Back Where She Belongs

chapter FIFTEEN



TARA BLEW OUT A BREATH. It was 6:00 p.m. She needed to get over to Dylan’s for the dinner he’d offered to make her. Her main accomplishment today had been to convince Jeb Harris to take a crew to Ryland Engineering the next morning for a field trip.

She’d coordinated with Dylan, who’d sounded mildly hopeful, though it was hard to tell after that awkward phone call in the morning. She hadn’t been able to figure out what to say in her note about their night together, so she’d been breezy and Dylan had sounded hesitant.

They’d had reasons to be together last night, but now? Did they dare continue? The very fact she was so freaked out told her they should back off. Maybe you never got over the pain of the past. Her mother certainly wasn’t willing to, and maybe Tara was kidding herself that it was possible for her and Dylan.

Where could a relationship between them go, anyway? She’d leave and he’d stay. Long-distance romances were hopeless. She never wanted to feel the hurt of their first breakup again, so why prolong the end and risk more hurt?

As she headed down the hall, she noticed Joseph’s office light was on. He’d come in at noon, after spending the night at the hospital with Faye.

She tapped on the door, then peeked in.

Joseph was slumped in his chair, tie open, a pint bottle of Wild Turkey on his desk beside a few paper cones from the water cooler. He held one, she saw. “Still here?” he asked her, head wobbling, clearly drunk. “Aren’t you the dedicated consultant. Cheers.” He lifted the cone, sloshing whiskey on his desk, then drank it, making a face.

“Whiskey neat is no fun,” he said. “It looks so manly in the movies when men drown their sorrows. Maybe if I bought the good stuff like Abbott, but that’s...not...me. Guard the pennies and the dollars take care of themselves.” He balled up the cone and tossed it toward the trash can, missing by a mile.

“Did something happen, Joseph?” she asked.

“It’s about to,” he said, picking up an iPhone near his hand. “This is Faye’s phone. I’ve been carrying it around since they gave it to me at the hospital, scared to look at it. But last night she almost died, soooo I charged it up. I hadda see.”

Tara sank into a chair. “Why are you afraid to look at her phone?” Her neck hairs began to prickle.

“Because as long as I didn’t look, I could pretend she still loved me. The proof she doesn’t is right here.” He shook the phone.

“What kind of proof?” A chill raised goose bumps.

“Messages, texts, the guy’s number.”

“What guy?”

“She was having an affair,” he said, getting choked up.

“No way,” Tara said. “Not Faye.” Faye was steady and loyal. She would never do such a thing.

“She hadn’t been herself. Distant. Preoccupied. Hardly talking to me except to argue.”

“What did you argue about?”

“The taxes. I delayed payment. Abbott and Faye were angry about the penalties and the interest. They never listened to me. Never. I told them we should kill the Ryland contract, cut our losses, but no, it’s too damned symbolic. I told them we should outsource, that manufacturing was too expensive. Oh, no, gotta be loyal...town’s counting on us...whatever.” He shook his head.

“I disappointed her,” he said grimly. “I let her down. That’s it. That’s why. She wanted kids. But I had...problems.”

“Like what?” she asked gently. This might tell her more about the accident. She held her breath, her heart pounding.

“Number one...slow sperm... Number two...recessive gene for a neurological disorder. That’s what did it. The straw that broke my back. She talked to a gen...et...ics counselor. Then she stopped talking to me.” He was slurring, spacing out syllables, running words together. He tried to pour himself another drink, but couldn’t get the cones pulled apart.

“So she found a guy with better genes and better sperm.” He waved the phone. “It’s all here.”

“What makes you say that? Is there a message?”

“Two new numbers. So far, I called one. It’s a divorce attorney.” His face crumpled. “She didn’t even try. She gave up on me just...like...that.” He snapped a finger.

That made no sense to Tara, not with the kind of person Faye was. “And the other number?”

“Has to be him. I got drunk before I called him. Figured I could give him hell that way.”

So he was only guessing. At least that.

“I think she met him at Vito’s that night. She told Abbott, I think. Maybe Abbott didn’t want her to do it—divorce me, I mean—cuz she sent him a text.”

“Nothing changes. Let it go,” Tara said. “I saw it on Dad’s phone.”

“Why would she cut me off like that?” He looked at her, his eyes full of passion. “I’d do anything for her. Anything. She’s...my...life.”

“What happened that night? After you quarreled with Faye?”

His eyes were red embers. “She said she was meeting Abbott at Vito’s. Abbott. Right. I’m not an idiot. She saw Abbott every day. Besides, we weren’t even eating pasta. She bought low-carb ketchup, for heaven’s sake.”

