Sunset In Central Park (7 page)

Frankie felt the color drain from her cheeks. “My father?”

“No! That man is so lily-livered he hasn’t been in touch since the day he walked out, you know that!” Her laugh was high-pitched. “I’m talking about Dev!”

“You should go, Mom. If you haven’t been to bed yet, you must be tired.”

“I didn’t say we hadn’t been to bed. I said we hadn’t been to sleep.” Gina gave Dev a playful nudge. “This man is an
animal
I tell you. He exhausts even me, and I have more stamina than most. That’s another reason I love younger men. You have no idea how many times he can—”

“Mom!” Frankie barked out the word, mortified. Heads around her turned in curiosity and she was transported back
to her teenage years when it had felt as if everyone was staring at her. “We don’t need details.”

She’d grown up with details. They were scarred into her brain.

Would she have had fewer issues if her mother hadn’t been so free with the details?

“How I ever raised such a prude I will never know. You need to loosen up. People say it’s impossible to meet a man in Manhattan, but I say they’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Mom—”

“Use it or lose it.
Who was it who said that? I can’t remember.” Gina Cole frowned, until she remembered that frowning was bad for her and quickly smoothed her forehead with her fingers. “If you need money or a place to stay—”

“I don’t. I make my own money and I have my own place.”

And she had her own issues, personal to her.

Thanks, Mom.

“Of course you do! Owned by Paige’s handsome brother.” Gina winked and stepped closer to Frankie. “Now
that’s
a man with brains, looks and money. Matt is that irresistible combination of smart and sexy. I read a feature on him the other day. He was wearing a tool belt and making a seat out of a log. Those
abs.
I swear I—”

“Please, Mom!”

“Please what? Oh, don’t worry about Dev. He’s not the jealous type.”

Shame spread over her like a rash, not least because she’d had the same thoughts herself and the idea of having anything in common with her mother was horrifying. And mingled in with the shame was anger that her mother could
contaminate a relationship that was precious to her. What if she said something similar to Matt? Frankie would die. It had been the same growing up. The embarrassment and shame had clung to her like a cloak, visible to everyone who looked.
Like mother, like daughter.

“We have to go. We’re working.”

“So you got another job?”

“That’s right. And I need to do it right now. Have a good day, Mom.” Frankie started to walk away, nausea churning in her stomach.

“Wait! When are you going to invite us around? We’re family, Frankie.”

Frankie paused, wishing the burning in her gut would ease and trying not to imagine the horror of her mother bumping into Matt. What if she said something embarrassing? Or worse. What if she flirted?

This was the reality of family and it wasn’t the cozy, comforting thing Eva fantasized about. It was like opening a bag expecting to find sugar, only to discover that someone had substituted salt.

“I have a lot going on right now.”

“It’s been ages. And how is dear, sweet Eva? Still missing her grandmother? We should go out together one night. All the girls together. It would be fun. Call me to arrange it and for goodness’ sake throw away those hideous glasses and get yourself contacts. No man is going to want to sleep with you in those. See you soon!” She walked away and Frankie sagged against the wall.

“What is
wrong
with her? She invented inappropriate. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“All of it. For her tactless remarks about your health, for
spouting the lurid details of her sex life around the flower market and for saying those things about Matt. I want to die, but then she’d take charge of my body and do something unspeakable with it.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Paige slid her arm through her friend’s. “You’re not responsible for your mother.”

“I feel responsible.”

“Why? None of it is your fault.”

Wasn’t it? Frankie felt the familiar gnawing of guilt in the pit of her stomach. The truth was she felt responsible and always had.

When it had first happened she’d discovered that guilt could be so big it could swallow a person whole. She’d been paralyzed by indecision, not knowing what to do for the best. The only thing she’d been sure of was that she didn’t want to inflict her problems on anyone else.

Gradually, the guilt had faded, like a terrible wound that eventually heals but never quite goes away.

She went weeks, months even, when she never thought about it. And when she did think about it, usually in the dark hours of the night, she kept it to herself.

It wasn’t something she ever intended to share. Not even with her closest friends. The time for that was long past.

“Can you imagine if Matt had overheard that? I’d definitely have to move to Seattle. And I hate the way she calls us
girls
as if we’re all eight years old. I don’t think a woman of fifty-three should call herself a
girl
. There’s something undignified about it. Or delusional. I’m not sure which.” Struggling with emotion, she dived back into the store and rubbed her hand over her cheek. Her eyes and throat burned. “I can’t bear it. Another rich guy the same age as me. And why don’t these men ever say no?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not your problem.” Paige rubbed her arm gently, her voice warm with sympathy. “I’m sorry we bumped into her.”

