Back Where She Belongs(8)

And what way was that exactly?

He’d let her come to the shoe shop that time. And once, when she was ten, she’d begged to go with him when he went to shoot skeet. He’d showed her how to shoot, but it hurt and it was loud and she’d cried, so he’d sent her to the shooting range office, disgusted with her for giving up so easily.

Later, Tara returned to the range for lessons, making the owner swear not to tell her father, determined to prove herself. By the time she got good enough, she no longer cared what her father thought of her.

Would sharing that have changed things between them?

It was too late to know.

Are you proud of me, Dad? Did you know how good I am? She’d sent him a packet, as CEO of Wharton Electronics, one of the dozens she sent to potential clients, but never heard a word. She didn’t need his approval, of course, but the first hurts were the deepest.

You had to heal yourself. She knew that. But being here again brought up those old teenage feelings. The Wharton Effect all over again. Her job was to ignore it, rise above it, kick it to the curb until she could finally, safely, escape for good.

Then there was Dylan. What about Dylan? There’d been this lingering thing in her head since she’d seen him, like a singer holding a note until she was about to pass out.

She missed him. Still. She wanted him. Still.

And that was the most ridiculous thing of all.

* * *

SATURDAY AT NOON, Dimitri helped Tara out of the the limousine in front of the house for the reception. She was dying for air-conditioning. She’d forgotten that October in Arizona was too warm for the navy business suit she’d worn. The sun had beat down mercilessly during the graveside service.

Hang in there, she told herself. Just a few more hours.

Then she could peel off her clothes, go for a swim or a run, borrow one of her father’s guns and shoot skeet until her shoulder throbbed, drive as fast as she could as far away as she wanted, or throw herself facedown on her bed and let the thick down pillows muffle her sobs.

Dimitri helped Tara’s mother out of the car. She’d held her own since the night in the kitchen, handled the visitation and the funeral with dignity and grace, accepting hugs, pats and cheek kisses with a smile. Her friends, the women who sat on charity boards with her and planned food drives and hosted fund-raising balls, seemed to buoy her. Maybe she felt she had to put on a front for them. Whatever it was, it helped her hold it together. Tara would keep an eye out at the reception in case she started to crack. Her mother’s dignity meant everything to her, so Tara would help preserve it.

The house was a cool relief, noisy with talk, smelling of rich food, flowers, wine and perfume. The dining room table groaned with food, waiters passed hot appetizers and the bartender was busy handing out drinks. Her father would have considered the full bar with top-shelf liquor too showy, but Tara wanted the best to honor him. She headed for the kitchen to be sure the caterers had everything they needed.

“Eat before you fall down.” Judith thrust a plate at Tara with a hunk of beef covered in mustard and a piece of cherry pie—Tara’s favorite as a kid. “You left that yogurt on the counter this morning.”

“Thanks, Judith, for thinking of me. I ran out of time to eat.”

“Can’t have you passing out in front of company. I told the bartender to water your mother’s gimlets. I’ll keep an eye on her. You greet the guests.”

She noticed Judith’s eyes were red. “How are you doing?”

“How do you think I’m doing? Supervising these airhead caterers I should get overtime.” She marched away in a huff, as private about her feelings as Tara’s mother.

Tara started circulating. She noticed Chief Fallon leaning close to her mother to talk. He’d stayed awhile at the visitation, too, bringing her mother a glass of water. The big bouquet on the dining room table had come from him. What had her mother said? Bill watches out for us.

Yeah? Was there more to it than that? It gave her the creeps to even contemplate.

Tara greeted people, made sure everyone had food and liquor. It was exhausting to talk to people who knew her or thought they did—people who hated her or resented her, friends who wanted to rehash wild times, phonies who expressed sympathy with smug eyes. As the hours passed, she felt more and more suffocated. She wanted to yell, you don’t know me and you never did. She’d put on an act in high school. She’d felt like she had no choice.

Since she’d arrived at the reception, she’d kept her eye open for Dylan. He might not come, considering the feud between their fathers. She’d spotted Dylan and his dad after the service speaking to her mother, but that was it.

For the three nights since she’d arrived, she’d had dreams about him. Steamy ones that lingered after she awoke, leaving her with a terrible longing for the real thing. Clearly they represented her need to escape her worries about Faye and her grief over her father.

Sex had been all-consuming back then—a desperate need, an undeniable force, a bonfire that had to be quenched or they’d die.

What would sex with Dylan be like now?

The instant the idea crossed her mind he walked through the door, his father behind him. She’d thought of him and he’d appeared. The old magic again. Afraid if he saw her, he might read her mind, she turned and nearly ran for the kitchen.

Stop this. Grow up.

It wasn’t just the sex that was making her think of him. It was the relief of belonging, of being understood, of fitting in at last. That had meant so much to her back then. And now, her emotions were churned up. Who wouldn’t want to escape into a time when all that mattered was being in the arms of the one person you loved above all else, who loved you the same?

But it wasn’t true even then.

Let it go for good.

Here she was, hiding from him in the kitchen. Ridiculous. She decided to see how they were fixed for crab puffs.





CHAPTER FOUR



“QUIT STALKING HER and go talk to her.”

Dylan’s ex-wife’s voice made him turn. He hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “I will when she’s not busy.” He had been tracking Tara since they’d arrived at the reception, catching sight of her as she raced for the kitchen on some urgent errand. The sight of her retreating back had been enough to set his heart pounding. He knew her shape from all sides. The way she moved—quick and graceful as a dancer—was a dead giveaway.

Since then he’d watched her slide from group to group, talking, fetching drinks, motioning waiters over with food. She was gracious and kind, with a smile for everyone, but he knew she was hurting. Even from a distance, he saw the same haunted look she’d had at the hospital.

“We do look a little alike,” Candee mused. “Same hair color, same height, same build, but she’s better proportioned.”

“Don’t do this.” Candee had been convinced their short marriage had failed because Dylan had still had a thing for Tara.

“She’s more...striking. That’s it, isn’t it? She has a celebrity aura. She totally rocks her clothes. That suit is tight, but not slutty, and those heels are quality. Expensive, but restrained.”

“Now you sound like the stalker,” he said, trying to joke her out of this comparison, which he feared would upset her, though they’d been divorced for eight years.

“Anyway, I get it,” she said, a flash of hurt in her eyes. “I see why.”

“You’re beautiful and striking and you have an aura, too.” Dylan hated how she underrated her own attractiveness.

“I do have bigger boobs,” she said on a sigh. “You always liked my boobs.”

“I did. I do. I mean...your boobs are great.” These conversations never went well for him. Candee had moved to Wharton a year after Tara left for college and dragged Dylan out of his lonely cave with her energy and sense of fun. Things progressed quickly and they’d married. He’d been determined to make it work. He’d watched his parents’ marriage fall apart. He wouldn’t let that happen to him.

But it had. Candee became convinced he was still in love with Tara. You built a shrine to her in your head. I can see the candles glowing in your eyes. I can’t compete with a dream. She can’t possibly be as great as you remember.

He’d done his best to change her mind. He loved Candee. Tara was gone. Maybe he was still shell-shocked, still numb from the cascade of troubles—his parents’ divorce, the breakup with Tara, the ongoing strain of helping his father get back on his feet.

To this day, he still regretted that he’d hurt Candee. He’d fought like hell to stay friends. Mutual loneliness had put them in bed together a few times. The last time she’d dropped by to see Duster—Candee code for wanting sex, since she barely looked at the dog, he’d gently declined and driven her home, making her swear to stop drinking beer and looking through the wedding album. At least not on an empty stomach.