Unfinished Business Read online

  “That had to be the quickest shower on record.”

  “I learned to be quick when I was an intern.” He took a long, deep sniff of the coffee. It was his bad luck that he could also smell his shampoo on her hair. “I’m going to feed Kong,” he said abruptly, and left her alone again.

  When he returned, she was smiling at the coffee, which had nearly dripped through. “I remember one of these in your kitchen on Main Street.”

  “My mother always made drip coffee. The best.”

  “Brady, I haven’t told you how sorry I am. I know how close you were.”

  “She never gave up on me. Probably should have more than once, but she never did.” His eyes met Vanessa’s. “I guess mothers don’t.”

  Uncomfortable, Vanessa turned away. “I think it’s ready.” When he reached for two mugs, she shook her head. “No, I don’t want any, thanks. I’ve given it up.”

  “As a doctor, I can tell you that’s commendable.” He poured a full mug. “As a human being, I have to ask how you function.”

  She smiled. “You just start a little slower, that’s all. I have to go.”

  He simply put a hand on the counter and blocked her way. There was rain on his hair now, and his eyes were very clear. “You didn’t sleep well.”

  “I’d say that makes two of us.”

  He took a casual sip of his coffee as he completed a thorough study of her face. The fatigue he saw was due to more than one restless night. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “If I can.”

  “Go home, pull the covers over your head, and tune out until noon.”

  Her lips curved. “I might just do that.”

  “If those shadows under your eyes aren’t gone in forty-eight hours, I’m going to sic my father on you.”

  “Big talk.”

  “Yeah.” He set the mug aside and then, leaning his other hand on the counter, effectively caged her. “I seem to remember a comment last night about no action.”

  Since she couldn’t back up, she held her ground. “I was trying to make you mad.”

  “You did.” He leaned closer until their thighs met.

  “Brady, I don’t have the time or patience for this. I have to go.”

  “Okay. Kiss me goodbye.”

  Her chin tilted. “I don’t want to.”

  “Sure you do.” His mouth whispered over hers before she could jerk her head back. “You’re just afraid to.”

  “I’ve never been afraid of you.”

  “No.” He smiled an infuriating smile. “But you’ve learned to be afraid of yourself.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Prove it.”

  Seething, she leaned forward, intent on giving him a brief, soulless kiss. But her heart was in her throat almost instantly. He used no pressure, only soft, soft persuasion. His lips were warm and mobile against hers, his tongue cleverly tracing the shape of her mouth before dipping inside to tease and tempt.

  On a breathless murmur, she took her hands up and over his naked chest to his shoulders. His skin was damp and cool.

  He nipped gently at her lips, drowning in the taste of her. Using all his control, he kept his tensed hands on the counter. He knew that if he touched her now, even once, he wouldn’t stop.

  She would come to him. He had promised himself that as he’d sweated through the night. She would come to him, and not because of a memory, not because of grief. Because of need.

  Slowly, while he still had some control, he lifted his head and backed away. “I want to see you tonight, Van.”

  “I don’t know.” She put a hand to her spinning head.

  “Then you think about it.” He picked up his mug again, surprised the handle didn’t shatter in his grip. “You can call me when you make up your mind.”

  Her confusion died away, to be replaced by anger. “I’m not playing games.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m just trying to survive.” She snatched up her purse and ran out into the rain.

  Chapter 5

  Bed sounded like a wonderful idea, Vanessa decided as she pulled up in front of the house. Maybe if she drew down the shades, put the music on low and willed herself to relax, she would find the sleep she had lost the night before. When she felt more rested, she might have a clearer idea of what to say to her mother.

  She wondered if a few hours’ sleep would help her resolve her feelings about Brady.

  It was worth a shot.

  She stepped out of the car and rounded the hood to the sidewalk. When she heard her name called, she turned. Mrs. Driscoll was lumbering toward her, clutching her purse and a stack of mail. A huge, wood-handled black umbrella was tight in her fist. Vanessa’s smile came naturally as she moved forward to greet her.

  “Mrs. Driscoll. It’s good to see you again.”

  Only a little winded, Mrs. Driscoll peered out of sharp little eyes. “Heard you were back. Too skinny.”

  With a laugh, Vanessa bent to kiss her leathery cheek. As always, her former teacher smelled of lavender sachet. “You look wonderful.”

  “Take care of yourself.” She sniffed. “That snippy Brady tells me I need a cane. He thinks he’s a doctor. Hold on to this.” Bossy by nature, she shoved the umbrella into Vanessa’s hand. She opened her purse to stuff her mail inside, stubbornly keeping her balance. The rain made her bones ache all the more, but she had always loved to walk in it. “It’s about time you came home. You staying?”