“So am I. All she ever talks about is sex. She loves embarrassing me.”

“I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. She’s thinking about herself.”

“Let’s change the subject. Talk about something. Anything.” Frankie focused on the bright blooms. Flowers always calmed her. Nature was never embarrassing. “Talk about you. Please. Or work. Work is good. As long as it’s not weddings.”

“Did I tell you we won that piece of business for New York fashion week? They emailed me late last night.”

“That’s a real coup. The event is in September?” Frankie made a huge effort to push her mother out of her head.
Use it or lose it,
she’d said.

Frankie had lost it. She’d definitely lost it.

“Yes. It will be our biggest event yet, so that’s a piece of good news.”

“That is good news.” Her heart was beginning to slow. The awful burning humiliation receded, but still the words remained.
Use it or lose it.
The phrase was buried in her head like a tick burrowed into an animal’s fur. What was the rule when you’d never really had it? How could you use something you didn’t know what to do with? Other women her age were generally sexually experienced. Frankie’s experience boiled down to a few awkward embarrassing encounters from which she’d been relieved to walk away. And the detail of those was something else she’d never shared with anyone. “How are things with Jake?”

“Good. He’s pressing me to move in with him.”

“Oh.” The four of them had lived together in the brownstone for a long time. Frankie realized she hadn’t given any thought to that changing. “How do you feel about that?”

“Mixed feelings. I love being with Jake and his apartment is spectacular, but I love Brooklyn, too.” Paige hesitated. “And I’m worried about Eva.”

“Me, too. She was pretty emotional at that bridal shower the other day. But she’s doing better than she was at Christmas.”

“She puts on a brave face, but she misses her grandmother horribly. She pushes through the day, but she still cries at night sometimes. I hear her.” Paige stood back to allow someone carrying a large plant to pass them. “I can’t imagine how it must feel to have no family at all. Eva told me the other night that she feels like a boat that slipped its moorings. She’s bobbing in the sea alone.”

Frankie felt a flash of guilt. “Now I feel terrible for complaining about my mother.”

“Don’t. Your mother makes everything worse, not better.”

“But at least I’m connected to someone. What do we do about Eva?”

“I wish she’d meet someone. And before you frown, I know relationships aren’t everything, but I think that’s what she needs. She needs to find someone who appreciates how special she is. She needs a family of her own.”

“I wouldn’t want her to meet anyone right now. She’s vulnerable. What happens when it all goes wrong? She couldn’t take the heartache.” The thought of Eva hurt made her own chest ache. “She’s so trusting.”

“Not all relationships end in heartache, Frankie.”

“Plenty do, and it would break Eva. What if she falls in
love and the guy turns out to be a lying cheating piece of—” Anger rushed through her. “I’d kill him.”

“He could turn out to be decent, honest and the best thing that happened to her.”

“In which case I might not kill him. But I’ve never in my life met a guy that would be good enough for Eva.” She hesitated. “Except maybe Matt.”

“Matt? My brother Matt?”

“Why not? They’re great friends. They’re always laughing and teasing each other.” Maybe that was the answer. If Matt were with Eva, she’d stop thinking things she shouldn’t be thinking.

“They’re friends but there’s no chemistry between them.”

“He’s smoking hot and she’s beyond gorgeous. What more do you want?”

“You think my brother is smoking hot?” Paige looked at her curiously and Frankie wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“I have eyes, don’t I? All I’m saying is that I think those two would be good together and if it was Matt with Eva then I wouldn’t have to kill him. I know he’d be good to her.”

Paige’s expression turned from curious to thoughtful. “They’d kill each other. She’d make him watch romantic movies and he’d turn to drink. No, I’d pick someone different for him. And anyway, Eva would never tolerate Claws, and Matt wouldn’t part with the cat so that’s their first major argument right there. She’ll find someone and, in the meantime, she has us. Thank goodness for friendship.”

Frankie didn’t disagree. Without her friends she never would have survived the difficult parts of her life. “I’ll stay with Eva the nights you’re at Jake’s.”

“You’d do that?”

“I don’t want her to be on her own and miserable.”

“That’s good of you, but there’s a flaw in that plan.”

“Which is?”

“She’d know you were only doing it for her.”

“Isn’t that what friendship is? Doing something for someone you care about?”

