The River House. Carla Neggers

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Mark had said, not for the first time. “We’re not going to get stuck here dreaming about a different life. We’re going to get out and never come back except to visit.”

      Mark had stayed away for a while, but he’d returned and now had offices out on the river where he and Gabe had grown up. Things hadn’t worked out the way he’d meant them to when he’d set off for college. They’d worked out even better.

      “They worked out perfectly, brother,” Gabe said, turning from his city view.

      A few minutes later, his phone buzzed and he saw he had a text from Mark: Felicity expects you to get in touch with her about the party.

      What’s there to get in touch about? Place settings?

      Ask her. Ball’s in your court.

      How did the ball get in his court? Gabe gave up. How’s Jess?

      Eating a pastrami sandwich. I don’t know if I can take nine months of this.

      But he could and he would, and he looked forward to it. Mark and Jessica’s wedding announcement last summer hadn’t been a total surprise to Gabe, but earlier in the year he’d wondered if they’d make it. Mark had taken Jess for granted, and she’d shown signs of serious impatience.

      She’d gotten his workaholic brother to take her to Paris. That was something.

      Gabe typed his response: Good thing you like pastrami.

      He received a smile emoji from Mark, and they were done. Gabe set his phone aside. He was adept at taking in new information, processing it, making a decision and moving forward—but he needed a moment to process Mark’s call. He hadn’t expected Felicity to be involved in the entrepreneurial boot camp, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected her to be living in the house on the river. To own it. He loved that place.

      “Should have bought it yourself, then,” he muttered.

      Instead he’d let Mark buy out his interest.

      He’d had no plans then, and he had none now ever to spend much time in his hometown. He’d gone in with Mark to buy the property in order to help their grandfather afford assisted living. They’d have paid his way, but that wasn’t what the old guy had wanted. The property had been in Flanagan hands for decades. Mark had designed the house—with Gabe’s input—and eventually bought Gabe out...which had made sense at the time. Mark was living in Knights Bridge. Gabe wasn’t. He’d never considered it might not stay in the family. If there was one spot in Knights Bridge he could get nostalgic about, it was that one.

      Of all the places for Felicity to end up.

      He took in the state of his condo. When he’d arrived that morning, he’d collapsed for a few hours’ sleep and had barely noticed the drop cloths, the covered furnishings, the smell of fresh paint. Workers had arrived mid-morning. The condo was undergoing cosmetic work ahead of going on the market. It would sell in a heartbeat, at a profit. Gabe had bought it two years ago more as an investment than as a place to live. It wasn’t home, not in the sense of Mark and Jess’s Colonial Revival. Gabe was young, unattached, didn’t have a baby on the way—and he liked to travel. He’d had top-notch employees and freelancers, all of whom worked remotely. He could work from anywhere that had an internet connection.

      His company’s new owners had kept on most of his employees and freelancers. Together, they’d take the company and its specialty in product development to the next level. Gabe liked starting businesses. He was good at it, although sometimes they didn’t work out. He’d had a few going when he’d launched the one he’d just sold. He liked being nimble, moving fast, and when that newest start-up had taken off, he’d focused on it. As it grew, he discovered digging in and building a company didn’t interest him as much as getting one off the ground, and he wasn’t particularly good at it. It’d been time to move on. Three years of intense work and focus had made his start-up attractive to a buyer who would do what he didn’t want to—couldn’t—do. As the founder, Gabe had done his best to make a clean exit.

      Clean from a business perspective, anyway. One of his freelancers, a customer development specialist who’d been with him from the start, happened to be in the process of divorcing the man who’d bought the company. She was out of a job and a marriage. Gabe had met with her in Los Angeles to reassure her he’d be in touch with any new venture.

      Everything had revolved around him during those intense years getting his business off the ground. Friends who’d been in his position advised him to have a post-sale plan in place, and he’d listened, at least to a degree. The boot camp had cropped up while he was still twiddling his thumbs in California, trying to figure out what was next.

      What was next was Knights Bridge and Felicity MacGregor.

      He hadn’t been to his hometown in months and he hadn’t seen Felicity in three years.

      He needed a reentry plan.

      * * *

      Gabe went into the master bedroom. The painters had taped off the windows and trim, but otherwise it was untouched. It was just the bed and a sheepskin he’d picked up in Ireland. He sat on the edge of his king-size bed and dug a small photo album out of his nightstand. His mother had put it together for him before her death. She’d done one for Mark, too. It contained pictures of their childhood, and hers, in Knights Bridge. Tucked inside was a sheet of Rhodia notepaper he’d folded in half three years ago that past February and hadn’t looked at since. He opened it now and wondered why he’d kept it. A cautionary tale? Hell if he knew.

      The note was in two parts, one he’d written, one Felicity had written. He’d written his portion in black Sharpie pen. They were the only pens he used. He was tidy, and he had his rituals. Felicity had resisted anything smacking of order, at least back then.

      Felicity,

      Meetings in Boston. Back at 5 p.m. Company arrives at 6 p.m. Hint.

      Gabe

      P.S. You know I’m right

      Then her scrawl in blue Sharpie pen:

      I made brownies for you and your “company.” They’re in the freezer. Enjoy.

      Felicity, financial analyst

      P.S. We’ll see who’s right

      He’d left her that morning scowling at him in his bathroom doorway, wrapped in a wet, threadbare towel. He could have afforded new towels even then, but he hadn’t seen the need. It’d been her fifth day sleeping on his couch, nursing her wounds after getting fired from yet another finance job. She had degrees and knew her stuff, but her heart wasn’t in the work. He’d told her so, not mincing words. Then he’d jotted the note and was on his way. By the time he returned, she’d cleared out of his apartment. She’d cleaned up her pizza boxes, collected her dirty dishes, folded the blankets she’d borrowed, put her sheets and towels in the washing machine and tidied up the bathroom.

      His “company” had been a woman he’d invited over to watch a movie. She’d promptly discovered a stray pair of lacy bikini underpants Felicity had missed in the couch cushions, refused to believe his explanation and stormed out of his apartment before he’d had a chance to pour wine. He’d thrown out Felicity’s underpants—damned if he’d mail them to her—and opened the freezer. He’d figured he’d microwave a couple of brownies, drink the wine by himself and СКАЧАТЬ