Stay (Dunham series #2) (50 page)

“No. He was an ambulance chaser. Not a very good
one, either.”

“Oh, okay. So what does, uh . . . Rafferty . . .
practice?”

“Maybe he’s not a lawyer. Ever think of that?”

Eric decided to back off that whole conversation
because Annie’s discombobulation unnerved him a little. He’d never
seen her like this and whoever Rafferty was, he’d gotten under her
skin.

“Well, uh,” he said, clearing his throat, “getting
married’s a nice idea in theory, but we can’t live that way. You’ll
get horny and go find somebody and then the press would find out.
Shit, I just got them off my back—well, Vanessa did that. I don’t
need you fucking that up.”

She sat silent for a moment. “I . . . ” She
swallowed. “Raff— I’ll stock up on batteries and toys. Just . . .
roommates. With the same last name, okay? You help me. I help
you.”

“This would kill her,” Eric whispered, staring at
his laptop and feeling the weight of the world settle over him.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, and Eric
knew she was. “I can’t imagine being in her situation and here I
am, feeling sorry for myself.”

Eric glanced at her. “You kind of are in her
situation, sounds like.”

“Not even close. She built that gorgeous place, but
now she’s trapped. She loves it. She loves you. What to do, what to
do. No contest. I get it, right? So if you want to keep Vanessa,
I’ll cover for you. Really.”

“
Mistress?
Are you fucking kidding me? I
wouldn’t insult her with that and she’d hate me just for
asking.”

Annie pursed her lips. “Yeah, I guess she would,”
she whispered. “I wouldn’t like it, either.”

Eric studied Annie, thinking about how well they
worked together. He’d been her first lover, she sixteen and he
seventeen, and they’d been lovers on and off ever since. As adults,
they had a four-year monogamous engagement behind them. They’d
never had a need to look outside their relationship for anything
else. Even now, Annie was his ticket. She
got
it, what he
was about and why, and she was willing to play the game with him as
long as it suited her purpose to do so.

“I’ll call Knox and Sebastian tomorrow,” he finally
said. “Bryce. They have the most to lose and they deserve a say in
how we go forward.”

She looked at him, her expression somber, then began
to nod slowly. “Good idea.”

* * * * *

45: Just Leave, and I Will Come

Eilis looked at Vanessa soberly across the kitchen
table, Vanessa’s staff all bustling in and out, busier than ever.
They both nursed cups of sassafras tea.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Eilis murmured
over the rim of her dainty cup.

Vanessa nodded. “I’m sure.”

“The county’s probably going to sue us.”

“I know. I talked to Cooper and the mayor about it
this morning and now they’re pissed. Won’t take long for everybody
to come pounding on the back door requesting my head on a
platter.”

“Have you talked to Vachel?”

“Yes. He’s good with it.”

“But—”

Vanessa gestured slightly to interrupt her. “The
clientele is shifting. I got the corporate business I wanted by
putting in the golf course. They want steak and potatoes, not
roadkill and weeds. In another three years, Chef Granny Whittaker
will be an artifact.”

“Then wait until that happens.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“Are you going to tell him or am I?”

“Don’t say a word. It’ll kill him.”

*

“So I wanted to let you guys know,” Eric finished
heavily. “I’m sorry.”

The four of them, Eric, Knox, Bryce, and Sebastian
sat around a collection of tables at Bryant’s Barbeque, along with
six children under the age of four because the ladies had taken
Annie to the spa for the day. It was pandemonium. Though all three
fathers were adept at dealing with their respective offspring, it
wasn’t the best of circumstances during which to break the news to
these men who’d guided and supported him.

“All that money, all the effort. All the bullshit
the press put you—” Eric pointed to Knox. “—and Sebastian through .
. . ”

“Oh, we don’t care about that,” Knox muttered as he
stuffed a bottle in his son’s mouth. “We care that you might regret
it.”

Maybe. It was possible that, in a year or two or
five or ten, he’d look back on this moment and wonder
what
if
.

