Love Will Find a Way

@Copyright 2011 Barbara Freethy

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For information, email [email protected]

At eighteen stories, the Caldwell Court Hotel wasn't even close to being the tallest building in San Francisco, but Dylan Prescott still felt like he was standing on top of the world. With a hard hat on his head, the roar of drills and saws in the background, the chill wind coming through the framing for the windows, and a stack of blueprints in his hand, he felt completely in his element. This was his world, a world where numbers added up, where perfect angles met and meshed, where someone's dream came true.

He found himself smiling at the errant thought. He hadn't left much time in his life for dreaming; that had been Gary's specialty, not his.
  

Gary Tanner... Dylan took a deep breath as the smile faded from his face and almost unbearable grief threatened to choke him. It had been six months since his best friend's tragic death. This hotel was the last building Gary had designed, and he still couldn't believe there wouldn't be any more buildings that were designed by Tanner and built by Prescott. They had made one hell of a team. Now Gary was gone, a fact that he couldn't quite wrap his mind around.

It was easier to imagine that Gary was working on the other side of the country, that he would call at any second and tell some lame joke or put forth a wild idea for his next building, or ask him what the Giants were thinking when they'd traded their best pitcher to the Yankees. He could almost hear Gary's energetic, laughing voice in his head, especially his familiar parting comment, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
As if he would
. Gary had owned the patent on crazy, and he'd always just gone along for the ride.
 
Not that there had been many rides the past few yeas. Gary's spare time had gone to his family, and he'd had no spare time. He'd kept himself busy from morning to night, ten hours a day, seven days a week, building his business, his life. The past nine years had been like running in a marathon.

But that's the way he liked it, frantic, intense, no time for thinking. And if his latest bid went through, in three months he would tackle the biggest project of his life, the soon-to-be tallest skyscraper in downtown Los Angeles. Getting that job would put him at the top of his profession. A voice inside his head questioned what the hell he'd do then, but he ignored it.

"See you in the morning," one of his co-workers called out. Dylan suddenly realized that the buzz of work had come to a grinding halt and his crew was headed for home. It was past five, and the sun was sinking low in the sky as the late September days were getting shorter. Soon night would descend, and the lights would come on in the other buildings. It would be a magnificent cityscape, a sight that always made him catch his breath. He just needed a cold beer and a best friend to share it with, the way he and Gary had done so many times before.

Get over it already, he told himself. Just get over it. But that ruthless order didn't work any better now than it had any other day for the past six months.

His cell phone rang, and Dylan slipped it off his belt, grateful for the distraction. Work was what he needed to focus on, and nothing else. "Prescott," he said briskly.

"You've got a little problem," his assistant, Connie, informed him.

"What's up?"

"Remember all those messages I gave you from Rachel Tanner?"

Dylan had been avoiding her calls since last Friday, and it was Wednesday now. He kept telling himself he'd call her back, but he never quite got around to it. He didn't know what to say to her. And he couldn't understand the sudden flurry of phone messages from Gary's widow. He'd offered his help at the funeral, but Rachel had turned him down with a polite "
No, thank you, we'll be fine.
"

He'd believed her. Besides that, she had her family, her friends. Now that Gary was gone, they had nothing more in common. Unless this was about the house, the dream house Gary had wanted him to build for Rachel. It was the only one of Gary's jobs that Dylan had turned down.

"Are you there?" Connie's voice brought him back to reality.

"I'll call her back. Just brush her off. If she calls again, tell her I'm out of town or something."

"But -- "

"Tell Rachel whatever you have to. I can't deal with her right now."

"That's too bad," a woman said from behind him. "Because as far as I can see, you're not out of town, and you are going to deal with me."

Dylan's chest contracted at the sound of her voice, the voice that had haunted his dreams for so many years,
the
voice he'd tried to forget, just as he'd tried to forget everything else about her. He was her husband's best friend, and she was his best friend's wife. That's all they would ever be to each other. All they ever could be.

He heard Connie say something, but he simply closed the phone and forced himself to turn around, to face Rachel. She was dressed in black, the way she'd been at the funeral, her long blond hair hidden by the incongruous hard hat on her head. Her face was pale, her blue eyes dimmed, shadows of fatigue drawing lines around those eyes. Dammit, she was too young to be a widow, not even thirty yet. But then, Gary, at thirty-five, was too young to be dead.

"Why didn't you call me back?" Rachel's steady gaze wouldn't let him look away. It had been that way once before, a long, long time ago, when she had looked into his eyes and asked him a question he hadn't been able to answer. Not in the nine years since her wedding had she ever looked him straight in the eye again, the way she was looking at him now. He found it unsettling and was reminded of exactly why he'd wanted to avoid this moment.

"I've been busy. I'm sorry." And he was sorry. Looking at her now, he realized what an ass he'd been to avoid talking to her. She was Gary's widow. She deserved his support, his friendship, anything she needed.

Her fingers played with the strap on her purse, and he saw that her nails had been bitten down to the quick. Her arms were thin and pale. She'd lost weight in the past few months, along with everything else. He should have offered his help. At the very least, he should have returned her calls.

"You told me if there was anything I needed..." she said haltingly.

"Yes, of course."

