Back Where She Belongs

chapter TWO



TARA PARKED HER rental car outside the Parthenon Mortuary, which bore a resemblance to the ancient Greek temple it was named for, and went to help her mother out of the passenger seat. Her mother had slept for most of the hour-long drive and seemed groggy, so Tara held out her hand.

Her mother waved her away and forged up the steps with her usual self assurance. They were met by Dimitri Mikanos, the funeral director, with twinkling blue eyes and a bright yellow suit. When Tara introduced herself, he clearly hadn’t realized there was a second daughter, which pinched a little, but, truly, was what she should have expected. All her life, she’d longed to be invisible in Wharton.

The inside of the funeral home was painted bright blue with white trim, as cheerful as its director, which Tara appreciated, considering the gloom of their task. Her mother held it together until Dimitri ran down the list of decisions she had to make—casket color, style, upholstery, flowers, grave markers, clothing. Then she gasped and began fumbling in her purse for pills that spilled from the pillbox, trembling violently.

Dimitri helped her mother to a sofa in a small lounge, then Tara followed him into the casket room to make the selections. The organ music unsettled her, and the decisions were bewildering. Satin or plush, plain or tuck-and-roll, gold handles or bronze, casket spray or standing baskets, on and on.

Tara got through it, her emotions under control, until Dimitri brought out a clothing bag and took out three of her father’s suits that Joseph had brought in. Tara had to choose the one they’d put on her father.

She tensed up, held her breath, but it was no use. It was the shoes that got her—specifically a pair of oxblood wingtips like the ones she remembered from her childhood. Custom-made in Italy, they’d been her father’s favorites. Buy a quality shoe and take good care of it, he’d told her when she watched him polish them. She loved the smell of polish, the circular movements, how shiny the shoes got. She’d begged to go to the shoemaker’s when he had new heels put on. Mr. Vanzetti had brought out a bowl of rock candy—a treat only for good children, he’d said. “Is she a good girl?” he’d asked Tara’s father in his heavy Italian accent. Tara had held her breath waiting for her father’s verdict. When he gave a solemn yes, Tara’s heart had leaped in her chest. She chose a piece that looked like granite and tasted like a grape jellybean...and magic.

She could tell that Mr. Vanzetti had put new heels on the pair she now looked at, and the thought sent grief through Tara in a wave so deep she felt like she had to lift her chin to catch a breath. Her father was dead. She was choosing the clothes he’d take to his grave.

She would never get a grudging nod or even a disapproving glare from the man ever again. “Those.” She pointed. “I’ll get my mother,” she blurted to hide her emotion, practically running down the hall to the small room, where her mother lay sleeping on a gold-embroidered white sofa.

Tara had the fleeting wish she could run into Dylan’s arms again, but that made her feel foolish.

She sat near her mother’s hip. She’d been surprised how devastated her mother seemed by her husband’s death. Her parents had appeared to operate in separate spheres, hardly speaking to each other. Abbott’s life was Wharton Electronics and her mother managed the social and charity functions that suited her role as the wife of the most important man in Wharton.

Growing up, dinners had been quiet affairs, her father an intimidating frown at the head of the table, where he ate in silence, reading the paper or a book, unless her mother was reporting one of Tara’s crimes against the rules of comportment for the town’s leading family. Then he would redden before tersely declaring Tara’s punishment.

Looking at her mother’s face, Tara saw lines that hadn’t been there three years ago when she’d come for Faye’s wedding. Her mother was nearly sixty, so her age had to show some. The veins in her hands were more pronounced, the skin crinkled like parchment.

One day she’ll be gone and you don’t even know her.

The thought startled Tara. Her visits home from college had been short—full of tense silences and brittle exchanges, with her parents lobbing thinly veiled insults about her classes, her major, her appearance and her ideas—so after she graduated, she’d never returned. Why put everyone through that misery? Faye visited Tara twice a year and they spoke often by phone.

Tara had lost the chance to connect with her father, but her mother was right here. Could they make peace? Become friends? That might be too much to ask. But, dammit, she was going to try. The idea filled her with tenderness, hope and a sense of purpose.

She could hear Dimitri speaking to someone in his office, so she sat with her mother for a few more minutes to settle her own emotions.

When Tara heard Dimitri’s office door open, and what sounded like two people saying goodbye, she said, “Mom?”

“Huh?” Her mother jerked to a sit, her face blank, eyes dazed.