The road not taken.

He studied them all. Knox and Sebastian were
variously feeding their children or cleaning them or trying to keep
them in line. Sebastian was so busy with his three he didn’t seem
to be engaged in the bigger conversation. Bryce listened calmly
while he ate his brisket, his little boy asleep on his shoulder. He
occasionally reached out a hand to gently redirect one of
Sebastian’s children. Knox smiled at something his daughter said—in
sign language—and answered her the same way; whatever he said made
her giggle.

Eric found it oddly . . . comforting that they
really didn’t care what he chose to do because they considered all
his options valid.

“So . . . what would you do if you were me?”

“Exactly what you’re doing,” Sebastian offered over
his shoulder while he wiped his squirming three-year-old’s face.
“When you get to this point in your life, there is no choice.”

Knox nodded and took a long pull out of his bottle
of diet Mountain Dew. “I hate this shit,” he grumbled. “Perfectly
good pop ruined by the word ‘diet.’”

“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Because,” he said snidely, “Vanessa tricked me into
telling Justice about my . . .
problem
. . . and I don’t
feel like getting my ass chewed constantly over my sugar
consumption.”

“Not used to getting a taste of your own medicine,
are you?”

“I don’t know when she got that good at it,” he
grumbled, which made Bryce start laughing.

“If I’d known Justice didn’t know,” Bryce rumbled,
“I’d have told her straight out. She’s your wife and you don’t tell
her?”

“Exactly. Justice is my wife, not my mother. I have
a mother. His name is Bryce Kenard.”

Eric watched this, the camaraderie of men who had
been friends forever, who had wives and children, whose families
had merged and become one. They were men who were rich and powerful
enough that they could do or have anything they wanted in the
world—

—and what they wanted most was what they already
had.

It was then Eric knew he would never regret taking
this path.

“Hey,” Eric said, trying to make himself heard over
the children, “I’m gonna head back home and get started.” He looked
at Knox. “Don’t tell Vanessa, okay?”

Knox started. “Mmmm, I wouldn’t advise that. She
doesn’t like surprises.”

“It’s going to be a surprise either way. She’ll get
over it.”

* * * * *

46: You May Kiss Me Goodnight

May 2011

Hi, I’m Shepard Smith and this is the Fox Report
Live from Studio B.

Something’s rotten in the state of Missouri. The
supposedly defunct romance between Missouri prosecutor Eric
Cipriani and cover-girl chef Vanessa Whittaker may have taken
another bizarre turn today. In separate press conferences held only
minutes apart, each announced their intention to abandon their
careers, but no mention was made of each other.

Vocal Independent-slash-Libertarian Eric Cipriani,
who seems to be at war with the very Republican leadership that
needs him to reform the party and give it a much-needed facelift,
announced his resignation from the Chouteau County, Missouri
prosecutor’s office.

“
While I still have political interests, at this
time I don’t feel I can serve the party or my future constituents
the way I want to, the way they deserve. My head’s in politics. My
heart isn’t. My executive assistant prosecutor, Justice McKinley
Hilliard, will be taking over as acting prosecutor until the next
election.”

A half hour after that, owner and Chief Executive
Chef of chichi Ozarks resort Whittaker House, Vanessa Whittaker,
held a press conference on the front steps of her inn.

“
Today marks a turning point for Whittaker House.
As you know, OKH Enterprises has been my corporate partner for the
last two and a half years. As of today at noon, OKH Enterprises is
the sole owner of Whittaker House and will continue its niche
cuisine and traditions. The only change anyone will notice is that
my nephew and I will not be here.”

Cipriani’s blog has exploded with more well wishes
than insults. Whittaker’s Thanksgiving confessional has been
revived all over the media, and talk radio is practically swooning
over the romance of it all. Wow. Even though Ms. Whittaker said
nothing about where she and her nephew are going, and Mr. Cipriani
made no mention of his intentions for the future, it’s easy to draw
a few conclusions. You kind of have to root for a couple like that.
Too bad they didn’t coordinate their efforts. Might have helped to
talk to each other, you two. It’s called communication.

