his children. He was sixty-five, but lately he looked closer to seventy-five, far from the strapping man he used to be. Today was no different. He looked old and weathered, his gray hair too long in the back. For the millionth time Mary wondered if he would ever recover from her mother’s long illness and death and the arrest that followed. She hoped her news would at the very least remove a few layers of despair.
He glanced up from his beans and grinned. “Never been late in your life, have you, lass?”
Her father’s Irish brogue wrapped around her like a soft sweater. “If there was one thing you taught me, Pop, it was punctuality.”
“What a load of crap.”
Mary laughed and plunked down beside him in the dirt.
“Watch yourself there.” Hugh gestured to the ground. “That suit will be black as coal dust by the time you leave.”
“I’m all right, Pop.”
He snapped a bean from its vine and handed it to her.
“And you know I haven’t been on time a day in my life. Neither had your mother. Not you, though. Born right on your due date, you were. Neither your mother nor I ever understood where your timeliness came from. Well, no place we’d admit to, certainly.”
Hugh wasn’t being cryptic, just matter-of-fact. The rift between Mary’s father and her grandparents was old news—though old news he loved to drum up again and again. Not that she blamed him. The Harringtons had never approved of him, and had made him feel like an Irish peasant from day one. Mary just wished things could’ve been different all around. Bitterness and resentment were such a waste of time.
She took a bite of her bean as the late-summer breeze played with her hair. “So, I have some news.”
“What’s that, lass?”
“Ethan Curtis has dropped the charges.”
Hugh didn’t look surprised. “So my lawyer informs me.”
“You already knew?”
“Yep. Teddy called me half an hour ago.”
Mary studied his expression. Unchanged, tired, defeated. She shook her head. “Why aren’t you happy, relieved, something?”
“I am something.” His pale blue eyes, so like her own, brightened with passion. “I’m pissed off.”
“What? Why?”
“I know you, lass. I know you better than anyone. What did you do to make this happen?”
Her heart jumped into her throat, but she remained cool as steel on the outside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mare.”
“Pop, I talked to the man.”
Hugh snorted. “Ethan Curtis is no man. He’s a devil, a demon with no soul.”
Mary was all set to agree when a memory of the cozy room on Lake Richard flashed into her mind. Ethan was a demon, yes, but there was another side to him—a deeply buried side that held a surprising amount of warmth and tenderness. She’d seen it when he’d talked about his child.
She closed her eyes. His child.
“Well he’s decided to let it go,” Mary forced out. “He agreed that the sculpture wasn’t really worth his time and is even willing to give it back to you. After all, it was just a gift from Grandmother, with zero sentimental value to him and—”
“A gift that old woman had no right to give,” Hugh pointed out gruffly.
Mary gave a patient sigh. “I know, Pop.”
The basket beside him strained with vegetables. No doubt he’d been out here picking for a few hours. Lord only knew what he was going to do with it all. “Promise me you’re not in any trouble.”
Mary’s chin lifted. She’d lied, yes, but she’d done what she had to do. She was no more pregnant than a box of rocks, but her father was free, and protecting him was all she cared about right now.
“I have nothing to fear from Ethan Curtis,” she said tightly. As long as he didn’t find out the truth, she amended silently, as she picked up the basket of vegetables and walked inside the house.
Mary wondered for a moment if she’d fallen asleep and was, God forbid, snoring. Every once in awhile NRR got a client who was so dull one or all of the partners would actually find themselves nodding off while discussing contracts.
Today it was Mary’s turn to down a third cup of coffee and pry her eyes open with toothpicks. She shifted in her chair and focused on Ivan Garrison, a new client who had hired her to design a menu for a party he was throwing aboard his yacht, Clara Belle. For the past thirty minutes the forty-year-old wannabe boat captain had been sorrowfully telling Mary that he’d named the boat in honor of his dead wife, who he’d married for her “outstanding boating skill and formidable rack.”
It had taken Mary a good thirty seconds to realize that Ivan was referring to his wife’s chest and another ten seconds to contemplate passing him on to Olivia, since the job mainly consisted of culinary planning. But he was one of those trust-fund jerks who made Olivia’s skin crawl, and the risk of having her abide by NRR’s seventh vow, Do No Harm might be asking too much.
Who knew? If he took Olivia for a ride in his yellow Lamborghini and insisted she call him Captain like he did everyone else, Olivia just might bop him on the head the night before the party and serve him to his guests with an apple in his mouth the next day.
“The date for the regatta gala as you know is the twenty-fifth,” he said, touching the brim of the snow-white captain’s hat he had worn to both meetings. “I’ll have my secretary send over the guest list. Please make sure to refer to me as Captain on the invitation. That’s how my friends and business associates know me.”
Aye aye, sir! Mary nodded. “Of course.”
“I’d like to really pack this party. We always get enough entrants for the race, but the galas aren’t as well attended.”
“We could make it as a charity event,” Mary suggested.
“I’ll think about that.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Now, have I told you how I came to be called Captain?”
“No.” If Ivan was going to come around every week, she’d have to invest in some NoDoz.
“As you know, it’s not my given name,” he said. “When I was six—wait, no, closer to eight, my nanny, her name was Alisia and she was the one who bathed me—”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Mary glanced up and smiled thankfully at her partner. “No problem, Olivia. We were just finishing up here.”
Olivia acknowledged Ivan with a quick