“Yes, but she’d be mortified if she knew I’d heard her crying and even more mortified if she knew I’d told you. She thinks she should be over losing her grandmother by now.”

“That’s crap. You don’t ever get over something like that. The best you can hope for is to learn to live alongside it.”

“I know. Let’s see how we go. In the meantime, I’ll carry on doing what I’m doing, dividing the week up. Maybe you can find reasons to look in on her the nights I’m not there. You don’t need to stay. So what else do you need to buy here?” Paige paused by another display. “Those pale pink roses are gorgeous.”

“No pastels. I want strong colors. Vibrant. Energetic. Electric. Futuristic. A fusion of color and scents.” She dug the list she’d made out of her bag and scanned it, anxious to do something that might stop her thinking about her mother.

They were surrounded by color. Pinks, purples, blues and yellows. Hydrangeas in more colors than she’d thought possible.

It should have been relaxing, but meeting her mother had fired up her tension levels.

She picked up some long-stemmed roses. “I didn’t ask where she was living.”

“Your mother? Do you want to know?”

“No. There’s no point. She won’t be there long.” Unable to concentrate, she stared down at the roses. “I can’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation. You speak to yours all the time, and about normal things. Mine
just keeps encouraging me to have sex. Is there something wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Your mother isn’t an easy woman to deal with. Are we buying those roses? Because if not I think we’re about to be charged rent for holding them for so long.”

Frankie drove a hard bargain for the roses, talked colors and stems and then they strolled out of the store together and back into the street.

The sweet, sugary smell of the flowers filled the air, masking traffic fumes and city smells.

Thanks to Paige, she felt calmer.

She tried to imagine what life would look like without her friends.

It didn’t look good.

She stopped walking. “I’ll help Matt.”

“You will?” Paige sounded surprised. “What made you change your mind?”

“You did, reminding me about friendship. Matt helped me out when I needed somewhere to live. I can’t ever repay him for that. But I can do this.”

It was work, that was all. She was helping a friend.

There was nothing more to it than that.

F
rankie stood on the roof terrace and shaded her eyes with her hand. The sun was baking and there wasn’t a breath of wind. New York in the peak of the summer months was stifling.

She’d seen the “before” photos and spent hours studying Matt’s construction concept, but plans and reality were two different things. He’d transformed a bland outdoor roof space into what promised to be a luxurious rooftop garden, perfect for both relaxing and entertaining. Clever use of brick, textured stones and different woods had created an architectural element that would be a significant part of the design.

It was stunning.

She felt a kick of excitement. For her, this was so much
more rewarding than choosing flowers for a wedding. Those lifted the moment but this—she stared around her, imagining how the place would look when it was finished—this could lift a life.

She, more than anyone, understood the importance of green space and nature for health and happiness.

For her a garden wasn’t a luxury, it was a necessity.

Through the turmoil of her childhood, their beautiful garden had offered peace and sanctuary.

No matter what she told her friends, there were times when she missed Puffin Island. Not the people or the past, but the place. She missed the sea air and the call of the gulls. Most of all she missed the feeling of being surrounded by nature. But she’d learned that with clever planting she could create the same feeling in her own backyard. And she could create the same thing for other people.

She turned her head and looked at Matt, who was deep in conversation with James and Roxy, two members of his team who were finishing off the hard landscaping.

His arms were folded, a stance that emphasized the well-developed muscles of his upper body. He rested one scuffed boot on a stack of concrete slabs.

Sunlight shimmered across his dark hair and a pair of sunglasses concealed the expression in his eyes but she could see by the way he angled his head and occasionally nodded that he was listening carefully to the discussion.

Some men did all the talking, as if their voice was the only one worth hearing, but Matt wasn’t like that. Matt was a listener.

She’d worried that working closely with him might feel awkward, but it was turning out to be easier than she’d anticipated. Apart from the fact that every time she wore
her glasses he removed them, they were getting along just fine. She’d had very few moments where she’d forgotten to breathe and there had been no suggestion of intimacy, no repeat of that unsettling moment in her apartment. Of course that might have been because there was nothing intimate about working in the blaze of summer heat with a team of people.

Every two minutes someone asked him a question. He was the one everyone turned to for ideas and solutions, and not just because he was the boss. He was the one with the creative vision and the skills to do what it took to make that vision a reality. He was the brain behind the designs, but he was also the muscle. Literally. He spent his days hauling heavy weights up and down New York rooftops and it showed. His T-shirt hugged shoulders that were thick with muscle, and his legs were solid and strong.

