Getting Lucky Read online

  “Isn’t she a little angel?” the waitress, Maeve, cooed as she brought Ross’s order. She flashed a smile at Lynda. “And trust me, I know my angels.” After fussing over the baby a moment longer, Maeve returned to the kitchen. Lynda resisted the urge to grab hold of the woman, to insist that she stay until Ross returned. But she’d learned early in her career to never plead, show fear, or admit to weakness. The lessons had stood her in good stead.

  She looked at Rachel, grateful to see her yawn as if she might drift right off to sleep, and also resisted the urge to smile. The child was prettier than a person might reasonably expect for a small, chubby, bald girl. She had her father’s eyes in her mother’s face, and was living proof of the miracles that could be worked in Bethlehem. A few years earlier, no one had given Ross and Maggie’s marriage the slightest chance of lasting out the year, especially Ross and Maggie themselves. But there they were, not only still together but happier than ever, more in love, doting on each other and now Rachel as if nothing else in the world mattered.

  At one time, back when she was young and naive, she’d thought she could have it all—husband, family, satisfying career. But eighteen-hour workdays, a schedule heavy on travel and light on free time, and the take-no-prisoners drive necessary to not only survive but excel in a man’s world weren’t exactly conducive to sustaining personal relationships. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date, or even just a fling.

  Her gaze shifted to the man in the next booth. If she were going to fantasize about a fling, he would be a good candidate. Handsome, a stranger and destined to stay one, in town for a few days, a few weeks, and then gone again. His voice—all soft, rounded sounds, warm honey, and lazy hot nights—was amazingly easy on the ears, and his face—blond hair, stubborn jaw, angular lines, incredible green eyes that crinkled at the corners as if he smiled too much …

  Abruptly she realized he was watching her watch him, and she jerked her gaze away, though not before catching his grin. No doubt, he was accustomed to being ogled everyplace he went, but she wasn’t accustomed to ogling. Almost immediately, though, she sneaked another look as he slid out of the booth, checked his ticket, then tossed a bill on top of it. His body was long and lean, gloved by a white T-shirt and faded denim that clung to well-developed muscles and stretched taut in the right places, and his moves were languid and lazy, as if he knew exactly how to pace himself.

  As he moved slowly past her table, he nodded toward Rachel. “Pretty baby.”

  Though she knew it was utterly ridiculous—pure feminine vanity—Lynda couldn’t shake the odd feeling that he wasn’t necessarily talking about Rachel.

  The bell over the door rang, then he appeared on the sidewalk outside. He didn’t so much walk as … amble. Lazily. His T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and tapered over a narrow, flat middle, and his faded jeans looked as good from behind as from the front. What little skin that showed was golden brown, and looked silky and hot to the touch … and that was more than she’d noticed at one time about any one man in more years than she could recall.

  He climbed into the car beside hers and started the engine with a powerful rumble. Without so much as a glance inside the café, he backed out across both lanes of traffic, then headed, presumably, for the motel on the edge of town. With a soft sigh—of admiration? longing? wistfulness?—she turned her attention back and barely controlled her surprise at seeing Ross seated across from her, holding Rachel against one shoulder. “I—I didn’t hear you come back.”

  “You were distracted.” He glanced out the window in the direction the stranger had gone, then smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you distracted before.”

  The heat of embarrassment warmed her cheeks and stiffened her spine, but she offered no excuses, no explanation.

  “Sorry for bringing Rachel. Maggie had a meeting, too, and they never get anything accomplished if the kids are there. Oh, and Tom isn’t going to make it. He got tied up on a call from Hong Kong.”

  Tom Flynn was chief counsel for McKinney Industries and Ross’s top advisor. He was forty, brilliant, and had once had a reputation that spanned the globe as the toughest, most ruthless bastard in business. Lynda had detested him, competed with him, envied him, and wanted to be just like him. But his recent marriage to Holly McBride had mellowed him significantly. She couldn’t even remember the last time he’d insulted her, tested her patience, or made her mad enough to spit. Sometimes she missed the old Tom. Mostly she envied the new one.

  “Did you get a chance to look over the reports?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question. Ross had taught her by example to be painstakingly thorough. It was how he’d built his fortune, which had enabled her to build her own.

  “Some of them,” he replied. “Just give me the short version.”

  For one long moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. She knew the answer, of course. She’d put the reports together herself and could quote numbers, percentages, profits, losses, expenses, and countless other details, mundane and not so.

  What she couldn’t grasp was Ross’s willingness to settle for the “short” version. This was a complicated project that involved the acquisition of a manufacturing plant in Osaka, which would be paid for in part with the transfer of ownership of various small enterprises on three continents, along with shares in other M.I. interests. There were dozens of factors to consider, hundreds of minor details to work out along the way.

  But all he wanted was the “short” version.

  “Well … Before the parties involved will agree to the deal as laid out, the mediators will have to resolve the problems with the workers in Malaysia, which will, of course, entail a substantial increase in salary and benefits packages, which will decrease profits but should have the reciprocal effect of increasing productivity. Then we’ll need to begin negotiations with—”

  Ross looked up from Rachel with a grin. “Bottom line, Lynda.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Your recommendation is somewhere in all those pages. What is it?”

