Читать книгу A Time To Give - Kathryn Shay - Страница 7

STARING ACROSS THE DINING HALL, Emily watched the tall, muscular man stop and look up at the picture over the entryway. “I wonder what his last name is,” she muttered to herself.

“Best you get your mind off that one.” Alice Smith, the administrator who ran the Cassidy Place soup kitchen where Emily volunteered three nights a week, tossed out the warning as she refilled creamers and sugars. At 7:30 p.m., they were ready to close up for the night.

Emily liked this down-to-earth woman with her sturdy build, a tidy bun corralling her coarse gray hair. Though Alice worked tirelessly at feeding the impoverished, she could be tough when one of the guests got out of line, or the volunteers grumbled too much.

Emily’s grin was sheepish. “I didn’t realize I said that aloud.”

“You did. Anyway, what you were thinking is written all over your face.” Alice tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from Emily’s braid behind her ear. “For as long as he’s been coming here, he’s fascinated you.”

Emily turned her gaze back to Ben. “I guess he has. He’s different from the others.”

“Yeah, he is. He broods a lot, but I like that he pitches in around here. Most guests just eat and take off.”

“But, it’s more than his helping out. There’s just something about him that doesn’t quite fit.” She nodded across the room. “He always does that.”

Alice started to wipe the counter. “Does what?”

“Stares at that picture of Mick Cassidy over the entrance. Every Monday night when he comes in, he stops at it. His expression is almost sentimental. Nostalgic.”

“Odd. The old guy’s been dead for years.”

Emily changed the topic. She was all too familiar with what had happened to Mick Cassidy and his son, the one who’d founded the soup kitchen as a memorial to his father—not to mention the fate of the workers from Cassidy Industries who used to volunteer here.

Making small talk, she surreptitiously watched Ben as he approached one of the twenty long tables that were in rows. “He’s sitting down. I’ll go wait on him.” She grabbed a place setting and rushed off.

“Time’s almost up,” Alice called after her.

“I know. I’ll hurry.” She crossed the dining hall. The room was as huge as a gymnasium, with big windows, a high ceiling and scuffed hardwood flooring. Cassidy Place was housed in a wing of a beautiful old church on St. Paul Street and had character. “Hello, Ben,” she said when she reached him.

His gray eyes lit up when he saw her. Ringed with dark black, they were accented by thick lashes. After a moment, though, the light went out in them, like it always did. “Hello, Emily.”

She set silverware and a place mat on the table in front of him. “You’re later than usual.”

“Am I?”

“Hmm.” She fussed with the knife and fork, wishing she could crack that facade of his. “Busy today?”

Forcefully he shook out his paper. “Uh-huh.”

“At a job?”

“Yes.” He looked down and began reading.

“Where do you work, Ben? You’ve never mentioned it.”

He hesitated. “Construction jobs here and there.”

Since he’d finally answered a question about his circumstances, she dared another. “Then you can afford a place to live?” She’d worried he was homeless, like many who came to Cassidy Place. “You don’t…”

“Live on the street? No, not anymore.”

He raised the paper and stuck his nose in it, signaling he was done talking. Well, at least she’d gotten this far tonight. Over the past year, she’d had to drag any personal information out of him. When he did talk to her, he seemed so lonely it broke her heart.

She scurried back to the kitchen where the aroma of cooking meat and fresh bread permeated the air, contrary to the smell out in the dining area. Guests at shelters like this weren’t always clean. “One more,” she said and smiled at the older woman who dished up food in front of the huge industrial stove. “It’s for Ben.”

“Ah, that one. Let’s give him a hefty portion. He needs meat on his bones.”

He’s got nice meat on his bones already. Blushing at the thought, Emily transferred her gaze to the windows that lined the wall above the king-size dishwasher. More than once she’d checked out his bones. He wore tattered shirts and threadbare jeans, revealing the muscles beneath them—from the construction work he did, she guessed. Now that it was spring, those muscles were vividly defined beneath his T-shirts.

Sliding his plate and a dessert onto a tray, she hurried back to the table. Alice had served him milk and coffee, which he drank slowly, precisely, like he did everything. He seemed to savor each drop. “Here you go.” She set his meal in front of him.

