His frown deepened. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“It could be.”
“I never finished my internship.”
“It would take less than a year to get all of your certifications.”
“I’m not a college kid anymore.” Shoulders tight, he headed toward the stairs.
“Denying your passion for architecture won’t bring your father back, Flynn,” she called after him.
He flinched as if she’d hit him, then pivoted abruptly and charged back toward her, stopping only inches away. He glared down at her. “Why do you care?”
Good question. Why did his happiness matter when she planned to get as far away from him as possible as soon as she had what she wanted from him?
The wall blocking what she’d been trying to deny shattered like glass. She realized it mattered because she was still in love with her husband.
Mentally reeling, she tried to find a safe response. “I don’t want my child raised by a bitter, unhappy parent.”
“I’m not your mother.”
She winced at the accuracy of his barb. “No. You’re not.”
I won’t let myself be, either.
But like Flynn had said, it wasn’t as simple as wishing and making it so. Avoiding her mother’s mistakes would take constant vigilance.
“I’m going to finish painting.” She left him because she was very afraid he’d guess her secrets.
Renee stared up at Gretchen Mahoney’s Knob Hill home late Sunday morning. While she admired the ornate architecture and beauty of the exquisitely maintained house, she had no desire to live in such formal surroundings.
This was the type of house Carol Maddox wanted her son to occupy. Instead, Flynn had chosen a diamond-in-the-rough residence and an even less polished wife. Two strikes against Renee in Carol’s book.
Renee rang the bell and braced herself to face Flynn’s “friend” who had insisted on a Sunday-morning interview. Despite Renee’s questions, Flynn had refused to share any more details about his relationship with the woman. Perhaps she was an acquaintance of his mother who lived in the same posh neighborhood, or a client he knew through work. Maybe she was the wife of an old friend.
The front door opened, revealing a gorgeous, willowy thirty-something brunette in four-inch heels and the kind of designer-chic suit that graced Vogue magazine covers. She looked Renee up and down with curiosity-filled olive-green eyes framed by sleek curtains of hair. “You must be Flynn’s wife. I’m Gretchen. Come in.”
Renee’s fingers tightened on her leather portfolio as uneasiness swarmed down her spine and buzzed in the pit of her stomach like a hive of angry bees. “Yes, I’m Renee Maddox.”
“According to Flynn, you are exactly what I need for my little soiree.” Gretchen led Renee through an immense black-and-white, marble-tiled foyer with a massive staircase and an equally sizable floral arrangement to a formal living room filled with antique furniture and more expensive bouquets.
“Please have a seat.” Her hostess flicked a hand toward a white French provincial chair—a ringless left hand. Not the wife of an acquaintance, then.
Was this woman Flynn’s lover? Renee sat and tried to focus on the job ahead, but not knowing exactly who Gretchen was or what she was to Flynn made concentrating difficult.
She opened her notebook. “Flynn didn’t tell me what kind of event you needed catered. What did you have in mind?”
“Getting right to business, are we? No chitchat?”
Renee blinked. Usually clients with this kind of wealth didn’t want to mingle with the lowly help. “I’m sorry. I understood this was a rush job and that you were eager to nail down the details.”
“It is and I am. My usual caterer had a heart attack last week and is unable to work.”
“I’m sorry. That leaves you in a tight spot. Let’s begin with the type of event, the mood you’d like to set and then work our way toward budgets.”
Perfectly arched black eyebrows hiked. “Aren’t you even a little curious about me? I confess I’ve been quite curious about you.”
Renee didn’t know whether to admire the woman for her candor or hate her for being beautiful, rich and poised—all the things Renee was not.
“As a prospective client, you have a right to your questions.”
“I only have one question. Do you realize how badly you hurt Flynn when you left?”
Renee stiffened at the personal attack. “Perhaps I should qualify that by saying questions pertaining to my résumé.”
Radiating protectiveness rather than malice, Gretchen leaned back in her chair and crossed her endlessly long legs. “Did you ever consider the gossip he’d face after you disappeared? The explanations he’d have to make?”
The woman’s audacity amazed Renee. But Gretchen did have a point. After Renee had fled to L.A., she’d tried not to think about Flynn or the mess she’d left behind. She’d thrown herself into a new job and into caring for her grandmother, trying to exhaust herself each day so she could sleep at night—without the booze to help her relax. She’d firmly believed Flynn would be better off without her than with a wife who would become a liability, and she still adhered to that opinion.
“Flynn isn’t the make-excuses type.” Determined to get this meeting back on a business footing, she clicked her pen. “Do you have a preferred theme for your event?”
“Reputation is everything in advertising. You damaged Flynn’s,” Gretchen insisted, ignoring Renee’s question.