  She was mystified. “That we move ahead. But that’s simply my opinion. You really should weigh all the options for yourself.”

  “Have you weighed them?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So why should I do it again? Repeating the whole process doesn’t strike me as a very efficient use of time.”

  “But that’s the way we’ve always worked.” At least, until Rachel was born. And Tom got married. To go back even further, until Ross and Maggie put their marriage back together.

  “Change is good,” Ross said simply. “So do we give this project the green light?”

  She wanted to hesitate and hedge her bets, and opened her mouth to do so. Instead, she answered simply. “Yes.”

  “Good. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  She did have a few minor issues to bring up, but decided against it. If he wasn’t interested in the Osaka deal, he certainly wasn’t going to care about her petty concerns. “No, not at the moment. Are you going back to the office now?”

  “I think Rachel and I are going to go home and take a nap.” He gazed tenderly at his daughter in a way that had once been reserved for Maggie. “If you could tell my secretary, I’d appreciate it.”

  He naturally assumed that she had no place better to go and nothing better to do than work. She was tempted to prove him wrong, but unless the world came to an end between then and five P.M., he wouldn’t even know. And all she would do at home was work. Of course she would go back to the office, deliver his message, and be the last one to go home that evening. As usual.

  “I’ll do that,” she said as he stood up and shifted Rachel to his other arm. She kept her sigh inside until they were gone, then it slipped out.

  “Something wrong, hon?” the chubbier waitress, Gloria, asked.

  Lynda glanced at the swinging door that led into the kitchen, standing utterly still, and wondered where the woman had come from. Had she been so distr
acted again that she hadn’t noticed she wasn’t alone? That wasn’t like her.

  “No, everything’s fine. I … I just got the go-ahead on the biggest deal I’ve ever put together.” And had no one to share the news with but a stranger.

  “Congratulations! That’s cause for celebration! You should grab your husband and—”

  Lynda interrupted, though she didn’t have a clue why. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh … well, then your sweetheart—”

  With a rueful smile, she shook her head.

  “A pretty girl like you … Well, surely you’ve got friends or family you can celebrate with.”

  “My family lives in Binghamton, and my best friend is in Buffalo.”

  Gloria looked flustered. “Well … well … congratulations anyway. You should be very proud of yourself. And I’ll tell you what—” She took a small Styrofoam box from the counter. “Have the last piece of Harold’s best pie as a reward. It’s on the house. Take it home, heat it in the microwave, spoon vanilla ice cream over it … ah, it’s heavenly.”

  “I don’t—”

  Gloria pressed the box into her hands. “Go on, indulge yourself. You deserve it.”

  Lynda smiled reluctantly. “Thanks.” She did deserve it. And she would enjoy it.

  All by herself.

  Angels Lodge, Ben discovered, was more than Gloria’s “few blocks” away—closer to two miles, in a clearing after the road began its climb out of the valley. The place had just opened its doors last week, she’d said, and she hadn’t been kidding. Though the office and what looked like about ten rooms were completed and open for business, the rest of the two-story building was still under construction. If he decided to stick around, he might hunt up the foreman and apply for a job. He couldn’t ask for a better commute than a few hundred feet down the sidewalk.

  From the outside, the lodge looked like ten thousand other motels. Inside, though, was a surprise. The lobby was a scaled-down version of a much more expensive place, with a marble-topped registration desk, wood paneling, and furniture that were antiques or good reproductions, and the photographs on the walls were of local sights, all elaborately framed and signed by the same artist.

  A young woman was working the desk—early twenties, brown hair, pretty, with a name tag that said Bree. In a summer dress that reminded him of some famous watercolor painting he’d once seen, she looked right at home in the elegant surroundings. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a room for a few nights, maybe longer.”

  She asked the usual questions, then studied the information displayed on her computer screen. “Some of our rooms have small kitchens, Mr. Foster. Since you may be here a while, would you be interested in one of them?”

  He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could handle soup and sandwiches. And since he wasn’t fond of eating alone in restaurants and had noticed an absence of fast-food places in town, it seemed a reasonable solution. He said as much to the woman as she took his credit card.

  “Are you in town on business?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” That little Emmaline-guilt twinge tickled down his spine again, and he hadn’t even really lied. It was business. Just not the kind she meant.

  The printer spit out a page, and she X-ed the two places he should sign. “I hope you have time to enjoy the town while you’re here. Bethlehem’s a great place.”

  “So I’ve been told. I plan to take some time.”

  “Great. If you can start tonight, the high school jazz band is giving a concert in the town square at seven. Practically everyone in town will be there. A lot of them make an evening of it and have dinner at one of the restaurants downtown, and some bring blankets and dinners for a picnic in the grass. It’s really nice.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Now, that truly was a lie. He didn’t like high school bands, or jazz, or anything that involved big crowds. He was fond of picnics, but on hot days with pretty women, a lot of privacy, and an entire afternoon to pass.

  “You can’t miss the square. It’s—”

  “Right across the street from Harry’s.”