He gave her what passed for a smile. “Thank you.”

She glanced around. “Can I sit with you a while?”

“All right.” As he ate, she studied him. His features were square cut and angular. Right now, his jaw sported about a two-day beard. In addition to being sexy, it was somewhat sinister. “You look tired, Emily,” he finally said, scrutinizing her face.

Another disagreement with her father. “Do I? I’m not sleeping well.”

He hesitated. “You’re not sick are you?”

“No. Family problems.” He glanced at her hand, her left hand, but said nothing.

“Are you married, Ben?”

He’d forked in a mouthful of meat and now he almost choked on it. The volunteers at Cassidy Place were friendly but they usually kept a professional distance from the guests.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m not married.”

“Ever been?”

“No.” And then, he added, “Came close, though.” Still, he didn’t ask her.

“I was married. I’ve been divorced for almost three years.” And the breakup had done serious damage to her self-esteem. Sometimes when she tried to sleep at night, she could still hear Paul hurl insults at her, see his face suffused with disgust.

Again, Ben studied her. He ate some potatoes, then wiped his lips with his napkin. They were nice lips. “The divorce was tough?”

“That’s an understatement. You know, I just don’t understand intentional cruelty.”

“Me, either. Any kids?”

Her hand went to her stomach. “No, I…can’t. I wish we had some, though. I’d have a baseball team if I could.”

He laughed.

Emily cocked her head. “Why does the conversation always revert to me when I finally get you to talk?”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Because you’re more interesting.”

“No way. Come on, tell me more about yourself. Do you have brothers or sisters? A father or mother living?”

“No. No living relatives.” He shook his head. “Alice need help tonight?”

She felt frustrated with the change of topic. “Probably with stacking the chairs and folding up the tables so the janitor can get in here tomorrow morning. He has a fit if that’s not done.”

From across the room, the one other guest left at a table yelled, “I need something here.”

She stood. “I’d better go talk to Hugo. He’s not very happy tonight.”

Ben nodded and looked back to his plate.

But when Emily rose and crossed the room, she could feel him watching her. Hmm, he was definitely different. And she liked him. She wished he’d pay more attention to her. Oh, well. The story of her life. She’d always wanted the attention of a mother, but hers had left home when Emily was five. For years, she’d craved more attention outside of work from her father. And, of course Paul, who’d walked out on her, had said outright she wasn’t worth anybody’s attention.

He was wrong, though. Emily was worth all of those things. She knew it, and she wondered if the man behind her, whom she’d been having these stilted conversations with for almost a year, would recognize it too. If he ever got to know her.

SURREPTITIOUSLY, BEN WATCHED her like a hawk. It was his only vice these days. Once every week, he allowed himself to feast on the sight of Emily Erickson. She had strawberry-blond hair, which right now escaped from her braid, and when she got close, he could see wisps framing her face, probably from the heat of the kitchen. She had the most flawless skin he’d ever seen, lips just a bit pouty, a cute nose…but it was her eyes that really got to him—they were a mixture of browns and greens and reminded him of a forest in the fall. As she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

He didn’t return it; instead, he shifted in the straight-back chair and picked up the newspaper to block her from his sight. Best not to encourage her. For almost a year, he’d been trying to keep his distance, though she’d done anything but cooperate and they’d gotten closer than was good for her. She was always sitting with him, asking him questions, paying extra attention to him. And too often he succumbed to spending time with her. Invariably he regretted it. When he was with her, Ben felt like a man starved for food, but when a banquet was set out in front of him, he was forbidden to eat. There was a time when he’d have gone after a woman like her with all he had, and gotten her, too. But that part of his life was over.

“Ain’t you got none left?” he heard Hugo, a regular, snap at her.

Ben looked over the top of the paper in time to see Emily step back. She seemed more vulnerable in the leotard and tights she wore under a filmy black skirt. She told him once that she took a dance class after her stint at the soup kitchen.

She spoke softly to Hugo, who then swore. Ben set down his paper and crossed the room.