Heat flared low in her stomach and she swiped her forehead with her arm. It was the ultimate injustice to feel sexual excitement when she knew if he ever laid a finger on her it would fizzle to nothing.

She was a D minus.

Matt ended his conversation and strolled over to her. “Everything okay?”

No, it wasn’t okay.

“I’m hot.” She spoke without thinking and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “I mean,
it’s
hot. The weather. Not me. The weather is making me hot. In an increased body temperature way, not—” Her voice trailed off and he lifted an eyebrow.

“Not what?”

She glared at him. “You’re not funny.”

“Do I look as if I’m laughing?”

His mouth was firm and serious and his eyes—well, she couldn’t see his eyes because they were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. But he didn’t look as if he was laughing. He looked … he looked …

She swallowed. He looked tough and sexy, rumpled and just rough enough around the edges to turn that low hum of desire up a few notches.

This was where a flirting lesson would have been helpful. She could have said something that would have defused the situation and made them both laugh. Then they could have moved on. Instead, she felt as if she was being boiled in oil. The atmosphere rippled with sexual undercurrents she had no idea how to handle and it didn’t help that he was standing so close to her. Far too close. In fact, all he had to do was lower his head and—

“This roof terrace is roasting,” she said lamely. “I could fry an egg on the deck.”

“Maybe you should take a layer off.” His husky voice stroked across her skin and her gaze skidded to his.

What the hell was he playing at? This was Matt.
Matt.
And he was telling her to take her clothes off? She was so far out of her comfort zone it was like hanging off a sheer cliff by her fingernails.

“No, thanks. Talk me through the project. I took a look at Victoria’s plans. They’re good. I’ll stick with her suggestions and maybe add a few more ideas. What are your thoughts on furniture? Seating?” Other women flirted. She talked about furniture. Not only that but she was babbling, too, her torrent of words a direct contrast to Matt’s watchful silence.

She had a feeling he was waiting for her to talk herself out.

And there it was again, that strange electric feeling behind
her ribs. Her skin felt sensitive, as if all her nerve endings had suddenly woken from a deep sleep.

“The main seating will be three log benches.” His calm, steady voice was a direct contrast to her fluttering nerves. “They’ll blend with the rustic environment, and the weight will mean they won’t be blown around by the wind.”

“Sounds good. Are you building those yourself? You’re so good with your hands. I mean in the sense of making things, not anything else.” Oh, what was
wrong
with her? His soft laughter was the final straw and she covered her eyes with her hands.

“Enough! I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Still laughing, he eased her hands away from her face. “What can’t you do, honey?”

His fingers were warm and strong and she wondered if he could feel her pulse racing. “Have these conversations!”

“What’s wrong with the conversation?”

“I’m saying all the wrong things.”

“There is no
wrong thing
with me.” He paused. “And you’re right. I am pretty good with my hands.”

She had no idea whether the log bench was still part of this conversation or whether they were talking about something else. And if they
were
talking about something else, then—

Her head was spinning.

She stood, face burning in the heat, both her tongue and her tummy in knots.

Finally, he stepped away from her, giving her space.

“You should come and see the bench I’ve already made. It’s down at the workshop. We have other stuff there you might be able to use.”

Okay, so now he was talking about work. Work she could handle.

Back in her comfort zone, she felt herself relax. “Given any thought to shade?”

“I’ve recommended a pergola. They were checking their budget but it looks as if they’ll go with that.”

“How are you going to get the construction equipment and supplies onto the roof?”

“I’m using materials that can be carried up in the elevator, otherwise we would have had to hire a crane and then you can kiss goodbye to $25,000. Is this the point where you tell me you’re going to need a crane to haul all the soil you’re planning on using?”

She tucked her thumbs into her pockets. “No. It’s a roof terrace, so a lightweight, fast draining soil mix will keep the weight to a minimum.” She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the challenge of designing a roof terrace. There were so many aspects to consider, from privacy and outlook to the extremes of weather.

“Planters?”

“There are a couple of options.” She glanced around, picturing it in her mind. “You could use lightweight fiberglass planters, or fiberstone. The mixture of stone and fiberglass would be a good choice.”

“When they’re weathered, they look like stone.” He nodded. “That would work well. You should definitely take a look at what we have in the workshop. There might be something there you can use.”

“Does the client have the budget for drip irrigation?”

“They thought they didn’t but I helped them see the light by pointing out how much it would cost them to replace the plants that are going to die when they don’t remember to
water them twice a day.” He pulled her to one side as James walked past, carrying a large paving slab. “Any thoughts on planting?”