  “You’ve found Harry’s. It’s the heart of Bethlehem.” Her smile was broad and charming. “Here’s your key and your credit card. Your room is around the corner here to the left. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. And welcome to town. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Ben returned to his car and moved it to the east side of the building. She’d given him an easy number to remember—111—with a window that looked down on the town. It was a pretty scene, with lots of rich green from the trees, roofs, and a fair number of church steeples.

  He carried his duffel into the room, then took a look around. Like most motels, it was close quarters, but the quality was a step or two above the usual. The carpet was better-than-average quality, the pad a bit thicker. The dresser, night tables, and cabinets were good-quality, paint-grade plywood, simple in design, and painted a smooth, hard white. There were more framed photographs on the walls, and the kitchenette and bathroom were both designed for efficiency.

  He closed the sheers but left the heavy drapes open, then began unpacking. His kit bag went on the counter in the bathroom, his clothes in the dresser and closet. The last item in the duffel, a wooden box, would go back in the car trunk—safer there than in the room. It held the only things he owned that he couldn’t afford to lose.

  The box wasn’t anything fancy, just a small cedar chest with a lock. Finding the key on his key chain, he unlocked then opened the box. The aroma of cedar drifted up, making him sneeze. There wasn’t much inside—a handful of photographs, a card bearing a twelve-year-old postmark and a Nashville return address, and the locket. The photos, copies of originals back home, were of Emmaline, old and wrinkled in the earliest; older, more wrinkled, but still vital in the last one. The card was to her from Berry, an impersonal announcement that she’d given birth to a girl. It had included a poorly lit photo of one-month-old Alanna.

  The locket was gold, engraved on the front with hearts and flowers and on the back with some long-dead Bodine’s message to his beloved wife, Sally, dated 1860. When Ben was a kid, Emmaline had entertained them both for hours with stories about Sally, her husband, and the Civil War. The Recent Unpleasantness, she’d sometimes called it, or simply the War, as if there had been no other in the last two centuries.

  She had worn the locket every single day he could remember except the last one. When he’d visited her the night before she died, she’d taken it off and pressed it into his hands. “For Alanna,” she’d whispered weakly before dozing off.

  It might have been the first time in his adult life he’d ever cried.

  But it hadn’t been the last.

  His fingers felt big and clumsy as he pressed the latch that opened the locket. In the tiny oval frames inside were pictures—My babies, Emmaline had often said with pride. Ben and Alanna, each only weeks old. Face-to-face in the locket, but never in real life.

  Despite the age of the photos, the resemblance was strong enough to be certain that Berry hadn’t lied. He’d wondered when she’d announced her pregnancy. Fidelity was only one of the qualities she’d lacked in great measure. But once he’d seen these photos, he’d known it was true. Alanna had his hair, jaw, nose, and the shape of his eyes, but the features that fitted into an okay face on him went together beautifully on her. She was clearly his daughter, only sweetly, delicately better.

  Feeling more alone than he had even when he’d watched Emmaline’s casket lowered into the ground, Ben returned everything to the box and locked it, then slid the box into the duffel. He stretched out on the bed, pillowing his arms under his head, and closed his eyes. If he dozed off, fine. If he didn’t, he could drive himself nuts for a few more hours, thinking about what he should do, wondering what he wanted to do, wishing the “right” thing Emmaline had always urged on him could, just this once, also be the easy thing.

  The next time he opened his eyes, the clock on the night table showed that t
he concert in the square had just started. He combed his fingers through his hair, changed into a clean T-shirt, picked up the duffel, and headed to his car.

  The streets surrounding the square were closed to traffic and cars were parked everywhere. He found a space at the edge of downtown, in front of a dusty bookstore, then walked the half-dozen blocks to the square. Bree had predicted that practically everyone would be there, and it appeared she was right. The park benches were full, and every blade of grass was home to a blanket or a lawn chair. People stood on the sidewalks and sat on the courthouse steps, leaned against buildings and hunkered down on curbs. Some listened to the music, while others talked with friends or watched the kids play. It was the sort of thing Emmaline would have loved.

  Ben found a relatively isolated spot across the street from the bandstand. He was scanning the crowd, checking out every blonde when four of them together—a woman and three kids—caught his attention. He didn’t know Emilie Bishop from the man in the moon, but the tightening in his gut told him that was her. That meant the oldest of those kids was Alanna.

  His guess was confirmed when she turned his way. For an instant he felt a jolt, as if she were looking right at him, then she laughed, let a dark-haired girl pull her to her feet, and disappeared into the crowd with her.

  “You can’t ask for anything better than this, can you?”

  Swallowing hard, Ben turned to see an older man sitting on the steps nearby. He looked like somebody’s doting grandfather, another of those family positions Ben knew nothing about.

  “It’s nice,” he said noncommittally before trying to locate Alanna in the crowd again.

  “You’re new in town.”

  “Just visiting.”

  The man laughed. “I came for a visit last summer to help my son with his kids, and here I still am, nearly a year later. Something about this town gets to you.…” His gaze shifted past Ben, and a smile lit his entire face. “Or maybe it’s something about the ladies here that gets to you.”