He came up to them just as Emily let Hugo have it. “That language won’t be tolerated here. If you want to eat, you’ll behave yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find more chicken for you.” She glanced at Ben, nodded and walked away.

He grinned safely behind her back; from beneath that cream-puff exterior, he’d often seen her tough side emerge. The contrast continually amazed him, and sometimes he wanted to plumb those depths—thoroughly.

Ben dropped into a chair. “Hey, Hugo, what’s going on?”

Desperate eyes leveled on him. Ben knew the expression intimately, had seen it in his mirror often over the past two years. “Aw, Ben, I didn’t mean to yell at that girl.” He shook his head then rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I wanna bring food to Josie, and Emily said they were done serving.”

“Cassidy Place doesn’t send home doggy bags, Hugo, you know that. Josie has to come here if she wants to eat.”

“She’s sick.” Translated, she’s either stoned or drunk.

Familiar with the latter, Ben laid a hand on Hugo’s bony shoulder. “There are free clinics to help her, man.”

Hugo’s body sagged beneath the old work shirt. “I dunno what to do.”

“Talk to Alice. She’s got names of places to help Josie.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And apologize to Emily. She didn’t do anything to you.”

He returned to his seat before Emily came back, but he couldn’t focus on the paper. He was remembering when he’d needed one of those places that reformed drunks….

Ben had been on a long binge, and that night, dashing under a bridge to escape the rain, he’d slipped and fallen, and then passed out. He’d woken up with his face in a puddle of slime, a cop standing over him.

“Get up. You’re drunk.”

Ben had stared up at the officer through bleary eyes. His father had been a bum, often cornered by the police like this. And now Ben was the same. He’d struggled to his feet.

In a surprising move, the cop had pulled out a card. “This is a clinic to help you sober up, if you want to be more than a drunken bum.”

Something about the taste of slime in his mouth, the epithet of the cop, hell, maybe it was finally hitting bottom, had made Ben take stock and had given him the impetus to make changes. It had been a long road back….

Picking up the paper, he shook off the memories and turned to the business section, scrolling down the front page. When he found what he was looking for, his hand fisted, crumpling the edge of the paper. Mackenzie Enterprises’ stock was up another five points, credited to its hostile takeover two years ago of a company that made monitoring equipment for public utilities. That business was now flourishing. Earning money again. A lot of money. Ben’s hand started to hurt. Consciously, he forced himself to relax. Breathe deeply. That kind of tension would drive him back to the bottle and, though he’d lost everything, he wouldn’t go there again. Over the top of the paper, his gaze strayed again to the photo that graced the entrance. Mick Cassidy smiled down from the one and only picture Ben had managed to save of his father. Their nomadic travels from city to city, house to house, had made it difficult to keep mementos. Lost in thought, Ben missed Emily approaching his table.

“Thanks for calming down Hugo, Ben.”

He lowered the paper. “No thanks necessary, ma’am. Just take it as payment for my dinner.”

Again, that smile that could stop a truck in its tracks. “You pay for your dinner ten times over. And please, don’t call me ma’am—it makes me sound like my grandmother.”

He suppressed a grin.

She nodded to the paper. “Anything interesting in there?”

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly lonely, he talked about current events with her. On occasion, he let her help him with the crossword puzzle.

“Not much.” Unless she wanted to discuss the business world’s corporate shark. If it was the last thing he did, Ben would get even with that man. He’d never been vindictive, cold and callous—until Lammon Mackenzie had entered his life. He hated the man most for that.

“Ben, is something wrong?”

Only my whole life. “No, why?”

“You look angry.”

“Nah. Just wish the economy was better.” He nodded over her head. “Seems Alice is looking for you.”

Emily rose when she saw the older woman in the doorway and smiled down at Ben. She squeezed his arm. “Someday, I’m going to get you to tell me more about yourself.”

His heartbeat accelerated. “Boring story.”

“I doubt it.”

He watched her leave. Well, she was right about that. His story was anything but boring. Sad. Infuriating. Stupid. But not boring. It was his own damn fault he’d let Lammon Mackenzie get his company. He’d lost everything to the bastard—everything but this place.

