Here Comes Trouble (15 page)

Malcolm nodded, admiration taking hold. “Understood.”

“The results will be trickling in over the next week to ten days. I expect they should all be on my desk by next Thursday.” He flipped through the file. “Sorry, old fashioned. Still like paper over screens.”

“As someone who has made his fortune on computer security, I appreciate the added confidentiality. So.” Malcolm forced himself to stay still in his chair. “We just wait.”

“I did detect some swelling of your lymph nodes, but that could be attributed to a virus of some kind. Hopefully the antibiotics will address that. Other than the fatigue you mentioned and the occasional bouts of night sweats, anything else to report?”

“Now the insomnia has kicked in.”

“There are lots of reasons for insomnia, Malcolm, so no borrowing trouble. You should be done with the antibiotics Doctor Chapman prescribed this weekend, which I bet you’ll be glad of,” Joshua said. “We will deal with what comes as it comes.”

“I appreciate you fitting me into your schedule. And for understanding my concern for keeping things private.”

“Not a problem,” Joshua said with a smile as he got up and shook Malcolm’s outstretched hand. “We’ll get you through this, Malcolm.”

“I’ll wait to hear from you then.” Somehow he’d put this out of his head, focus on the new information that had come in on Oliver Technologies, and enjoy the weekend he had planned for Sheila. Starting first thing in the morning.

He exited the office feeling a bit lighter than when he came in. Joshua’s positive attitude and optimism was the boost he needed, and despite the diagnosis looming over him, at least this wasn’t his first time. The terror was minimal compared to eighteen months ago. This time he knew what to expect. Not that a second go-round with radiation and chemo held any appeal.

He pushed open the glass door onto the teal-carpeted hallway just as the elevator dinged. He hurried forward and almost bashed into the curvy strawberry blonde with her nose buried in her bag as she dug around in its depths. Malcolm froze as his gaze landed on the staircase and exit sign down the hall. The second he moved toward them, Morgan Tremayne’s head snapped up.

“Malcolm, hi.” She beamed, but the smile dipped as the dots connected. “How funny running into you. I was just about to text Sheila and see if you and she wanted to have dinner . . .” She trailed off, her gaze moving past him to Joshua’s name on the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Donation,” he lied, cleared his throat, and plastered on the most fake smile he’d ever worn. “Kelley’s enthusiasm got me to thinking, so I wanted to see if there was anything TIN could do to help fund the research side of things.”

“Oh.” Morgan’s eyes widened. “That’s so generous of you, especially after your donation to the foundation.”

“Yeah, well, covering every base I can.” Not to mention covering another lie. “I don’t want to keep you.” He waved a hand down the hall.

“Right.” She knocked herself on the side of the head. “Consult with our new head of nursing for the center. I can’t believe we’ll be able to take in patients by the beginning of the year. Now if we could just get the landscaping finished, maybe Sheila and I could relax for a few weeks. I’ll see you on Monday?”

He bowed his head. “My presence was requested.”

“When Kelley invites, you’d best take notice. I was thinking about inviting you to dinner this weekend, but I’ll forego that for now.” She gave him a sly smile. “In case you have other plans for my sister.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I’m that hopeful.”

Malcolm watched her disappear into an office down the hall. He was still standing there when Doctor Collins emerged.

“Malcolm, you’re still here. Everything okay?”

“Fine, but . . .” Malcolm glanced at his watch. “Do you have a few more minutes? I’d like to discuss making a donation to the hospital.”

“For that, I’ll give you ten. Come on back.”

***

“When you suggested a run on Saturday morning,” Nathan said as he climbed out of his SUV in the lot near Sterling Park, “I assumed you meant after the sun was up.”

Malcolm grinned and resumed his warm-up routine of stretches. He’d spent the rest of Friday making special delivery arrangements for Sheila and willing himself into a whole four hours of sleep. The fact he had any inclination to exert himself in regards to exercise was a minor miracle.

“Best way to clear away the cobwebs.”

“Didn’t this used to be your hangover cure?” Nathan asked as he joined him on the bench.

