The Way They Were by Mary Campisi Page A

what’d you get?” Julia whispered, her eyes wide with hero worship.
    Abbie rattled off a list in a bored voice. “CD’s, an I-Home, an I-Pod, a Louis Vuitton purse, and a pair of BCBG shoes.”
    “Wow.”
    “It’s not so great though. We have to eat out almost every night because he doesn’t cook and he won’t let me answer the phone. Ever.”
    “Why not?”
    “He has all these women calling him and he has to screen everything.”
    “Really.”
    “Yeah, there’s like superstars calling him, too, and he acts like it’s no big deal.”
    Julia had forgotten her mother was less than three feet away. “Do any of his girlfriends ever stay over?” she whispered.
    “Not since I’ve been there, but I found a bunch of Victoria’s Secret kind of stuff in one of his drawers.”
    “Really?”
    “I know you’re not supposed to snoop, but you have no idea how boring it is to sit in this monster house all day with nobody to talk to except a German cleaning lady who speaks two words of English and the plant man, who never talks.”
    “Your uncle has a plant man?”
    “He has everything,” Abbie nodded with a glowing satisfaction. “Maybe your mom will let you come visit sometime. We could have a blast.”
    Julia shot a look in Kate’s direction and turned scarlet. “Mom! Were you listening?”
    “Of course not.”
    Both girls flashed suspicious glances Kate’s way but when she turned to her workbench, they went right back to chattering, only this time their voices didn’t resonate past the perimeter of the model dollhouse.
    Kate sank into her chair and reached for the stack of mail. Some envelopes were addressed to Kate Redmond, others to Kate Maden, still others to Kate Redmond Maden. She’d been all of those names at one time or another; she just wished she knew who she was now.
    Clay had been gone less than five months and already his voice had started to fade, the loud belly laughter so characteristic of him, growing dim. She’d pulled out several pictures last week and placed them throughout the house. So she wouldn’t forget. Some voices stayed with a person forever, some smiles, some touches, lived just below the surface. She sliced through an envelope with the letter opener. Damn Rourke Flannigan. Why did he have to come back now?
    There were three letters from attorneys informing her she could have a multi-million dollar negligence case in front of her. Before the week was out, she’d have six or seven more. Even after all these months, the letters continued. She’d meet with the lawyer from New York, listen to him, consider the options, and then make her decision whether to press forward or let the case rest. The enormity of the task made her head ache. If only she had an objective listener, someone who had nothing to gain from her decision but who would be able to consider the ramifications of her choice in a purely analytical manner. She thought of Rourke. Perhaps he could help.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 8
    “ We’re going to have to finish this thing between us, you realize that don’t you?”—Rourke Flannigan
     
    “I need you, Maxine.”
    “Sir?”
    Rourke scanned the stacks of papers and folders on his desk and wondered how he’d made such a mess in two short days. “I’ve got Higgins calling me from London looking for reports, Evans from Seattle wondering about the Caintrano projects we promised him, and Sedurilli in Boston demanding to know why I didn’t show for their annual meeting. Did you not inform him I wouldn’t be attending?”
    “Yes, sir. Three weeks ago.”
    “Well, he’s ticked. And I’ve been working on a proposal for the Grendall project which I promised to send in Thursday’s mail but I’ve misplaced it in this mess.”
    “I’ll be on the next flight to Montpelier, Mr. Flannigan.”
    Rourke closed his eyes and rubbed his right temple. “Thank you.”
    “Ms. Prentiss left three messages this morning.”
    Probably because he hadn’t answered his