Which was why, once Ben had sobered himself up, he came here every Monday. Cassidy Place, which he’d started ten years ago in memory of his father, and was still solvent because he’d gotten funding from the United Way, was the only thing he had left in his life to prove he’d made a difference, made his mark on the world.

That was why he returned weekly and endured the torture of seeing Emily. In order to stay sane after all that had happened to him, he needed the reinforcement that he was more than an ex-drunk has-been who didn’t have the smarts to hold on to the company he’d built from the ground up. And there was no way in hell Emily Erickson was going to find out what a failure he was.

LAMMON MACKENZIE SCOWLED at the cell phone as he listened to the message. “It’s me again,” he barked after the beep. “Where the hell are you? Call me.”

Just as he clicked off, the office door opened. His assistant, Pete Heller, stood in the doorway and nodded to the desk. “There’s a call for you from your lawyer, Mac.”

“All right.” He scowled at Pete. “I suppose you’d like to leave now.”

The tall, lanky man arched a brow. “What, at 9:00 p.m.?”

“Funny.”

“We human beings need food and sleep.”

Mac hid a smile. If the guy wasn’t such a shrewd market analyst, he’d fire him for his irreverence. “Get the hell out of here.” He picked up the phone. “Jacob, nice of you to get back to me.”

“It’s only been a few hours since you called. I have clients other than you, Mac.”

“Nobody who pays you as much.”

“Well, you’ve got me now. What can I do for you?”

He knocked his knuckles against the paper. “I’m ready to sell off Rockford Instruments.” Formerly known as Cassidy Industries.

“Wow, that was fast. I had no idea this move would come so soon.”

“I’m that good at turning things around, Jacob.”

Of course this time, he’d had help. Cassidy Industries had been in bad shape when he’d snatched it out from under Benedict Cassidy. The guy was too fair, too optimistic and too foolish to make it in the business world. It had been child’s play, really, to take the company from him. Even easier to build it back up again.

“All right, I’ll start the paperwork.” Jacob hesitated. “What will you do now?”

“I have a line on another business that might be fun to court.” Man, he liked the thrill of the chase. The kill, when the time came.

“You have a lot of energy, Mac.”

“For a man in his late fifties, not bad. Get in touch when you’ve got this rolling.”

He disconnected and leaned back in his plush leather chair. Propping his feet up, he linked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. At least he’d have something to look forward to. Aside from his daughter, work was the only thing in his life. He preferred it that way. He didn’t have to tolerate a nagging wife who wished he was home more, friends who disagreed with his tactics. He didn’t have to explain himself to anybody.

So there was no reason why he opened the left drawer of his custom-built granite-topped desk. No reason to pull out the picture of the man, woman and child. Still, he did it.

A lump clogged his throat as he stared at the images. Mac was young, only twenty-six. He had dark hair then, not this mop of gray. He was thinner, too, and more relaxed. The little girl was stunning, just like her mother. God, his wife had been beautiful. And fragile. She’d never stood a chance with him. He could still remember her laughter… Lammon, you’re home early, I love it when you surprise me like this… Lying beside him… You’re so good in here—she’d tap his naked chest over his heart—why can’t you let others see that? See what I see… Her face when she’d held out their child to him for the first time… It’s all right that you weren’t here for the birth, darling. Isn’t she beautiful?

But then, as always happened when he thought of Anna, bad memories followed like the furies chasing prey. I can’t believe you did what the paper says… Tell me these are vicious rumors… I won’t leave her with a man like you….

Abruptly he dropped his feet to the floor, shoved the picture back in its hiding place and bolted out of his chair. He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a hefty scotch. When it didn’t take the sting away, he gulped back another. Finally, that numbed him.

He studied the office—the oak ceiling, the grass-cloth walls, furniture that had cost more than some people’s houses. They were all testaments to his success, and that comforted him. The clock caught his eye. Ten o’clock. He scowled at the phone. Stalking to the desk, he picked up his cell and punched Redial.

The answering machine clicked on again. “This is Emily Erickson. Leave a message at the beep.”

“Emily, this is your father. Where the hell are you?”