“Followed by a huge breakfast at Cecily’s,” Malcolm confirmed, but the idea of greasy bacon and runny over-easy eggs didn’t have much appeal these days. “I’ll settle for a stop at Ay, Caramba Juice Bar once we’re done.”

“Oh, yum.” Nathan rolled his eyes. “Just so I’m prepared, is this conversation going to be Nemesis related or Sheila related? And for the record, I try to stay out of my sisters’ love lives.”

“I’m looking for some perspective.” Malcolm tightened his shoes. “Ready?”

Half a mile later, Malcolm felt the burn, the winding cement path taking them through thick overhanging trees and billowing bright summer bushes. He’d been clawing his way back to workout shape over the last few months, but as plans to return to Lantano Valley had picked up steam, he’d fallen off the exercise wagon, something he was regretting. Holding a conversation at the same time was pushing it. His condition must have been evident to Nathan, who eased his pace, casting a worried look in his direction.

“Been a while,” Malcolm admitted. “It’ll come back.”

“Along with your color? Stop and get some water.” Nathan angled them off the path around the lake toward one of the drinking fountains. “And some air. Breathe, man.”

“We’re just getting started.” He wasn’t about to wuss out of a run. How humiliating.

“We’ll be stopping all together if you don’t watch it. Drink.” Nathan slapped a hand on his back and shoved him over. “Inhale already.”

“Not the first time you’ve said that to me.”

Nathan smirked. “I heard you met Princess Kelley yesterday.” Nathan planted his hands on his hips and looked up and down the path as other morning enthusiasts biked or jogged by. “Bundle of energy, that one.”

“Yeah. She had a definite effect on Sheila.” He let his unspoken question dangle as he concentrated on breathing, hands planted on his thighs. “Since you brought it up. Tell me about Brandon.”

“Oh. Wow.” He let out a long breath, rubbed a hand across his neck. “I take it this is the perspective you were talking about? He was one of the Fiorelli’s foster kids. Morgan’s a sponsor of sorts, and very involved with all of them. She’d have taken them in herself if she’d been able, but she owns the house they live in. Brandon and Sheila had a pretty strong connection. Reminded me of how she was with our brother, Colin. Brandon survived kidney cancer, underwent this horrifying treatment that just about killed him. And then he, um.” Nathan inhaled, squinted into the sun. “He’d been in remission a good year when he suffered an embolism. Just collapsed in his room one afternoon. Sheila’s the one who found him.”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes until he saw stars, feeling as if he’d taken a punch to the heart.

“Things like that happen, at least that’s what Morgan says,” Nathan continued. “I don’t know how she does it every day. Sheila on the other hand, she locks down, closes herself off, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Used to be she could paint her way out of it, like she did when our mother died. You’ll have to ask her to show you the watercolor copy she did of a Georgia O’Keeffe. It looks like Mom, strange as that sounds, with these stunning reds and corals. But this time, with Brandon”—he shook his head—“I don’t think she’s even been in her studio since he died. She won’t let anyone in, and for once, I think Nemesis is working against us, against her.”

“You thought helping Levia was enough to get her focused again.”

“Both Dad and I did. But that was weeks ago. That art auction is in less than two weeks and as far as I know, she hasn’t painted a thing. Someone has to break through to her, otherwise failing Levia is going to drive her farther under.”

Maybe it was the fresh air, or maybe it was focusing on Sheila for the last few minutes, but Malcolm felt warmer now, stronger. Finally, he’d found a way to make up for the past. The tingling in his arms and legs faded as he shook them out. “Okay, let’s try again.” He gestured up the path.

“You sure?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. And thanks for this. I think I know where to start with her now.”

“Where?”

“I’m going to start small,” Malcolm panted. “Very, very small.”

An early yoga class and twenty laps at the spa pool did nothing to rid Sheila of the tension knotting her entire skeletal system.