“Were you angry that night?” she asked, afraid he’d done something terrible after all. “Did you do something, Joseph? Something you regret?” Had he run them off the road in a fit of fury, jealousy and fear? Please, no.

“Of course I did something I regret. Wouldn’t you?” He took two harsh breaths. “I bought a Bundt cake and a gallon of ice cream and ate myself sick, then fell asleep watching Animal Planet. Bill Fallon woke me up when he called about the accident.”

Joseph hadn’t caused the crash. Thank God. Abruptly a thought came to her. “Wait. Was the divorce attorney Randall Scott?”

“Did she tell you, too? Abbott and you?”

“No. My father met with the guy. He had the card in his wallet.”

“Abbott set it up? He hated me that much?”

“No, Joseph. Calm down. It was my father who was looking into divorce. He met with Randall Scott, not Faye.”

“Why did Faye have the number on her phone?”

“No idea. Maybe she knew Scott and asked him to take Dad as a client. What I do know is that she would never divorce you out of the blue like that.”

“You think that’s it? Abbott was divorcing Rachel? Really? That would be so great!”

“I wouldn’t say it was great, Joseph. A divorce is not great, but I’m sure you’re relieved it wasn’t Faye.”

“Yeah...that.”

“Faye wouldn’t have cheated on you, either. She would have asked you to go to marriage counseling first. She—” She stopped, realizing a possibility. “I bet I know who’s at that other number. Dial it. Put it on speaker.”

Warily he did what she asked. The message machine kicked in right away. You’ve reached the office of Dr. Eli Finch...

“He’s a psychiatrist,” she said. “Faye went to him for depression and anxiety, and he prescribed her some pills.”

Joseph’s eyes went wide. “How did you know that?”

“Her iPad had a note about picking up prescriptions, so I got them and called the doctor’s number.”

“She wasn’t having an affair? You’re sure?” She’d never seen him look so wide-eyed and happy. He’d been in agony over this, which explained his moodiness, how much he’d fidgeted whenever she asked him questions. He thought he’d disappointed Faye enough to send her into the arms of another man.

“I’m as sure as I can be.”

“Thank God.” He fell back in his chair. Gradually, the wide-open look of relief on his face changed to determination and he sat straight up and locked gazes with her. “I know you think Faye shouldn’t have married me, but I swear to you that if she wakes up, I’ll prove you wrong.”

“You don’t have to prove it. I already know I was wrong. Faye loved you. She chose you. And I had no business second-guessing her.”

“Now I need to hear Faye say that.” Abruptly, his face crumpled and he buried it in his arms on his desk and sobbed his heart out. Joseph’s love for Faye was clearer to Tara than ever. In a few minutes, once he’d collected himself, Tara offered to drive him home.

After that, she headed to Dylan’s house for supper, nervous about seeing him and what they would say to each other.

All the reasons they couldn’t sleep together again swirled in her brain, but the minute she saw his face in the doorway, she just threw her arms around him, so glad to see him, so happy to be with him after a long, difficult day.

He stiffened slightly before he returned the hug. Uh-oh. He wanted to put on the brakes. She let go and backed up. “Smells great,” she said to cover for her impulsive move, really glad she’d left her suitcase out in the car. He clearly intended them to share a supper, not a bed.

“Nothing fancy. Just spaghetti.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sure you had work you should be doing instead, so I appreciate it.” She was losing him again. She felt that twist of pain, the swirl and drop like her insides were dissolving.

To hide her reaction, she crouched to greet Duster.

“I checked Fallon’s cruiser for you,” Dylan said.

“You did?” She stood, grateful for the change of subject.

“No dents or scrapes. So he didn’t hit the car. I got him to show me the evidence. He complained it was a waste of storage and man hours, but he dumped out the boxes for me. No bumper piece.”

“Shoot. Maybe it’s still at the site. I hoped to email a photo of the bumper to the accident expert. I expect his call any time.” She tried to focus on the case and ignore her sinking heart, the lump in her throat, the way her eyes burned.

“Let’s eat, huh?” he said, leading her to the kitchen. They sat at the table, both of them awkward, it seemed. Dylan served spaghetti, set out salad bowls and garlic bread.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” she said. “I had to drive Joseph home. He was drunk.”

“What?” He put down his fork.

“I know. We had the strangest conversation....” She told him the story haltingly, her mind not on the words. Dylan seemed to be only half listening, too. “So, all that odd behavior was out of guilt.” She stopped, unable to stand it anymore, and braced her hands on the table. “You think last night was a mistake, right? That why you’re acting like this?”