“It’s all done. We can leave.”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” Her mother seemed to push past her confusion and gather herself, sitting taller. “I was a bit sleepy.” She tugged her blazer straight, poked a strand of hair in place and arranged her smile. Tara averted her gaze, feeling like she’d accidentally seen behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain, and the Wizard preferred his privacy.

They went to Dimitri’s door.

“You just missed Mr. Ryland,” he said with a smile.

“We did?” Tara asked, her heart jumping a little.

“He arrived just after we finished.”

She’d wished for Dylan to appear and he had. In high school, they’d believed they could sense each other from far away, draw each other closer by wishing very hard. It made her smile to remember how ridiculously romantic they’d been.

“So it’s official. The auditorium is ours?” her mother asked.

“It is. Our Mr. Ryland gets things done,” Dimitri said.

“I gathered that,” Tara said, looking at her mother, who’d sung Dylan’s praises in the hospital, if in a backhanded way.

Her mother hadn’t minded when Tara started dating Dylan, probably because Tara stopped getting into trouble. Not that Tara and her mother had talked much. Mostly they glared and slammed doors in each other’s faces.

That changed when Tara announced she would be going to Northern Arizona University, the state college Dylan had chosen because of the famous observatory there. Her mother went nuts, railing against Tara choosing a state school when she had more prestigious options, that it was childish to ruin her future over puppy love, which, of course, made Tara even more determined to go there.

Then Dylan changed his mind.

The funeral director held out a card and Tara realized she’d missed why she would need it.

“My email is there,” he said. “To send what you want on the program.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.”

“Where is your mind, Tara?” her mother said.

Lost in the past, where it didn’t belong. She’d better quit that. She needed a clear head and a calm heart to handle what lay ahead—helping her mother, watching over Faye and keeping her business afloat. She had no time or energy to relive lost loves or revisit broken hearts.

* * *

STANDING UNDER AN olive tree in the mortuary parking lot, Dylan looked up from his confirmation text to the bus company to see Tara help her mother into a car. Funny, he’d just been thinking about her.

They used to believe they were so tuned in they could sense each other from across a room...a football field...the whole town.

They’d been so young, so wrapped up in each other.

The embrace at the hospital had been automatic, and it was as if their bodies remembered. She’d melted into him and he’d closed himself around her. He’d felt the same lovesick jolt he used to get when they were reunited after being apart for a few hours.

He’d felt the same heat, the same bone-deep commitment to do whatever it took to soothe the tough, tenderhearted girl who let herself be weak only in his arms.

Seeing her so devastated had torn him up inside. He knew how much she hated breaking down. When was the last time he’d held her?

When he told her he couldn’t go to NAU because his father was falling apart, bitter, broke and about to sink every penny he had into a pointless lawsuit against Abbott Wharton, her face had blanched, her eyes filled with tears. She’d trusted him and he’d betrayed her. That was a big deal, since the only other person she counted on was her sister. He’d hated letting her down.

It wasn’t fair to make him choose between his father and her. They’d said ugly things to each other, stabbed at the most tender spots, hurt each other as only two people who’d been as close as they’d been could.

She’d cut all contact after that—ignored his emails and calls, shut him down completely. He’d been angry, but he should have known. With Tara you were in or out, friend or foe. He’d had this childlike belief that their love would outlast this trouble. He been so caught up in their love, so enmeshed with her, that the breakup had almost killed him.

He hadn’t seen her since. He’d missed Faye’s wedding, sending a gift in his stead. Tara had been a pretty girl. She was a beautiful woman. Her eyes were the same startling blue, even through her tears, but they had more power, more ability to assess and evaluate. She knew what she wanted now.

She was curvier, too, and he liked that. She wore her hair in a sleek style, not wildly spiked with color like in high school. She smelled like an expensive perfume, not patchouli and vanilla oil.

He was glad he’d fixed the funeral for her, though he hadn’t appreciated Tara’s amazement that he had the town job or her assumption that he was just his father’s employee, not his second in command, the guy who’d practically put the place together, who’d set the company on the path that would lead to steady profits and a solid future.

Rachel’s dig about him being part-time manager hit him wrong. It was true the town needed full-time leadership. Dylan planned to provide it. It was his dream. Within a year, he’d have completed his mission at Ryland Engineering and he could go for it. He intended to build up the town, bring in new business, more housing, boost tourism for the river area with its bird sanctuary. He’d pulled together a decent leadership team already. He needed to write some development grants, and do some outreach. All he needed was time.

And time was at a premium with the recent headaches over the Wharton Electronics deal. The contract had been the linchpin on his plan and now it was at risk.

