Soaring (Magdalene #2)(36)

“Before Magdalene,” he explained.

“La Jolla. In California,” I answered.

“Know where it is, Amelia.”

Amelia.

Not Amy.

He was angry.

Why was he angry?

“Your folks back there?” he asked.

“Yes,” I told him. “I grew up there. Conrad took positions in practices in Boston and Lexington, but we landed back home before, well”, I tipped my head to the side, “here.”

“Practices?” he queried.

“He’s a neurosurgeon,” I said.

And again, Mickey’s mouth tightened.

“Your family?” I asked to change the subject to something that might not make him angry. “You said they sold you their—”

“Florida,” he cut me off, answering my question before I completely got it out, telling me something he told me already. Then he carried on, “Got three brothers. One in Boston, the oldest, moved the family business there. Second oldest is in Bar Harbor, he runs a subsidiary. Youngest, Dylan, lives in Vermont. He’s a professor at a college.”

“Oh,” I murmured.

“My great-granddad was a fisherman,” Mickey kept going, as usual, letting the information about him flow and doing it openly. “My granddad took his business and built it. Dad built it bigger. Big enough, he could afford a house in this neighborhood to put his woman in and raise his sons in. Big enough, that business outgrew Magdalene and Sean had to move it to Boston.”

“Sean is the oldest?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sean, then Frank, then me, then Dylan.”

Four Donovan brothers.

If they were half as magnificent as Mickey, it was good they didn’t live in Magdalene or the entirety of the female population would have problems, just like me.

“Your dad still work?” he asked and I felt my neck get tighter.

“Yes,” I told him. “He probably won’t retire until Auden comes of age and he can hand over the business direct to family.” This was true, and Dad had shared this with my son, but the idea of it terrified me. I obviously didn’t tell this to Mickey. Instead, I explained, “My brother took his own path, lives in Santa Barbara, he’s an attorney.”

His mouth got hard again but he still moved it.

“What’s your dad do?”

I didn’t want to answer.

In fact, I wasn’t really certain why he asked, he couldn’t care.

In fact, I was completely uncertain why he was still there when I couldn’t imagine that he wanted to be.

But he frequently laid it out for me and maybe this was his attempt at keeping things friendly. Know thy neighbor or something like that.

So even if I didn’t want to, I answered anyway.

“He’s CEO of Calway Petroleum, the family company.”

His eyes flared then shut down on his, “Jesus.”

This was not a surprising response. Unless, until recently, he’d lived his life on Mars, he’d know Calway Petroleum. There were Calway stations across America (and Canada, and the world).

There wasn’t one in Magdalene but only because I noted there were only two gas stations in the whole town.

But both neighboring towns had a Calway.

My great-grandfather was a Texan. My great-grandfather had a ranch and was already scary-wealthy when he struck oil. He, then my grandfather and then my father, brilliantly, fiendishly, callously and determinedly kept the business thriving even after my great-grandfather’s vast fields of proverbial gold dried up.

Now the company was deeply involved in offshore drilling.

My mother’s family was in shipping, like big-time, Onassis-style shipping.

I just hoped Mickey didn’t ask about her.

His eyes drifted beyond me to the wall of windows beyond which was a multi-million dollar view to the sea.

“Don’t gotta work,” he muttered.

I didn’t reply because I knew he knew precisely why I had that multi-million dollar view, could sell off all my stuff and replace it nearly immediately and had plenty of time to volunteer at a nursing home.

I also knew he thought this was no good.

He looked back to me and proved that by declaring abruptly, “I’ll pass on the cupcake, Amelia.”

“Okay, Mickey,” I said quietly.

“Thanks for the recipes,” he replied. “Ash’ll love ’em.”

I nodded.

He lifted a hand and dropped it. “You can get on with what you’re doin’. I’ll see myself out.”

I was sure he would.

“Okay,” I said. “Good to see you, though.”

“Yeah. You too,” he murmured distractedly while turning.

I watched him move through my house, going right to the door.

He gave me his eyes before he closed it behind him, saying, “Later, Amelia.”

“Later, Mickey,” I returned.

He nodded, shut my door and disappeared.

I closed my eyes.

My phone rang.

I opened my eyes, grabbed my phone and turned off the ringer.

Then, because I had no choice, or none that were healthy for me, I went back to my cupcakes.

* * * * *

I had no idea if Mickey got my email.

I just knew he didn’t reply as he said he would, sharing his number.