*

Vanessa stared at the TV in horror, as did every
single person in her kitchen. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, a
trembling hand to her mouth.

“WOOT!” Vachel shouted and dashed out the back door,
shouting all the way to ol’ Curtis’s cabin.

*

Eric stared at the news clip in horror after Annie
had called him, panicked. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

“Pretty neat trick, huh?” Knox said smugly from the
doorway of Eric’s office. He looked up, feeling anger wash over
him.

“You knew,” he growled.

“Of course I did. I’m the CFO.”

“And you let her do that.”

“Same way we let you do it, yes. Now you both have
options, but whatever you choose to do, you can do it
together.”

“Was this your idea?”

Knox pursed his lips. “While I’d really like to take
credit for it, no. It wasn’t my idea. The mastermind of that little
operation will be taking over your job as soon as you feel like
getting your ass out of here. I like to think she learned it from
me.”

“You motherfucker.”

“And might I remind you that she attempted to talk
to you about this, but neither of you gave her the right time of
day. Then you turned around and handed her the opportunity on a
silver platter. All she had to do was arrange the press conference
dates and times.”

Eric glared at him.

“Your self-imposed martyrdom was getting
tedious.”

“Okay, so I’ve sold my share of the dojo to Dirk and
Giselle, and I’m officially out of a job in two weeks. Vanessa
doesn’t have a business to run or a home. What are we supposed to
do?”

“Shit, Eric, do I have to take you by the hand and
walk you through it? Call Vanessa. Go to Mansfield. Something. Just
quit being so fucking stupid.”

* * * * *

These Happy Golden Years

He found her in her grove behind Laura’s house the
same way he had found her before, on her knees, her hands fisted
against them, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking.

The sun set in the west, giving her an otherworldly
green

and gold glow filtered by the leaves on the
trees.

She started when he plopped himself down beside
her.

“They tricked us,” he said wryly.

Vanessa sniffled. “I know.” She paused. “Are we
really that stupid?”

“Apparently. So I guess the first order of business
is a wedding.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Ours. Yours and mine.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You hadn’t asked,
so I was confused.”

“Smart ass,” Eric grumbled when he saw the corners
of her eyes crinkle. He felt vindicated when he opened a little hot
pink velvet box and she gasped.

“
Eric
,” she breathed.

Platinum, with a large pink diamond solitaire
flanked by white seed pearls.

“I did good?”

She nodded, too choked up to speak when he put it on
her finger.

“The second order of business,” he said after a
while, a while that they spent kissing for the first time in
months. “Kids?”

“I threw my pills out when I decided to leave
Whittaker House, so whatever happens happens, I guess.”

His mouth twitched. “We need to get on that
then.”

“Mmmm, but we need to get through our agenda for
this meeting first.”

“Ah, yes. What to do with the rest of our lives now
that we’ve been cut loose from everything.”

“Eilis,” Vanessa murmured, “is going to keep me on
as Chief Executive Chef and as part of that, I’ll phase out
roadkill and weeds to steak’n’potatoes and golf. I’ll keep doing
Vittles
and finish the cookbook I started last fall. I can
create new recipes if I want to, but the focus will change.

“She’s going to offer you the temporary position of
COO. If you want. In the meantime, we’ll be launching your official
campaign. That way, we’ll be free to campaign for the next eighteen
months and then go to Jeff City after you’re elected attorney
general. That’ll give us time to find a general manager. If you
lose the election—which I doubt now since we have become the love
story of the decade—we can continue running Whittaker House until
the next cycle or we can settle down and buy it back. If you decide
you really don’t want to go past attorney general, we can buy it
back after your term ends. But no matter what, we’ll always be able
to call Whittaker House home. We can come back for good when you’re
finished being the leader of the free world.”

That made him smile. “We’ll need to find a campaign
manager, then, to do this right. I told the Republicans to go fuck
themselves and third-party candidates aren’t popular.”