That late-morning hit of caffeine on the other hand, set the world right. The only thing that could make things perfect was scarfing down an entire package of Double Stuf Oreos, but dammit, she’d forgotten to stop at the store. She kicked her apartment door closed, dropped her gym bag on the floor. Ever since she’d eaten that burger the other night she’d been craving junk food.

But she was in for the rest of the day. The long, quiet, thought-filled endless day. She supposed she could call Morgan, but her sister’s Saturdays were spent at sporting events with the kids or helping Gage refurbish the aged two-story Victorian across the street from the Fiorellis’ he’d bought a month ago. Ugh. Sheila couldn’t think of anything more abhorrent than pulling up linoleum and scraping off wallpaper. Besides, Nathan was planning on lending a hand, which took care of sibling distraction number two.

Leaving bachelor number three, her art studio, as her default choice.

She’d finish her coffee first.

A flip of her stereo filled her home with the underpinnings of smooth jazz that tugged at the knots lodged in her shoulders. No sooner had she curled up in the corner of her sofa, bare feet tucked under her butt than the downstairs buzzer rang. “Of course.” She unfurled and padded over to the door. “Yes?”

“Delivery, Miss Tremayne.”

“I didn’t order anything.” That she remembered. “Who from?”

“I was just told to deliver, ma’am. Apartment 4A, correct?”

“Yeah, okay. Bring it up.” She depressed the button on the intercom and heard the buzz. She kept one eye on the peephole, the other on the white door under her winding staircase.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She pulled a few singles out of her wallet before she opened the door for the deliveryman bounding onto her landing with a medium-sized box in his hands. “Miss Tremayne?” Wide eyes were magnified to cartoon status behind thick black-rimmed glasses. His lanky build made her think he could fly should he catch a cross wind at just the right time.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She accepted the box and examined the dime-sized holes punched out beneath the lid. “Is there a card?”

“Not that I know of, ma’am.” Eesh. The way the kid said
ma’am
made her wonder if she should rent a walker. “Have a good day.”

“Wait. Your tip—”

“Taken care of.” He grinned over his shoulder.

Sheila yelped as the box jerked in her hands. Door closed, she carried the vibrating box into the kitchen and set it on the counter. What on earth? She leaned down, heard something. Was that a . . . She flicked the lid and peered inside. A tiny black kitten blinked up at her as if she’d awoken it from a nap.

“Mew.” The white bow tied around its neck dwarfed the furry little creature as it hiked itself up to hook its paws over the edge of the box. “Mew.”

“Oh, boy.” Sheila ducked down so she could look the perfect blue-eyed feline face eye to eye before glancing down to its tail. “Yep, you’re a boy all right.” A paw lifted and pushed against her chin, batted at her. Wait, was that a smile? “Now where did you come from?”

The muted ring of her cell phone echoed from her gym bag. “Stay there,” she ordered the cat as she headed to her purse. “Hello?”

“His name is Sherlock.”

“Malcolm.” She should have known. “I don’t want a cat.” She looked at the box just as a fuzzy butt arced free and skittered across her counter like a toddler on ice skates. “Hey, come back here. Malcolm, this isn’t funny. I can’t have a cat.” She scooped up Sherlock seconds before he dive-bombed behind the refrigerator. “Oh, don’t do that.” But Sherlock’s motor had engaged and he was purring up a storm. “Great. He trained you for this, didn’t he?”

“He reminded me of that weekend we went to that farmers’ market in Santa Barbara. You were so upset because you couldn’t take that kitten home with you because your mother was allergic.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.” Resistance sagged against the memory, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore, nights beneath the moon. A long, lazy, steamy weekend. Sheila tucked her phone against her shoulder and scratched Sherlock under the chin. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t have a cat.”

“You can, actually. I checked your lease, or rather I called to look into leasing another apartment to make sure the building is pet-friendly. So it’s not a matter of can or can’t. He needs a home. And we both know what happens to black cats at shelters.”

Her heart pitched. A shelter kitty? “They’re the last to be adopted. If they ever are.” Sherlock blinked blue eyes at her as if looking at her from behind bars.

“The shelter’s open for another couple of hours,” Malcolm prodded. “I can return him if you want . . .”