“Ms. Mahoney, could we please stick with business? Unless your party was only a ruse to get me here and harass me, my personal life is really not relative to the service I offer.”
“If you believe that, then you’re sadly mistaken. In this competitive market, it’s not just what you do, but who you know and who you’ve pleased or crossed in the past. But we’ll play this your way. For now.”
She slid an embossed invitation across the table. “As you can see I’m hosting a silent auction in my home to raise money for the local women’s shelter. The shelter is a place near and dear to my heart.”
“It’s a worthy cause.”
“My second husband rescued me from there.”
Surprised, Renee didn’t know what to say. Gretchen didn’t look like the typical victim of abuse Renee had in her head.
“Once I found the courage to quit hiding my bruises and admit I had a problem, I escaped from my first husband with the help of friends I could count on. Flynn was one of those friends. He’s a wonderful man. Supportive. Understanding. I would have married him in an instant—after my second husband died, that is. But a part of Flynn would never have been mine. That part still belongs to you.”
Renee’s heart stalled and her hand froze, pen clutched above paper. “You’re mistaken.”
“There are few things in life that I won’t share, but my man tops that list.”
Alarm skittered down Renee’s spine. “Are you warning me off?”
“No. I’m advising you not to hurt Flynn again. He deserves better.”
“Better meaning you?”
“Better meaning a woman who is strong enough to honor her commitment to him and not run when the going gets tough.”
Anger and shame blended inside Renee. By running away without giving an explanation, she’d left the door open for everyone to think badly of her. She’d thought it better to let people assume the worst, rather than stay, become a drunk and confirm it. She hadn’t considered her departure might cast Flynn in a negative light.
With hindsight she realized what she considered an act of selflessness could be construed as one of selfishness by others. But admitting that to her hostess would be like handing a possible rival ammunition.
“You’re judging me based on something of which you have no knowledge.”
“I’m not judging you at all, Renee. I’m merely letting you know I’ll be watching. All of Flynn’s friends will be. And if you hurt him again, you’ll find it very difficult to make a success of your catering business in San Francisco.”
After delivering her threat, Gretchen uncrossed her legs and sat forward, the enmity in her eyes changing to excitement. “Now, about my little get-together, I have sixty of San Francisco’s wealthiest citizens confirmed for this Friday night. I want them feeling happy and generous. What do you suggest?”
Head reeling at the about-face, Renee mentally adjusted from defense to offense. She wanted to tell Ms. Mahoney to stuff her party right up her designer-clad behind. But she couldn’t. She had a business to market, and she couldn’t afford to let a verbal skirmish throw her off her game.
But her confrontation with Gretchen made one thing very clear. She had two choices. One: give up on the baby and expansion ideas and retreat before loving Flynn destroyed her. Two: she could fight her demons, charge ahead and try to win back her husband and the life they’d once dreamed of sharing.
From her perspective either choice could be potentially disastrous, but only one offered a reward.
She studied the beautiful, poised woman in front of her. If Gretchen had taken back her life and refused to be a victim, could Renee be any less courageous?
No. She’d kept her drinking issue under control since that turning-point night, and she would continue to do so. Flynn would never have to know.
Ten
J uggling three bags of groceries containing the ingredients for a special dinner consisting of Flynn’s favorites, Renee climbed the front steps to the Victorian with a signed contract and a sizable deposit for her first San Francisco event in the leather portfolio swinging from her shoulder.
Deciding to try to rebuild the relationship she’d once shared with Flynn had filled her with energy that not even two stressful hours of planning a short-notice event could take away. During her time with her client, Renee had been forced to admit she wouldn’t blame Flynn if he’d had an intimate relationship with the woman after his wife had left him.
Gretchen was smart, creative and, apparently, wielded a lot of clout in the wealthy social circles. She was the type of woman Carol Maddox had wanted her son to marry, and not just because of Gretchen’s deceased husband’s extreme wealth, but because Gretchen had been born into the same social stratum. With women like that waiting in the wings, Renee knew she had to act now.
Despite the competition, she was looking forward to Friday, to working Gretchen’s party and proving to San Francisco’s snobs that California Girl’s Catering had the right stuff.
Renee let herself in the front door and pocketed her keys. Splatters of red on the floor stopped her. A trail of rose petals led up the staircase.
Her heart pumped harder, making her almost light-headed with excitement. The Flynn she’d fallen in love with had made another appearance. God, she’d missed him and missed having someone to play with, to talk to and plan with. With sudden clarity she realized that’s why her attempts to find Mr. Right had failed. None of her dates had understood her the way Flynn had. He got her need to create with food because he shared the same need, only his method of expression was blueprints. Each of them relished seeing something go from an abstract idea to concrete reality.