“Acting like what?”

“Distant...preoccupied...uncomfortable.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he said firmly. “It was amazing.”

“I think so, too,” she said, her heart jumping into her throat, relief pouring through her. “It was exactly what I needed.”

“That’s good. That’s what I wanted. To be what you needed. To—”

“Dylan, don’t try to tell me that was pity sex.” She grinned.

He burst out laughing. “God, no. I wanted you more than my next breath. Come here.” He got up from the table and reached for her, wrapping her into a hug. He looked at her. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Me, neither.”

“I mean there’s no future for us. We both know that.”

He was right, but it stung how swiftly he’d concluded that. He could at least express regret. “We’re on different paths,” she said.

“If we were wise, we’d stop now, before we get more involved, before either of us gets hurt.”

“Right,” she said, deeply disappointed.

“If we were wise, that is,” he repeated. His gaze deepened. “The trouble is I’m feeling more foolish by the minute. I want more time with you.”

“Me, too,” Tara said, her heart singing. “Maybe we can be together until I leave? Or if there’s a natural stopping place...”

“I like where you’re going with this.”

Was that even possible? How could it be that easy? She could get hurt. So could he.

But when Dylan lowered his mouth to kiss her, holding her so tight she could hardly breathe, kissing her like he’d die if he had to stop, she was willing to risk it. They were wiser in some ways, after all.

Dylan broke off the kiss to murmur in her ear, “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in my kit bag. New.”

“No need,” she murmured back. “My suitcase is in the car.”

He laughed a big belly laugh. “That’s my girl.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING at nine, Dylan watched Tara and her team enter the Ryland lobby. How she managed to look alert after making love half the night then leaving at dawn to see Faye before work was beyond him.

When he’d watched her get into her car, her hair lit by the pale orange of the rising sun, he’d had the unsettling feeling she wouldn’t be back. They’d certainly made love like it was the last time. Even as they’d agreed to be together for a while, they’d both held back. Neither wanted to get hurt or hurt the other. Maybe they’d been kidding themselves to even want to try.

He wanted a settled life in Wharton and that was the last thing Tara wanted. She couldn’t wait to escape the place. Beyond that, she seemed afraid of love. He sure as hell didn’t want to live on the razor’s edge of rejection.

Get your head in the game, he told himself as Tara approached. This was a vital business meeting. Ryland Engineering’s survival hung in the balance. He smiled politely and held out a hand for Tara to shake, one professional to another.

Her gaze flickered and her body softened, sending a charge through him. She was remembering last night, too. He almost yanked her to him and kissed her like nothing else mattered, hoping that would make it so.

Behind Tara, the Wharton team approached—Jeb Harris, Matt Sutherland and two technicians. Behind Dylan stood Victor Lansing and Dale Danvers, his Quality Assurance manager, along with two techs.

Dylan led them all toward the factory. He glanced in his father’s office. Empty again. He’d asked his father to make an appearance to show his commitment to solving the problem. There was a risk that his father would say something blunt, but Dylan had laid out the plan to him. When push came to shove, his father did the right thing.

They passed through the factory doors. A tenth the size of the Wharton plant, it rivaled Wharton in efficiency and output, in his opinion. If they were paying attention, the Wharton crew would see it was a tight operation. He hoped that would help convince them to look seriously at what had to be errors in their testing protocols.

As they walked the length of the plant, Dylan showed them where the surface-mounted components were soldered to circuit boards, the reflow ovens where the connections were sealed, and where they programmed the units, emphasizing the double checks, the extra testing they’d implemented. Harris seemed impressed. Sutherland, who’d so helpfully suggested Ryland find a better supplier, walked with his arms folded, frowning.

After the tour, they gathered in a conference room for the meeting.

There were snacks and coffee—Tara’s idea, so the men could see each other as people, not simply obstacles.

Tara called the meeting to order and went over the ground rules she’d written on a newsprint tablet: listen first, assume good intentions, no attacks, no blanket statements, offer solutions, be specific.

Just as she finished, Dylan’s father walked in.

Dylan introduced him to the Wharton team and Tara.

“The prodigal daughter returns,” his father said. “I understand they’ve put you to work over there. Does that mean you plan to stay?”

“For a while, yes,” she said. “I hope to make a contribution.” She didn’t respond to the light mockery in his father’s tone. She was a professional, for sure, and he admired her for that. Her plan for the meeting was solid, too.

His dad sat in the chair Dylan had saved for him, but he seemed edgy, restless. Dylan’s gut tightened. He caught his father’s eye. Don’t screw this up.