“Oh, shut up.” She lifted Sherlock so they could examine each other face-to-face. “Where are you?”

Her doorbell rang.

She found him lounging against the wall outside her door, looking spectacularly male in jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair damp and curling over the collar. Her entire body went hot, as if thawing from a five-year freeze.

“You don’t play fair,” she accused as he clicked his phone off.

“Remember that as the weekend progresses.” He pushed off the wall and peered around the corner into her apartment. “Can I come in?” He scratched Sherlock behind the ears and sent the kitten into another frenzy of purring.

“What are we doing, Malcolm?” she asked before he could pass.

“Starting over?” He grabbed her face and kissed her hard and quick, making her head spin with the promise of something wonderful. And positively terrifying. “Now, how about you give me the grand tour?” He pushed past her.

She clutched Sherlock to her chest, nuzzled her new furry friend with her chin, and got a serious head bop in response. “Oh, help.” She slumped against the door as Sherlock kneaded her arm, teeny claws pricking her skin. “This isn’t going to end well.” But for the first time since Malcolm had returned, she wasn’t sure she cared.

***

“It’s official. Sherlock has more stuff than you do.” Malcolm finished unpacking the cat paraphernalia he’d bought after choosing the cat onto the kitchen counter. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. “Including food. Do you ever eat?”

“I eat out most days.” She set Sherlock on the floor so he could dive-bomb one of the catnip-infused mice Malcolm had tossed from the bag. “Takeout menus are in the drawer by the stove. Or there’s yogurt. Or you could not worry about my eating habits and tell me what your agenda is now,” she said in that sickly sweet conciliatory beauty pageant voice of hers.

“You and your brother are a suspicious pair. I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

“I have friends.” But she shifted her attention to the cat.

“Any outside of work? Any you can talk to about Brandon?”

Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything. Typical Sheila. Always in control. Never let anyone see you hurting. Never ask for help.

“Tell me about him,” he urged, but as he reached for her hands she dropped to the floor. He leaned over the counter as she scooped Sherlock into her lap. “Either the cat will get you to talk or I will.”

“Death is a part of life, Malcolm. There’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

Didn’t he know it. All the more reason to get her feelings out on the table now. “But it’s worse when it’s a child. You have to deal with it at some point, Sheila. You can’t push it down so far you can’t breathe.” Or live.

“I’m fine.” She took a deep breath, her breasts expanding in her black sports bra. “See? Breathing fine.”

“Nice distraction technique,” he said, ready to worship at the altar of Sheila Tremayne’s breasts. “How’s the painting coming?”

“Ah, okay.” Her face scrunched and she nodded. “Nathan sent you to protect the almighty Nemesis plan. He didn’t need to sic you on me. I’ll get them done.”

Malcolm inclined his head and covered his own expulsion of relief. “I remember a time I couldn’t compete with your paintbrushes and palettes. No wonder you’re cranky.”

“You do realize calling a woman cranky is justification for shooting you.”

“You don’t own a gun and you’re not arguing.” He grinned. “Which means I’m right.”

“I didn’t say that. And I haven’t been cranky. Have I?”

“Do you have a picture of him?” He popped open a bag of jingle balls and tossed them in different directions. Sherlock froze, ears perking, butt wiggling as he bounded off Sheila’s lap in one direction, skittered on the polished floor, and shifted trajectory as he dived after another.

“I just got him,” she countered.

“Not a picture of the cat. Of Brandon. Nathan mentioned something about him wearing a tool belt? He liked to fix things?”

“He liked to break things.” Sheila pulled herself to her feet. “Then fix them. And yeah, I have a picture around here somewhere.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Now?”

“Now. Then we can talk about how to fill up your kitchen with actual food.”

“It’s um.” Sheila pointed behind her toward the closed door under the stairs. “It’s in there.”

“Okay.” He shrugged and gathered up the plastic bags for recycling. “Well, go get it.”