He drove over to the Ryland Engineering plant. When he got out of his car, he paused, taking in the new sign he’d had done by a local graphic artist. The sleek sign, the dark brown gloss paint and the chrome accents gave the building a modern, streamlined look.

Inside, the redone reception area had white-leather furniture and apricot walls that subtly suggested Ryland’s logo. It wasn’t a showcase like the reception area at Wharton Electronics, but it was respectable.

Anticipating the increase in clients, he’d decided they’d needed a more polished public face. The sculpture he’d commissioned looked like an abstract fountain using Ryland circuit boards, curving up and out, wired so they seemed to float in the air.

His father had fought him on the renovation, but his father fought him a lot. It felt like he’d dragged his dad every step of the way to success.

Now that Dylan was near the finish line, he’d become weary of the struggle. He longed for the time when he could be friends with his father, when he could admire his brilliance and passion, instead of fighting to harness it.

“Your dad’s asking for you,” the receptionist called to him.

“Got it.” He walked down the hall and entered his father’s office.

His father looked up from some papers. “Where have you been?”

“Arranging to use the high school for Abbott’s funeral.”

“With all we’ve got going on here, you don’t have time for that town-manager crap.”

“I can handle it.” He took pride in being a problem solver. He was good with difficult people—his father being a prime example.

“It’s thankless work. You’ll be begging for your job back in six months.” His father thought his dream of becoming a town leader was foolish. “So did you get the funeral set?” His father held his frown, but he was clearly concerned. He’d been shaky and red-eyed since he heard that Abbott was dead. The two men had been fraternity brothers at MIT, then business associates for almost thirty years, with Ryland Engineering supplying parts to Wharton Electronics.

Then his father’s business had failed. Abbott bought it, retooled the plant and turned it around, making a fortune. Believing Abbott had had insider information and had robbed him, his father sued, lost, then appealed.

The ten-year feud between the two men and their companies had ended six months ago, thanks to years of work on Dylan’s part, when Ryland Engineering signed a contract to provide the drive circuitry assembly for the Wharton battery for electric and plug-in hybrid cars.

“I found town funds to pay for the buses, yeah.”

“You tell Rachel?”

“Yes. I saw her at the hospital. Tara was there, too.” His face felt hot. He hoped to hell it didn’t glow red.

“I’m surprised that one even showed.”

“Why would you say that?”

“She walked away from her family. Shook them off like water from a dog’s back.”

“She did what she had to do for herself.”

“For herself. Exactly. I’m glad we raised you better. Though I blame that on her mother, who spoiled her rotten. That’s what comes of thinking money makes you better.” Dylan had felt the friction between his father and Tara’s mother even as a kid when the families got together for picnics and card games. His father had always been sensitive about status and wealth.

Now, he turned a framed photo away from himself.

Dylan picked it up, recognizing it as the shot of his father and Abbott posing with a jet turbofan they’d first collaborated on. His father had designed the components and Wharton Electronics had assembled and sold it, back when the company engineered aeronautics equipment.

The photo usually sat high on a dusty shelf. His father had taken it down to reminisce, no doubt, though he would likely deny that to Dylan.

“Look at you two,” Dylan said.

“We look like fools,” his father said.

“It was the eighties. Everyone wore leisure suits.” The men’s expressions captured their personalities. Dylan’s father looked dazed and humble. A scholarship student at MIT, he hadn’t been able to believe his good fortune. Abbott looked relaxed and confident, knowing success was his birthright.

“Give me that.” His father looked at the picture. “I was the real fool. I should have known he would cheat me blind.”

“He saved you from bankruptcy.”

“He took advantage of me.” Dylan’s father, a dreamer caught up in his ideas, had gone into debt on R&D, failing to boost production to cover costs. Abbott had bought Ryland Engineering at a fair price, not a generous one. Abbott Wharton was a businessman first.

“Abbott knew how to spot trends, Dad.”

“Now you take his side?”

“I’m being realistic.”

Growing up, his father had lectured Dylan, pride ringing in his voice, about how he himself was proof that hard work and intelligence overcame wealth and privilege.

Abbott making a killing on his father’s failed business had destroyed his father’s belief, convinced him that wealth and class always ruled.

“Your mother wore the same blinders. I was a failure, while Abbott could do no wrong.” Dylan’s mother left—went back to her family in Iowa—because she couldn’t live with his father’s bitterness, though his father believed it was the shame of his failure.

