our president and CEO,” Jim added.

No, she thought. He’s not the president; he’s a dead man. She looked right at Michael, hoping he could read her mind.

He had a death grip on her hand. “I understand you were bidding for our business about four years ago, when Rainy was president.”

She gave him a look that should have burned a hole in him. “Yes.” Her voice was more clipped than she meant it to be. “We were bidding against Westwood.”

He wouldn’t let go of her hand. He just pulled her closer until she was standing next to him. Then he introduced her to the two vice presidents, the general manager and the corporate relocation team.

She smiled and shook hands with each of them, the whole time aware of his other hand on her lower back, aware that the smile he wore for the room was strained.

She stepped away as soon as she could, then picked up the presentation folders and gave them to Jim to pass out.

Michael never took his eyes off her. He just sat there casually playing with a gold letter opener, tapping it against the table and being just obnoxious enough for only her to notice.

He could tap that thing all day; she refused to look at him. She stood there waiting for Jim to finish.

When he was done, she snapped open her folder, looked at the other three executives and smiled.

Ignore him and do this proudly. Don’t let him know you feel a thing.

She took in an easy breath and let the anticipation of plain old silence work for her for a second, then she began, “Gentlemen…”

She was good. Damn good. And this proposal and bid were more comprehensive and thorough than any he’d ever seen. He could see the impression she was making on the other executives. They were enthralled with her plans.

He stopped watching her, looked down at the table while he fiddled with a letter opener and just listened. He wanted her to show her stuff.

For the next half an hour she went over her company’s eight-year plan for relocating Letni’s personnel and offices to new sites in five Western states.

She finished, then scanned the faces at the table. “Any questions?” Her chin shot up, her shoulders went back, and she looked right at him.

He wanted to stand up and applaud. Instead, he listened to each question raised and to her quick and knowledgeable answers.

When there was a small lapse of silence he stood. “Well, it looks as if there are no more questions. I think everyone is pleased.”

There was a murmur of agreement and some positive nods.

She started to move, but he clamped his hand on her arm.

“Excuse us, gentlemen. I’ll handle the rest of these negotiations in private.” Then he steered her toward the door to his office, opened it and almost had to shove her inside.

C
atherine was mad as hell. “I’m going to make your life so miserable, Michael Packard.”

“You already have.”

She tried to squirm away from him.

His other hand was gripping her hip. He guided her toward the sofa across from a huge desk. “Sit down.”

“I don’t think so.” She stiffened and crossed her arms.

He picked her up and set her down, then placed his hands flat on either side of her and leaned down. “We have to talk.”

“You knew I worked for Carlyle, didn’t you?”

“Not until you mentioned it that night.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Since when?”

“Since I fell in love with you all over again.”

She pretended he hadn’t spoken because she didn’t want to crumble, not when she was hurting and vulnerable and angry.

“You don’t have anything to say to me.” He was waiting.

“Yes.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “Do I have the account?”

He looked as if that was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

“Answer me, Michael. Does Carlyle have Letni’s relocation business?”

“Yes.” His voice was clipped.

She gave him a look that said he had better be telling the truth. “Does Carlyle have this account because of me?”

“Yes. That bid and presentation you just gave earned you and Carlyle our business. You’re good at your job, Catherine.” He leaned closer. “But that isn’t what I want to talk about.”

“It’s the only thing I want to talk about with you.”

“Dammit! Will you give me five minutes?”

“Put it in writing, Michael.”

He just looked at her, clearly confused.

“I want a written agreement right now that Carlyle has the Letni account.”

“Fine.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her over to his desk, then let go and wrote out the agreement. “Here. Sign it.”

“You first.”

He signed the agreement, then handed her the pen.

She signed it and snatched it off the desk.

“Now will you listen to me?”

She just looked at him, then waved a hand as if she didn’t care what he said. “Fine. Speak away.”

“Explain to me how allowing you to believe I was a handyman is any different from you flushing those socks down the toilet.”

“It’s not,” she shot back. “And once I realized we’d both been wrong, I was pretty much ready to contact you and try to work things out between us. But first I had to get this presentation done.” She paused. “You moved up the date.”

He swore under his breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Letni?”

“Because you ran out the door before I could.”

“Not good enough. You could have followed me. You could have told me, Michael. But you didn’t want to tell me, did you?”

He was silent.

“Nothing to say? Can’t you think of a good enough lie?”

He just stared at her, his jaw tight.

She had the agreement in her hand, and she had a break in her heart that was so big it could echo. She looked at him, then looked down at the paper she was holding.

“I’m not lying.”

“Go straight to hell.” She shoved a desk chair between them and ran out the door.

“Catherine!” He pushed the chair aside and came toward her.

She slammed the door closed, quickly wedged a nearby chair under the doorknob and ran for the elevators.

Michael tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He swore and crossed to the conference room door, ran through, ignoring the startled looks of his employees, and made straight for the elevators.

She was standing there frantically punching the call button. An instant later the doors opened and she went inside.

“Catherine! Wait!” He ran toward her.

The doors closed in his face.

