mother smiled, the kind of smile that told Molly a conversation was coming she didn’t want to hear. “If you want, I could call Douglas…?”
“You don’t have to call Doug.”
“Molly, really, I think you’re being awfully hard on him. Can’t you two work it out?”
Work out what? She and Doug had been divorced for over two years now, and still her mother thought resurrecting her failed marriage was as simple as picking up the phone and arranging a dinner date. She didn’t seem to understand the arguments that had driven a wedge between Doug and her, the differences in everything from the way they viewed the world to the future they envisioned together.
She’d been so naïve when she’d married Doug. She was swept off her feet by his charm, the way he took care of every little detail, making her busy life suddenly seem easy. At first, it was simple to fall into Doug’s regimented world, to let him make the decisions. Then, too late, she’d realized that he had no intentions of relaxing the rigid rules by which he lived. The man who had seemed so organized and under control she now saw as unyielding and closed off to the full life of children. The life that she wanted.
If she ever got married again—and that if was so big it topped Mt. Everest—she’d give the event weeks, maybe months of careful thought. No rushing in, no thinking with her hormones instead of her brains.
She’d be smart. Not infatuated. Ever again.
“Doug is miserable, you know,” her mother added, then she sighed. “I just want you to be happy, like your father and I were.” Her mother’s eyes misted at the mention of Molly’s late father.
“I am happy, Mom.”
“Being alone?” Cynthia shook her head. “How?”
Molly realized then that her mother’s concern stemmed more from her own difficulties dealing with the loss of her husband eighteen months ago than worry about the demise of Molly’s marriage. “You get involved, Mom. Join that bridge club you’ve been talking about. Go to the book club at the library.”
Cynthia looked away.
“Mom…”
“They’re reading Wuthering Heights this month,” she said softly.
“You love Brontë.”
Cynthia turned back to her daughter. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” she said instead, retreating to the safety of playing mother hen. “If you want, I can stay.”
Molly’s stomach was rebelling, and the mere thought of making the six-mile drive to work had her wishing she could turn right around and head back to bed, but she refused to tell her mother that. “Go to the book club meeting, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll call you later.” She pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek, inhaling her familiar scent. “I promise.”
Then she got in the car, and left, before her mother could finish the sentence she was beginning to sputter. Molly sent Cynthia a wave, then headed down the driveway and off to work.
Only eight-fifteen. At least an hour and a half until her meeting with the administration was over and she could get into Dr. Carter’s office. The day had barely begun and already, she could swear it had lasted a year.
“I know what I want, and that isn’t it.” Lincoln Curtis slid the portfolio across the polished mahogany table to the team of architects sitting on the other side like ducks in a row. The three men had on nearly identical navy blue suits and red ties of varying patterns, as if dressing in unison was a requirement for working at King Architecture.
That had to explain why Lincoln hated the design. Uninspired in attire, uninspired in thinking.
“Sir, we can draw a new—”
“I’m done. You’re done.” Lincoln rose. “Thank you for your time.” He headed out of the conference room, trailed by Conner Paulson, the CFO for Curtis Systems, the security software company Lincoln and his brother had started twelve years ago in the basement of their parents’ home. In one year, the two Curtis brothers had taken Curtis Systems from an idea to a company servicing Fortune 500 firms. Five years later, they were turning down multi-million-dollar buyout offers from international software giants. Lincoln, the elder, had been the CEO, while Marcus, two years younger, had been the vice president.
Now he had the company he’d always dreamed of, one that was even bigger than he’d dreamed. Perfect in every respect—
Except for the empty office beside his own. The one that mocked the very success Linc had worked so hard to build. But now he knew nothing else, and had nothing else. So the company got all of Lincoln Curtis, and then some.
“The architects gave you exactly what you said you wanted,” Conner said, falling into stride beside Lincoln as they headed down the wide hallway toward Lincoln’s office. “What’s changed since you met with them last quarter and now?”
“Nothing.”
Conner snorted. “Are you kidding me? Everything’s different about you lately.”
Lincoln stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to stick to the same song you’ve been giving me for the last two months. That nothing’s on your mind. That you’re just fine.” Conner mocked talking with his hand. “This is me, Linc. I’ve known you since first grade. And you are so far from fine you’re on another planet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Conner sighed. “Listen, I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t your best friend, and hadn’t known you forever. But for years you’ve been…”
“What?” Lincoln prodded.
“Well, you took your brother’s death pretty hard. We all did,” Conner added. “But you especially. And I don’t blame you. If I’d been there—”
“Do we need to have this conversation?”
Conner opened his mouth, shut it again. “No.”
“Good.”
“All I’m saying is that for a long time you’ve been a robot. Getting the job done, working like a maniac. Except for that one vacation—”
“I thought we weren’t having this conversation.”
“Then after that…” Conner paused, his gaze softening in sympathy. “Afterwards, you went back to being the same old Linc. No one could blame you, really, but—”
“Drop it,” Linc said, his voice a warning. Conner was his best friend, but even with him Linc didn’t journey back to that day three years ago.
Conner let out a gust that voiced concession to the change of topic. “Lately…I don’t know, you just seem to have a new attitude. A good one, I might add. Like with the idea you proposed a couple months ago about that software for kids—”
“An idea that you and the other suits shot down if I remember right,” Linc pointed out. “And you were right. I shouldn’t be running off, pursuing