His parents’ breakup at Christmas his senior year had shaken Dylan to the core. Love was supposed to last. His parents hadn’t even tried. They drew lines in the sand and folded their arms, stubbornly blaming each other.

They’d forced him to choose, too. He’d stayed with his father, the one who needed him most. His mother claimed to understand, but she’d been hurt.

“And, still, the man’s trying to cheat me from the grave.” His father stabbed a finger at the papers on his desk. “These specs are impossible.”

“We knew there would be kinks to smooth.” To reach this moment, Dylan had watched their profit margin like a hawk, held the line on R&D, no matter how hard his father pushed, and kept tabs on developments at Wharton.

When Abbott nailed the federal energy alternative grant to build the cheaper, lighter, more stable lithium battery his engineers had devised, Dylan made sure Ryland Engineering was positioned as the best provider of the crucial part.

“You know damn well they’re scheming for a price cut,” his father said.

“It’s our bottom price. I made that clear.” They’d gone with a razor-thin profit margin to seal the deal, buying components from a new plant in Tennessee with rock-bottom prices. Once the Wharton batteries hit the market, demand would skyrocket, and Ryland Engineering would be rolling in orders. He hoped to hire some of the workers Wharton had been forced to lay off two months before. Talk about coming full circle. His father wanted that, too, no matter how much he groused.

All along, Dylan’s mission had been to redeem his father in his own eyes and, if possible, end the feud between the two men. They’d finally begun to warm to each other. Now Abbott was gone and his father was dredging up the old resentments to ease his grief and loss.

Dylan longed for the father he’d known growing up—a kind and patient teacher, a brilliant engineer with boundless curiosity and a total reverence for science. Dylan’s best memories were the hours they’d spent in the workshop on projects—building a battery, a potato radio, a fighter kite, even a hovercraft, which took top honors at a science fair.

He hoped that once he had some distance from his father, he could go back to admiring the man, appreciating him for his good points.

His father looked up at him. “Any change with Faye?”

“She’s still in ICU, still unconscious.”

“That’s got to be hard for a mother, though with Rachel, you’d never know she’s suffering. She’s prickly as a cactus.”

“Maybe you could give her a call. Express your concern.”

His father frowned, shaking his head. “It’s on her to reach out. I’ll pay respects at the funeral.”

“Up to you.” His father was as uncompromising with people as Tara had been. That wasn’t Dylan’s way. People were flawed. You accepted that and made the best of the good in them.

“It’s a damn shame about Faye. She’s the best of the bunch over there. Smart and fair and she works hard. Without her, the place just might fall apart. Her husband’s useless.”

“Joseph’s good at what he does. They’ve got good people. They’ll bounce back.” Dylan was concerned, though. A lot was riding on the success of the batteries for both companies. Deadlines were approaching. The too-tight specs were only part of the problem. For the past six weeks, Wharton had reported high test failures on the Ryland units. Dylan had to resolve the problem and quickly.

“And while we’re on the subject, there’s not a damn thing wrong with those units,” his father said, glaring up at him. “You tell those Wharton thieves that in that meeting. I put one on my own car.”

“I will. Don’t worry. Did you look at the data Victor collected?” Victor was their factory operations manager, the man Dylan was grooming to take over for him.

“Haven’t had time. I’ve been looking at the new circuitry they’re working on in R&D. This could be big—a totally new direction for us.”

“They’re a long way from a prototype, Dad. Manufacturing is our bread and butter. You have to keep your eye on the target.” Dylan worried that Victor wouldn’t be able to keep his father on track once Dylan left. That might be the fly in the ointment of his plan.

“You’ll pick me up for the funeral?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. He hoped to skip the reception, wanting to minimize his father’s contact with the Wharton managers who’d be there. There was no telling how his father’s grief and frustration would play out in a public setting. He’d be damn glad when he could stop managing the man.

He’d see Tara again at the funeral. His heart thumped at the prospect. Tara had been his port in the storm of his parents’ breakup. He’d been so wrecked, he’d made his relationship with her seem better than it was, ignoring their differences, her all-or-nothing personality, the superhuman standards she set that he could never meet. If they’d stayed together, they’d have battled constantly. The hell of it was that holding her for that moment in the hospital, all he could remember was the wonder of love, of pure desire, the miracle of intimacy, and he’d wanted it, no matter how temporary, no matter how false, no matter the whiplash of pain that would follow.

Looked like his father wasn’t the only one who should keep his exposure to the Whartons to a minimum. They should definitely skip the reception.