His fingers were firm on her arm and Frankie felt ripples of excitement spread through her body and pool low in her pelvis.

Seriously? He was trying to stop her being flattened by concrete and she found that exciting? Her body had to be the strangest, weirdest, most incomprehensible thing on the planet. When she wanted to respond to a man it didn’t happen, and when she didn’t want to, it did.

Concentration wasn’t something she usually struggled with, so it annoyed her to find unwanted thoughts creeping into her head. It was like walking in a forest and finding yourself attacked by midges or mosquitoes. She wanted to bat them away or spray them with something toxic.

“Frankie?” Matt’s gentle prompt reminded her that they’d been in the middle of a conversation.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed the lapse.

“I’d stick to a simple color palette and keep it looking natural. You want to screen the terrace to give privacy, but not obscure the view of the city.”

“The building restricts plant height to six feet.”

“I like evergreens, and their small leaves make them perfect for roof terraces. Large leaves shred more easily in the wind.” She looked around, scanning the skyline, relieved to have an excuse to look somewhere other than at him. “We’re overlooked by that apartment block, so we need to consider how to keep it feeling private.”

“We thought some low-cost reed screening.”

“That would work.” Years of experience allowed her to
picture how it would look. “Have you considered planting an evergreen magnolia in that corner?”

He followed her gaze. “I hadn’t, but it’s a good idea. Anything else?”

She strolled the length of the roof terrace. As she moved away from him, her breathing normalized. “English boxwood. Maybe some ivy. We don’t want to block the view in this direction.”

“The view is about as perfect as it gets.”

“It’s iconic New York.” She stepped back. “We need to think of air flow.” She went through a mental list of options. “Tell me more about this pergola. And your plans for a water feature.”

He talked her through it, while Frankie concentrated on the view and tried to remember to breathe in and out.

“I’m going to work on this tonight.” She scribbled a few notes on her pad. She still preferred to work with a paper and pencil most of the time, and her pad was full of sketches and ideas.

“Don’t sacrifice your evening for me.” He rolled up the design plan. “I appreciate the help and it’s true that there’s time pressure, but I don’t expect you to kill yourself over it.”

“It’s not a sacrifice. It will be fun.”

“An evening doing a planting design is fun?”

“There might be wine involved. Since we started Urban Genie there is no such thing as an evening off.” She paused as one of his team presented him with a form to sign.

He scrawled his signature in bold, black ink. “Did you check it, Roxy?”

“Yes, boss.” The girl grinned and gave a little salute. “Learned that lesson the last time.”

Matt watched Roxy walk away. “It’s Friday night. When did you last go on a date?”

Frankie stared after the girl, wondering how she could bend down in jeans that tight. “I don’t think she heard you.”

“I wasn’t talking to her, I was talking to you.”

“
Me?
Oh—” She hesitated, knowing that her answer wasn’t going to paint a picture of her as the epitome of urban sophistication. “Well—I don’t know—I’ve been busy—I don’t date that much.” What was the point in lying when he already knew she wasn’t a party animal? “When I date, I almost always regret it so I’m just as happy spending the evening thinking about plants.”

He removed his sunglasses slowly. “Why do you regret it?”

His eyes were the most incredible blue, warm, interested and focused on her.

She felt as if her insides were slowly melting. “I’m not good at it.”

“It’s dating. The only requirement is to spend time with someone. How can you not be
good
at it?”

The fact that he’d even ask her that question revealed the massive gulf in their life experience and expectations, as well as how little he knew about her dating history. And how little he seemed to understand her hang-ups, despite the whole glasses incident. And why would he? Matt was confident and self-assured. Dating was unlikely to be something that made him consider therapy.

“It’s the pressure.” She tried to explain. “Will you like them and will they like you. Do you have to be more this or less that. Dating a stranger is pretty fake, isn’t it? People project an image. You see what they want you to see and they often hide who they really are. It’s like going out with a mask on. I don’t have the energy for it.” It was an under-Statement.
She found it monumentally stressful, which was why she’d cut it out of her life.

“How about going out and being yourself? Does that ever happen?”

“That doesn’t usually work.”

“How can being yourself not work?”

She was acutely conscious of the people working around them and wondered how the conversation had blended so seamlessly from talk of buds and blooms to her own phobias.

And it wasn’t just the conversation that unsettled her. It was the way he focused on her, with that lazy, sexy gaze, as if she was the only person on the roof. In New York City.
In the world.