He made for the stairs, playing a hunch and hoping luck was on his side. He flew down four flights, half-flying over the stair railings, then out the door to the twenty-ninth floor.

He ran to the elevator bank. His gaze shot to the floor numbers above the doors.

She was stopped on the thirtieth floor.

He hit the call button and waited, his breath coming fast, his chest heaving.

The doors finally opened. He rushed around some people who were getting off and stepped inside.

She was in the corner glaring at him.

He moved toward her, his hands out. “Don’t do this.”

She ducked under his arm and slipped out just as the doors were closing.

“Catherine…please.” He stuck his arm out to hit the electronic eye, but he wasn’t fast enough. The door slipped closed.

He punched the open door button, but the elevator started moving down.

“Shit!” He punched number twenty-eight, then sagged against the wall for a couple of seconds.

The doors opened on the next floor. He jumped out and looked up at the numbers above all the doors. Every elevator was on a lower level except the one he’d just gotten off and one on the thirty-first floor, which meant she had to still be waiting on the twenty-ninth.

He ran back to the stairs, then up one flight, loosening his tie and throwing off his jacket. He burst through the door and ran toward her, just as she got on another elevator.

“Dammit, Catherine!” He was shouting. “I didn’t tell you who I was because I was afraid of losing you!” He skidded across the floor.

The doors were closing.

He threw out his hands. “Don’t make me wait another thirty years!”

The doors slipped closed.

Don’t make me wait another thirty years.
Those words played again in Catherine’s head.

They could go their separate ways, never speaking again; never loving again. And years from now they would think of the other one and wonder at what might have been.

Catherine hit the Open button.

The stupid elevator paused for just a second, then started downward.

Oh, God. She had waited an instant too long.

Panicked, she looked at the line of buttons, then slammed her fist down on the one marked Emergency.

A bell blared through the air as if there were a fire.

The elevator jolted to a stop.

Catherine chewed on her lip. She didn’t hate him; she loved him. She wasn’t really hurt; her pride was just hurt.

Pride could be a funny thing. It could make something completely worthless seem like the most important thing in the world, could keep you from reaching out and grabbing the most precious moments in life. She didn’t have a whole lifetime ahead of her, but whatever time she had left, she was going to spend with the man she loved.

The red phone in the elevator rang. She picked it up. It was Security checking to see if everything was okay.

“I need to go up to the twenty-ninth floor.”

The man began to yell at her for hitting the red button.

“I hit it by mistake,” she lied.

A moment later the bell stopped ringing and he told her to punch the button she wanted. The elevator began to move, then stopped on twenty-nine.

The doors opened. And there was Michael, standing there and looking as if he’d lost his best friend. He ran a hand over his eyes for a second and he said her name. When his hand fell away, his eyes were misty with emotion.

At that moment she loved him more than she thought was possible. She gave him a small smile, because she was afraid she might cry. She stepped toward him. “I don’t want to wait another thirty years either.”

His face was beet-red and sweaty, his tie askew and his shirt half pulled from his slacks. He looked down at his clothes. “It’s a damn good thing I work out or I’d have died on the thirtieth floor.”

She stepped closer, taking his hands and wrapping his arms around her. “I love you,” she said against his lips.

He took the hint and kissed her slowly and deeply, in that special way he had.

Someone gave a cat call.

Someone else whistled.

He broke off the kiss and grabbed her hand, then took her through the stairwell door and closed it behind them.

He pressed her back against the door and kissed her again, for a long, long time, then just held her against his chest, rubbing his chin against her head. “How are the girls?”

“Mad at me because I won’t let them call you.”

“I knew I liked those kids of yours.”

She could hear the laughter in his voice.

“So. How do you think they’d feel about us getting married?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember you asking me to marry you.”

“Will you?”

“What?”

“You’re going to make me do this the hard way, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “You bet I am. I’ve been waiting thirty years for this.”

“Catherine,” he began to propose.

She raised her hand and cut him off. “You’re standing.”

He looked at her as if he thought she was kidding, then shook his head in defeat and sank to one knee. “Do I need a rose between my teeth, too?”

“No. It wouldn’t fit. Your foot’s already there.”

He laughed, but she just crossed her arms and waited.

Finally he held his arms out like Al Jolson. “Catherine Winslow. Will you marry me?”

She didn’t answer him right away, but counted to ten slowly, then asked, “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, surprised. He stood up and towered over her for a second. Then his expression changed. “Do you want me to tattoo the words on my forearm?”

“No. Just say them, Michael.”

“I love you, Squirt.” He slid his knuckle under her chin and tilted her head back so she had to look into his eyes. “I think I have always loved you.”

She smiled.

He slid his hands slowly down her arms. “I want to marry you because you have two great daughters, and I’d like to be part of their lives, too.”

“They adore you.”

“Smart girls.” He winked at her, then said, “I want to marry you, because you make me crazy, Catherine.” He pulled her against him, trapping her arms at her sides and kissing her neck. His lips drifted over to her ear. “And especially because I like old things.”

After she stopped laughing, she said yes.