Second Time Around (30 page)

Bangor

Dina Edmonds stirred the spaghetti sauce and watched the news. But as soon as she heard what Yardley Pruitt said about David…

“Liar!” She shook the spoon at him, making sauce splatter across her cupboards.

The mess didn’t matter. She couldn’t let this go unchallenged.

She grabbed her coat and purse.

Dina chastised herself for not remembering sooner that Mariner Construction had done work for Yardley Pruitt. Until now. Until this. She usually was so good at remembering jobs, even dates and contract amounts.

She hoped it wasn’t because she was getting old.

Yet the details
had
streamed back as soon as she’d heard Yardley’s interview. The number $52,384 came to mind.

She set her purse and coat on a waiting-room chair and made a beeline for the old file cabinets in the storeroom. The file drawers were in chronological order. She thought the job was 1974 or 1976.

1976.

She took the file back to her desk. It had been a bank building in Atlanta. One of Mariner’s first buildings outside the Northeast region. Dorian seemed to remember David or Ray Reynolds mentioning that the head of Fidelity Mutual was the friend of a friend of a friend who liked the idea of using someone out of state. Dina remembered thinking how odd it was that people often looked far away for experts when there often were some right next door. What was that pithy definition?
“A professional is someone who carries a briefcase and lives at least forty miles away.”
Or a dozen states away.

She flipped through the yellowed pages, her mind skipping back over three decades. Pruitt had said he’d withheld money due to shoddy workmanship. Mariner did not do shoddy workman—

Her finger pegged an amount. $52,384. The money
had
been withheld by Fidelity Mutual. However, it wasn’t withheld for any workmanship issue but because Yardley Pruitt had said he didn’t want to pay extra for five change orders he’d requested. Five upgrades in finishes.

“We threatened to take him to court,” Dina told the room. She flipped a few pages and found further correspondence. Because they had signed change orders in their possession, Pruitt’s lawyer had wisely gotten him to back down—after Pruitt tried to get out of paying by making the shoddy workmanship claim. Dina held up a check stub for the payment. In full. Proof Yardley Pruitt was a liar. Proof her David ran a respectable business.

But what should she do with the information? David would be back in a few days—at least she prayed he’d be back. What would
he
do to make things right?

Though David wasn’t a vindictive man, and though his reputation spoke for him, he would not let the lie pass. He would issue a simple statement—worded ever so succinctly—that would prove Pruitt was mistaken. He
would
take care of it.
If
he came back.

Yet with the uproar over the three winners’ return, would such a statement get lost in the media hype?

She stood, taking the check stub with her. She’d take care of it. It was her duty as David’s most loyal employee. Most loyal friend. She wouldn’t let him down. Now. Or ever.

Long Island

Millie had no idea how to go about breaking the news. She wasn’t a public person. She’d never sought attention. And she wouldn’t be doing this now if it weren’t for Deke’s support—she wouldn’t be anything if it weren’t for him. He’d saved her in 1958 and had continued to do so every day of their lives.

He sat beside her now on the couch, with the phone sitting in her lap. She was calmed by the way his arm and leg touched hers. A simple presence, never wavering.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

She looked at him. “I don’t?”

He put his hand on hers. “Of course not.”

“But Mom—”

“I love your mom to death, but she has an I-beam on her shoulder in regard to your father and David. I’ve always admired you because you don’t.”

“You admire me?”

He pulled her hand to his lips. “I adore you, Tracy. Millie.”

She let her head tilt until it met with his. The past was past. Who cared what people thought about Millie Reynolds? She was dead.

Tracy Osgood Cummins was alive.

Tracy set the phone on the end table and turned her attention to the man beside her. Where it belonged.

Rhonda closed the door to her bedroom. She couldn’t believe it. Her daughter wasn’t going to call the press and tell them she was alive? Without that truth coming out, David and Ray would get away with the lies, with pretending they were attentive, loving, grieving men. Pretending they had a heart.

Rhonda knew better. David and her ex-husband didn’t own a heart but shared a communal, stubborn, egotistical will that overshadowed and smothered anyone who came within their sphere. Rhonda had remained silent for forty-six years mainly because she’d been lovingly held in the kind embrace of Connor Grayson.

But now that her dear husband was gone, now that David Stancowsky and Ray Reynolds had burst onto the public scene, all her bitterness and hatred came flooding back. In the last few days, the thought of eking out a bit of revenge filled her up and made her come alive in a way she found both invigorating and disturbing. At age eighty-four, it was quite exciting.

She couldn’t let Millie take that away from her. David might be coming back in a few days, and the chance would be lost. Or at least complicated. Best to do it now, before he came into the picture.

She looked at the phone on her bed stand. It called to her.

She answered.

When she was confronted with the reporter’s question, Rhonda’s mouth went dry.

“Ma’am? You said you had some information about David Stancowsky?”

Rhonda cleared her throat. “Actually, I have information about his fiancée.” The words gained momentum. “Millie Reynolds, the woman he went back to 1958 to save from a car—

“Crash. Yes. What about her?”

Here goes.
“She’s alive.”

Silence.

Rhonda tried again. “Did you hear me? Millie Reynolds is alive. She never died in that crash. It was all faked so David would leave her alone. She didn’t want to marry him, but he was so possessive he wouldn’t let her go.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“I’m her mother.”

So there.

Somewhere over the Midwest

“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” asked the stewardess.

Toby knew they weren’t called stewardesses anymore, but he couldn’t remember the politically correct term. “No thanks. But I’d like a blanket and pillow.”

Toby’s seatmate poked him with an elbow. “Hey, drink up, man. You’re a celebrity now. Certainly someone else is paying?”

Toby nodded, then shook his head. He’d done plenty of drinking and eating on someone else’s tab the last few days. He couldn’t believe the prices room service charged for a simple burger and fries, but the TV stations
had
told him to enjoy himself.

He was having some fun now.

The man next to him lowered his tray, ready for his drink and pretzels. “Bad break on that one interview. You know, the one where—”

“I know the one.” He’d never forget the interview that had ruined his life and shattered all his hopes against a brick wall.

“Weird how Lane Holloway told the media she was going back for you when she was really going back to
not
be famous. What’s with that? It’s my ten bucks at the movie theater that pays for her lifestyle, that helps her get twenty million per movie. And she wants a shot at
not
being famous?” He laughed and spread his hands, palms up. “Hey, welcome to my world.” Another poke in the side. “Hey, yours, too now, right?”

Right.

“Don’t feel bad for giving it a shot. I woulda done the same. But it might be hard going home. You think reporters are going to be camped out at your house?”

“I hope not.” It was his biggest fear.

“I’d brace myself if I were you. You’ve opened Pandora’s box, and there’s no way you can close it up again.”

Toby had no idea what Pandora’s box was, but he got the gist of it.

And it wasn’t good.

The stewardess brought his blanket and pillow. He turned his body toward the window and pulled a blanket over his shoulder—though he really wanted to pull it over his head.

“Hey, I getcha, man. I don’t blame you for not feeling like talking. You have a right to be depressed, so have at it.”

Don’t mind if I do.