had much of a chance to imitate his father. He’d only been seven when Randall McKay was killed in a boating accident. In all the years afterward, his mother had freely elaborated on her dead husband’s faults. She’d dwelled on his inconsistencies, his many annoying habits…never quite able to hide how much she’d loved him in spite of his flaws or how angry she was at him for leaving her. Her complaints about him were her way of keeping him alive. Bryan had long since figured that out.
Funny thing was, lately she hadn’t talked much at all about him. That worried Bryan. Of course, everything about his mother worried him these days.
“I’m not sure an apartment was the right way to go,” he said now.
“I know you wanted to stick me in a nursing home, Bryan. Or, even worse, have me live with you. A parent should never live with a grown child. It’s not good for either of them.”
Elizabeth McKay had a lot of rules. She was not a woman who tolerated shades of gray; she cherished absolutes.
“Okay,” Bryan said, “so you won’t move in with me. But what I really had in mind wasn’t actually a nursing home. More of a…cooperative living arrangement, with nurses on duty—”
“Nursing home,” said his mother flatly. “Doesn’t matter what you call it, or how fancy it is.”
Another of Elizabeth’s absolutes: she would not end up in a nursing home, no matter what the circumstances. So Bryan was playing it her way, trying to give her the dignity of spending her last few months as she wished.
He felt a heaviness inside. His mother had raised him single-handedly, with virtually no help from anyone. Among his father’s failings had been improvidence. Randall McKay had left his widow with no insurance, no assets and a pile of bills. After his death, she’d struggled along on a secretary’s salary. And—unknown to Bryan at first—she’d cleaned houses in her off hours in order to afford a few luxuries for him. Basketball shoes, a guitar when he went through his music phase, even sailing lessons “so you’ll learn not to kill yourself on the water like your poor reckless father.”
Bryan still remembered the jolt he’d had at the age of twelve when, emerging from youthful self-absorption, he’d finally figured out what his mother was doing. Her long hours weren’t all spent at the office typing reports and financial statements. Instead, she spent a good portion of her time mopping other people’s floors, scrubbing their kitchen sinks, scouring their bathroom tiles. Pride had kept her from telling Bryan. Pride…and not wanting him to feel guilty. The day he’d learned the truth had been the beginning of manhood for him. It had given him a hearty dislike for deception, and it had made him vow someday he’d be rich enough so that his mother wouldn’t have to work at all.
Of course, he hadn’t counted on her stubbornness, or her independence. She’d kept right on working, well past the time when he could have supported her several times over. It had been something of a coup when at last he’d convinced her to retire. She’d chosen Saint Louis, to be near one of her girlhood friends. But now…now she was back in San Diego, trying to arrange the end of her life as neatly as she was arranging the cans on her pantry shelves.
Having set down her cloth, she’d lined up the potato soup next to the cream of tomato. “It would be nice,” she said, “if you could meet someone, Bryan. Someone besides those dreadful businesswomen you usually surround yourself with.”
Another backhanded compliment. “Actually,” Bryan said, surprising himself, “I have met someone.”
His mother perked right up. “Oh—who is she?”
He smiled a little. “You could say she’s a carpenter.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “That’s different, at least. About time you got away from those icy corporate types.”
Bryan had to smile again at that. Danni was indeed a “corporate type,” but hardly icy. Maybe she’d been standoffish at first, but at their last few meetings all that had changed.
“What’s her name?” Elizabeth asked.
“Danni. Danni Ferris.”
“Go on,” his mother said impatiently. “Is it serious?”
There was only so much he was willing to share. He didn’t tell his mother a whole lot about his personal life; that was one of his rules.
“Bryan,” said his mother, “don’t keep me in suspense. Is it serious?”
Maybe there was no point in hiding the truth. Especially since his mother was so ill. And so he gave a grudging nod.
“Could be,” he said. Finally, Bryan saw a smile ease the pain and weariness on his mother’s face.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS GOING TO BE a long night at the offices of Nolan, Williams and Beck. A new account had just been dumped on Danni’s desk, deadline yesterday, and she was brainstorming with the two members of her team. At least, she was attempting to brainstorm while one half of her team sat slumped over a notepad, making non-sensical doodles, and the other half rambled on.
“Mr. Nolan told me personally this was a very important assignment,” said twenty-one-year-old Michelle in a reverent tone. Michelle was discoursing at length on her favorite subject: Mr. Nolan, chief partner in Nolan, Williams and Beck.
Larry, still doodling on his notepad, conveyed an air of world-weary cynicism. It didn’t fool Danni, though. She knew all about his long-term crush on Michelle. The wonder was that Michelle didn’t know.
“Mr. Nolan,” said Michelle, “is putting his full trust in us to do a first-rate job. That’s exactly what he told me. His full trust.”
Larry rolled his eyes. Michelle gave him a suspicious glance.
“Mr. Nolan,” she said, a bit more forcefully, “is the type of person who expects a person to rise to the occasion. I won’t let him down. He’s counting on me.”
Larry rolled his eyes even more expressively this time. He didn’t need to say anything, but Danni knew what he was thinking. It was the same thing she was thinking: the very rich and powerful, very good-looking Mr. Nolan probably didn’t even know Michelle’s name.
“Speaking of the job,” Danni said, “let’s get going. We need to come up with ideas fast.” She rubbed the crick in her neck, and frowned at the file on Hobbyhorse Toys. The company was a regional business, brand-new, rushing to launch its grand opening in time for Christmas. Apparently there had been “creative differences” with the previous advertising firm, and Danni was pinch-hitting late in the game. Make that very late. She needed some major inspiration.
A familiar tension coiled through her body. This was the nature of the business—always struggling for that one perfect idea that would excite the client and sell the product. After so many years, she ought to be used to the process by now…the endless late nights, the gallons of coffee, the deadlines threatening, the panic—followed by elation when the idea came. And then the whole cycle beginning again with another client.
Danni pulled a blank sheet of paper toward her and started doodling herself. Think, she commanded. What’s the angle on this one? What’s going to save us this time? She scarcely paid attention to what she was drawing until Michelle