"Don't answer so fast." She licked her lips and took a deep breath. "It's not that easy, but it is important. That's why I'm here -- why I couldn't wait another second for you to call me back."

He tensed, wondering why she sounded so dramatic. It had to be something minor, he told himself. She needed extra cash, advice on a plumbing problem or the construction of her house or something equally mundane. She couldn't possibly be here for any other reason.

"There's a problem with Gary's life insurance," she said in a rush.

"What?" He rocked back on his heels. He certainly hadn't been expecting her to say that. "What kind of a problem?"

"They don't want to pay."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either." Her voice shook with emotion.

He tried to make sense of her words. "Didn't Gary pay the premiums?"

"That's not it. They said they think Gary … Gary ..."

"Gary what?" he asked impatiently.

She drew in a big breath and squared her shoulders. "They think he drove off that mountain on purpose."

Her words hit Dylan like a solid punch to the gut. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Say that again."

"I can't say it again." She turned away from him and walked toward the edge of the building.

He stared after her in confusion, her words still racing around his head. No matter how many times they went around, they still didn't make sense. Gary's car had gone off the side of a mountain road in Lake Tahoe. It had been an accident, pure and simple.

"My husband would not have driven himself off of a cliff," Rachel said forcefully, flinging him a quick glance. "It would be like me jumping off this building right now. I couldn't do it, and I wouldn't do it.
 
Because I have responsibilities, people I love, people who love me."

"Gary wouldn't either," he said, coming up next to her. "This is crazy."

"Yes, it is," she said fiercely.

"So where did they get this idea?"

"The report they gave me said Gary was seen driving erratically minutes before the crash. There was an eyewitness who saw him drive straight toward the edge. There were no skid marks on the road, nothing to show that he attempted to stop."

"Maybe the brakes didn't work. Maybe the eyewitness was wrong. And -- and I thought insurance paid off even if..." He couldn't continue.

"It was a new policy. Gary took it out last year. They have a two-year clause for any suspicious death. The thing is, I didn't even know about the policy until I started cleaning out the desk last month. Gary paid all the bills. He took care of our finances. I thought all we had was the fifty-thousand-dollar policy Gary took out when Wesley was born. When I saw there was more, I assumed Gary had finally gotten around to realizing we needed a bigger cushion." She cleared her throat. "The insurance company thinks it's highly suspicious that he bought a half-million-dollar policy two months before his accidental death. But they're wrong."

She shook her head, as if to rid herself of any doubts. "I know it was an accident. Gary took the curve too fast, or a deer ran in front of him, or he got distracted, or something." Her gaze drilled into his once again. "You have to help me, Dylan. You're the only one who can. You have to help me prove this was an accident, that Gary had no reason whatsoever to kill himself. You have to."

"Jesus! Slow down." Dylan ran a hand through his hair, trying to think, but his mind was in utter chaos, emotions denying all logic. Only one thing was he certain about. "Gary didn't kill himself. That's nuts. He had everything to live for. He had a great life."

"Yes, he did." Rachel spoke with
a tenseness
in her face that seemed to belie her confidence. "He -- we -- we had a great life. God, this is making me crazy!"

Dylan felt another wave of guilt at her words. He told himself he'd had no way of knowing, but he should have returned her calls. Unfortunately, his instinct for self-preservation was well honed, especially where Rachel was concerned.

"In the last few days, it occurred to me that perhaps there are answers to be found at Gary's apartment here in the city," she continued. "I have his keys, but I'm sorry to say I'm not even sure where the apartment is. I haven't been there in a while. I'd like you to give me the address."

Damn, he hadn't seen this question coming either, although he didn't know why he hadn't. When he'd bought an apartment building four years earlier, he'd offered Gary one of the units as a place to stay when he worked late or didn't want to face the sometimes two-hour commute home. Gary had jumped at the idea.

On the weekends, Gary would drive home to be with Rachel and their son, Wesley, but when he wasn't traveling on business, he usually stayed in the city a couple of nights a week. Since Dylan owned the building, he hadn't worried about the apartment sitting empty, and he hadn't been able to bring himself to clear it out. He'd gone in right after the funeral and left just as quickly, the pain still too raw to deal with. Now Rachel wanted to go there, and Dylan felt a sudden protectiveness toward his friend. Maybe he should go through the apartment first, just in case.

"Unless you've rented it out already to someone else?" Rachel asked hesitantly. "I guess I should have been paying the rent, but Gary never said what it was."

"I didn't charge him rent."

"Oh."

She would probably want some of Gary's things, too, Dylan realized, maybe even the furniture. He should have gone through the place, boxed everything up, and shipped it to her months ago. That way he could have made sure there was nothing ... What was he thinking? He had no reason to believe there was anything in that apartment that Rachel couldn't see. No real reason anyway. Nothing concrete. Nothing definitive.

"What's wrong, Dylan?" she asked, her gaze narrowing in suspicion.

"Nothing. I was just thinking maybe I should take a look and let you know."

"Let me know what?" Her voice filled with painful confusion. "Let me know Gary had some secret? Is there something you know that I don't?"

"I don't think he had a secret, but it might be hard for you to see the place."

"It was hard for me to learn my husband was dead. It was even harder for me to learn that some people think he killed himself. Frankly, I don't think there's anything in that apartment that could be any more difficult."