  “Well, I haven’t—”

  “About time you gave your mother some attention,” she interrupted, leaving Vanessa with nothing to say. “I heard you playing when I walked to the bank yesterday, but I couldn’t stop.”

  Vanessa struggled with the heavy umbrella, and with her manners. “Would you like to come in, have some tea?”

  “Too much to do. You still play real nice, Vanessa.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Mrs. Driscoll took the umbrella back, Vanessa thought the little visit was over. She should have known better. “I’ve got a grandniece. She’s been taking piano lessons in Hagerstown. Puts a strain on her ma, having to haul her all that way. Figured now that you’re back, you could take over.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  “She’s been taking them nigh on a year, an hour once a week. She played ‘Jingle Bells’ real well at Christmas. Did a fair turn on ‘Go Tell Aunt Rhodie,’ too.”

  “That’s very nice,” Vanessa managed, beginning to feel desperate, as well as wet. “But since she’s already got a teacher, I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

  “Lives right across from Lester’s. Could walk to your place. Give her ma a breather. Lucy—that’s my niece, my younger brother’s second girl—she’s expecting another next month. Hoping for a boy this time, since they’ve got the two girls. Girls just seem to run in the family.”

  “Ah…”

  “It’s hard on her driving clear up to Hagerstown.”

  “I’m sure it is, but—”

  “You have a free hour once a week, don’t you?”

  Exasperated, Vanessa dragged a hand through her rapidly dampening hair. “I suppose I do, but—”

  Violet Driscoll knew when to spring. “How about today? The school bus drops her off just after three-thirty. She can be here at four.”

  She had to be firm, Vanessa told herself. “Mrs. Driscoll, I’d love to help you out, but I’ve never given instruction.”

  Mrs. Driscoll merely blinked her little black eyes. “You know how to play the thing, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then you ought to be able to show somebody else how. Unless they’re like Dory—that’s my oldest girl. Never could teach her how to crochet. Clumsy hands. Annie’s got good hands. That’s my grandniece. Smart, too. You won’t have any trouble with her.”

  “I’m sure I won’t—I mean, I’m sure she is. It’s just that—”

  “Give you ten dollars a lesson.” A smug smile crea
sed Mrs. Driscoll’s face as Vanessa rattled her brain for excuses. “You were always quick in school, Vanessa. Quick and well behaved. Never gave me any grief like Brady. That boy was trouble from the get-go. Couldn’t help but like him for it. I’ll see that Annie’s here at four.”

  She trundled off, sheltered under the enormous umbrella, leaving Vanessa with the sensation of having been flattened by an antique but very sturdy steamroller.

  Piano lessons, she thought on a little groan. How had it happened? She watched the umbrella disappear around the corner. It had happened the same way she had “volunteered” to clean the blackboard after school.

  Dragging a hand through her hair, she walked to the house. It was empty and quiet, but she’d already given up on the idea of going back to bed. If she was going to be stuck running scales with a fledgling virtuoso, then she’d better prepare for it. At least it would keep her mind occupied.

  In the music room, she went to the gracefully curved new cabinet. She could only hope that her mother had saved some of her old lesson books. The first drawer contained sheet music she considered too advanced for a first-year student. But her own fingers itched to play as she skimmed the sheets.

  She found what she was looking for in the bottom drawer. There they were, a bit dog-eared, but neatly stacked. All of her lesson books, from primer to level six. Struck by nostalgia, she sat cross-legged on the floor and began to pore through them.

  How well she remembered those first heady days of lessons. Finger exercises, scales, drills, those first simple melodies. She felt an echo of that rush of emotion that had come when she had learned that she had the power to turn those printed notes into music.

  More than twenty years had passed since that first day, that first lesson. Her father had been her teacher then, and though he had been a hard taskmaster, she had been a willing student. How proud she had been the first time he had told her she’d done well. Those small and rare words of praise had driven her to work all the harder.

  With a sigh, she dipped into the drawer for more books. If young Annie had been taking lessons for a year, she should have advanced beyond the primary level. It was then that she found the thick scrapbook, the one she knew her mother had started years before. With a smile, she opened the first page.

  There were pictures of her at the piano. It made her laugh to see herself in pigtails and neat white ankle socks. Sentimentally she paged through photos of her first recital, her early certificates of accomplishment. And here were the awards that had once hung on her walls, the newspaper clippings from when she had won her first regional competition, her first national.