It was all he could do not to hold out his arms and offer to hold her, to stroke that look of shock and trepidation off her face. Instead he turned away as if he’d asked for nothing more than a pencil. He gripped the edge of the sink, watching her reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator as she walked over to the door, hesitating before she turned the knob.

He held his breath as she stepped inside. “Phase two complete. What do you think, little guy?” Malcolm circled the counter and caught Sherlock before he disappeared under the sofa. “Shall we move on to phase three?”

***

The smell of paint thinner and thick oil paint smacked Sheila in the face the second she opened the door to her studio. Holding a hand over her nose and mouth, she stepped inside, half expecting her heart to explode with the way it was slamming against her ribs. The white walls and cabinetry welcomed her with its pristine shine mingling with the wood floor. She pushed open one of the transom windows over the line of waist-high drawers letting the breeze rush in to sweep the pungent eye-watering aroma out of the way.

Her head and eyes cleared as she scanned the whitewashed cabinets and shelves outlining the room. The painting she’d been working on the last time she’d been in here sat on the easel, a mish mash of reds and blues merging into a surreal moonlit night. Rusting paint cans filled with brushes and markers mingled haphazardly around the room. Color pencils lay scattered over tablets and journals. The paint-splattered floor was a testament to the endless hours she’d spent within this room, the oversized speaker system for her iPod wedged onto a shelf amidst a clock, books, and other knickknacks. The glass bottles she used for watercolors reflected the morning sun and cast rainbow orbs against the glass of the frame displaying her favorite picture of her mother, as if Catherine had been overseeing the studio in Sheila’s absence.

And right beside Catherine . . . Sheila’s breath caught in her throat. Brandon. All big blue eyes and gapped-tooth smile, a plastic hammer in one hand and a handful of pennies in the other. Her chest burned, her fingers tingled. She brought a hand to her throat as she stepped forward and pulled the framed photo from the shelf, unable to look away. Unable to move.

She waited for the pain, for the grief, the guilt, to descend, but all she felt was an odd smile tilting her lips.

“He was a cute kid.” Malcolm’s voice cut through the silence, but she didn’t feel as if he were intruding.

“We were supposed to play Monopoly that day, but I was late. Nobody played Monopoly like Brandon.” She found herself laughing as she remembered the utter determination that would appear on the little boy’s face whenever that box came off the shelf. “And if he won Park Place, he did this little victory dance—” Her jaw hurt, her chest constricted, but there were no tears. Tears would obscure her vision of him. She trailed a finger down Brandon’s hair, as if she could feel the strands against her skin. “Poor Morgan had her hands full repairing or replacing appliances at the Fiorellis because of him.”

“What did he do?”

Sheila didn’t realize he was so close, or that he’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. All she saw, all she felt, was the missing presence that was Brandon Monroe. “One night he emptied his piggy bank into the washing machine. And that kid had a lot of pennies, let me tell you. He’d heard about money laundering on the news, and, well.” She waved a hand in the air as a bubble of laughter popped out of her throat. “You can imagine.”

“Kid after my own heart.” He hugged her hard and she felt his lips on the top of her head. “I think he’s been in here long enough, don’t you? Why don’t you bring him out with us?”

She nodded and hugged the frame against her chest. “Yeah. I know just the place.” She let him lead her away. She smiled over her shoulder at the photo of her mother before she stopped to close the window and then, at the last second, she left the door open.

Just a little.

***

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do with Oliver Technologies now that you’re the majority shareholder?”

Malcolm polished off his plate of lasagna courtesy of J & J Market’s delivery service. As wonky as his appetite had been of late and as jumpy as his stomach could be, the idea of such a heavy meal made him nervous. Au contraire. Sheila had been right when she’d equated Theresa Juliano’s special recipe to a culinary masterpiece. The salty, warm garlic bread and oh-so-delicately dressed and spiced salad had been the perfect way to end what he was calling a decompression day. If anything, he felt better having eaten something substantial.

“How long have you been wanting to ask me that?”

“All day.” Sheila pushed her plate to the center of the coffee table and stretched out, letting out a groan he anticipated echoing in the near future.