As the men began their discussion, Tara did a good job of guiding the conversation, drawing out important points, emphasizing areas of agreement and enforcing the ground rules.

Eventually they reached the crux of the conflict—the failure rate of Ryland’s parts. Jeb claimed the bad units caused power surges, suggesting Ryland’s suppliers had provided shoddy components. Victor pointed out that even if the parts were bad, which they weren’t, it would require an extreme torque or a huge jolt to cause the surge they described. Finally Victor said that they needed to see the Wharton tests performed, period.

Jeb went on his rant about all the proprietary equipment and processes, how a visit wouldn’t be possible.

Then Tara asked about showing the Ryland team selected tests, setting aside the proprietary items.

Trapped by his own objection, Jeb Harris had no choice but to agree. Matt Sutherland’s jaw dropped, clearly surprised by the concession.

Abruptly his father stood. “I can’t believe we are begging to see the tests we supposedly failed. What are you hiding over there, Jeb? Rigged tests? Sabotage?”

“Mr. Ryland,” Tara interrupted firmly, “you missed the discussion of ground rules, but you’ll need to reframe your comments. No accusations. No presumptions or blanket statements.”

“This is my business, my building and my reputation at stake, I’ll make whatever statements I want, blanket or otherwise.”

“We’re working it out,” Dylan said. “Let us finish.”

“Those so-called power surges are bogus,” his father said, brushing off Dylan’s objection. “I’m driving around with one of those so-called duds in my own car. So are you, son, by the way.”

“What?” Dylan said.

“I changed out your battery when you had your car serviced. I put one in Candee’s Prius, too. A couple others.”

Dylan was furious, but he held his tongue.

“Have you had any power surges, son?” his father demanded. “No, you haven’t. No one else has, either. We’re the best vendor you’ve got, Jeb, and we won’t offer our part for less than the dirt-cheap price Abbott extorted from my son, who has this fairy story in his head that Abbott and I could sing kumbaya around the campfire again.” He shot Dylan a glare, his eyes on fire.

“Abbott Wharton was a stubborn, arrogant man who expected the world to bend to his will. In the end, he didn’t get that, did he? No. The world had its way with him and now he’s gone.”

There were gasps, looks were exchanged and dead silence fell over the room.

“Abbott Wharton robbed me once. He won’t rob me again. I promise you that. I’m finished with what I have to say.” His father stalked from the room.

Dylan looked at the stunned faces around the table. His father had just killed the compromise they’d nearly reached.

Victor got up. “We stand by our product,” he said, then turned to leave, Dale and the techs following. Victor had taken the test failures personally. He’d been downing heavy-duty antacids since the troubles began.

“That was unfortunate,” Tara said, red spots on her cheeks. “But we’ll straighten this out and follow up about a visit.”

“I won’t kowtow to those a*sholes,” Jeb said and took his team out of the room, leaving Tara and Dylan staring at each other.

“What the hell was that?” Tara said.

“I’m sorry. I talked to him about being conciliatory, but—”

“Conciliatory? He dropped a bomb and stomped out like a child. He ruined everything. We were this close to an agreement.”

“I know. I’ll straighten it out. I’ll settle our guys down and apologize to Jeb.”

“Your father’s the one who should apologize. That was unforgivable.”

“Abbott’s death has been hard on him. He’s not been himself.”

“I seriously doubt that, Dylan. He basically said my father got what he deserved.”

“That’s not what he meant.” He wanted to throttle his father for saying something so clumsy, but Tara was far too eager to criticize the man.

“I would have asked him to leave, but I was afraid he’d hit me.”

“Come on. He would never do that. I don’t blame you for being angry. Dad blew it. I get that. Why make it worse?”

“I don’t see how it could be any worse. So is this your job? Follow after him and clean up his messes? How can you stand it?”

“Tara, stop.” She was furious. He could see that. She thought his father was still exploiting him, using him, that Dylan was blindly loyal to the man. He was not about to defend himself or his father to her. And he didn’t want to hear more hateful words from her.

They stared at each other for long seconds. Tara seemed to collect herself, set aside her personal feelings and shift into professional mode. “Okay,” she said. “You’re right. That’s water under the bridge. What can we do to salvage this?”

Whew. They were a team again, working together to save the contract between their two companies and, as it turned out, Dylan’s long-held dream. That was the most important thing here.

But things had shifted between them. That brief exchange was a loud and clear reminder of all that stood between them. He’d been right. This morning at dawn, they really had been saying goodbye for good.