  How terrified she’d been. Sweaty hands, buzzing ears, curdling stomach. She’d begged her father to let her withdraw. He’d refused to listen to her fears. And she’d won, Vanessa mused.

  It surprised her that the clippings continued. Here was an article from the London Times, written a full year after she had left Hyattown. And here a picture of her in Fort Worth after she’d won the Van Cliburn.

  There were dozens—no, hundreds—Vanessa realized. Hundreds of pictures, snippets of news, pieces of gossip, magazine articles—many she had never seen herself. It seemed that everything that had ever been printed about her was here, carefully preserved. Everything, Vanessa thought, down to the last interview she had granted before her concerts in D.C.

  First the letters, she thought, the book weighing heavily on her thighs, and now this. What was she supposed to think? What was she supposed to feel? The mother she had believed had forgotten her had written her religiously, even when there had been no answer. Had followed her every step of her career, though she’d been allowed no part in it.

  And, Vanessa added with a sigh, had opened the door to her daughter again without question.

  But it didn’t explain why Loretta had let her go without a murmur. It didn’t explain the years away.

  I had no choice.

  She remembered her mother’s words. But what had she meant? An affair would have destroyed her marriage. There was no doubt of that. Vanessa’s father would never have forgiven her. But why had it severed her relationship with her daughter?

  She had to know. She would know. Vanessa rose and left the books scattered on the rug. She would know today.

  The rain had stopped, and the watery sunlight was already struggling through the clouds. Birdsong competed with the sound of a children’s television show that chirped through the window of the house next door. Though it was only a few blocks away, she drove to the antique shop. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the walk, but she wanted no interruptions from old friends and acquaintances. The old two-story house was just on the edge of town. The sign that read Loretta’s Attic was a graceful arch over the front door.

  There was an old-fashioned sleigh in the yard, its metal fittings polished to a gleam. A scarred whiskey barrel was filled to overflowing with petunias, their purple-and-white petals drenched with rain. On either side of the entrance, well-groomed beds spilled over with spring color. A beribboned grapevine wreath hung on the door. When she pushed it open, bells jingled.

  “It’s circa 1860,” she heard her mother say. “One of my finest sets. I had it refinished locally by a man who does a great deal of work for me. You can see what a wonderful job he does. The finish is like glass.”

  Vanessa half listened to the exchange coming from the next room. Though she was frustrated to find her mother with a customer, the shop itself was a revelation.

  No dusty, cramped antique shop this. Exquisite glass-fronted cabinets displayed china, statuettes, ornate perfume bottles and slender goblets. Wood gleamed on each individual piece. Brass shone. Crystal sparkled. Though every inch of space was utilized, it was more like a cozy family home than a place of business. The scent of rose-and-spice potpourri wafted from a simmer pot.

  “You’re going to be very happy with that set,” Loretta was saying as she walked back into the main room. “If you find it doesn’t suit after you get it home, I’ll be more than willing to buy it back from you. Oh, Vanessa.” After fumbling a moment, she turned to the young executive type beside her. “This is my daughter. Vanessa, this is Mr. Peterson. He’s from Montgomery County.”

  “Damascus,” he explained. He looked like a cat who’d been given a whole pitcher of cream. “My wife and I just bought an old farmhouse. We saw that dining room set here a few weeks ago. My wife hasn’t been able to talk about anything else. Thought I’d surprise her.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

  Vanessa watched as her mother accepted his credit card and went briskly about completing the transaction.

  “You’ve got a terrific place here, Mrs. Sexton,” he went on. “If you came over the county line, you’d have to beat off customers.”

  “I like it here.” She handed him his receipt. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Cute town.” He pocketed the receipt. “After our first dinner party, I can guarantee you some new customers.”

  “And I can guarantee I won’t beat them off.” She smiled at him. “Will you need some help Saturday when you pick it up?”

  “No, I’ll drag a few friends with me.” He shook her hand. “Thanks, Mrs. Sexton.”

  “Just enjoy it.”

  “We will.” He turned to smile at Vanessa. “Nice meeting you. You’ve got a terrific mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, I’ll be on my way.” He stopped halfway to the door. “Vanessa Sexton.” He turned back. “The pianist. I’ll be damned. I just saw your concert in D.C. last week. You were great.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I didn’t expect to,” he admitted. “My wife’s the classical nut. I figured I’d catch a nap, but, man, you just blew me away.”

  She had to laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “No, really. I don’t know Mozart from Muzak, but I was—well, I guess enthralled’s a good word. My wife’ll just about die when I tell
her I met you.” He pulled out a leather-bound appointment book. “Would you sign this for her? Her name’s Melissa.”