Out of Bounds

CHAPTER THREE

“W HAT MAN?”

“A man from the foundation. He’ll be here tomorrow to meet me and Chloe and collect his check.” Trish practically whispered the last few words.

When she said the word check, Trish put her hands over her mouth as if she could hold back the terror Posy heard in her voice.

She crossed the room to kneel next to her mom. It was a tight fit and she banged her ankle on the leg of the desk. She angled her arms around her mom’s shoulders. The cinnamon scent from the sachets her mother kept in her drawers was strong and familiar.

“I don’t have that kind of money saved, Mom. Buying my condo took almost all my cash. I’d lend it to you if I could. We’ll figure this out. I’ll help. Whatever I can do, I’m here for you.”

For a second, her mom seemed to cling to her, but then she abruptly straightened up.

“Well, I guess it’s on to plan B.”

“We have a plan B?”

Trish stood and brushed the front of her skirt. She stepped out of the jumble of packing materials, the two angels lying broken on the floor.

“Of course I have a plan B. My aunt Denise will lend me the money. She’s always been very generous and she didn’t blink an eye when I asked her for a loan.”

“You already asked her?” Posy was lost again.

“Yes, but I wanted to give you the chance to inherit first. I’m going to drive down to the city and see her. You stay here and stall the Fallon Foundation man and Chloe. I’ll be back in a few days with the money and everything will be fine.”

Posy knew that tone. Her mom was looking on the bright side again. “You really called Aunt Denise? Why not just have her send the check?”

“Posy, I’m borrowing close to seventy-thousand dollars from a lonely old woman who’s always been very kind to me. The least I can do is stop in for an afternoon chat.”

Bam. Her mother was the queen at making you feel stupid while also getting her own way. She didn’t like this, but what was she going to do? “I’ll keep the foundation people and Chloe at bay, but this has to be the last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if we sell your house and close down Wonders, then your life is your own. You can spend time with your new guy or stay in Kirkland, but you have to promise me you’re going to get yourself together. I need to have my independence.”

Trish kissed her cheek. “I promise.”

Posy nodded. “Then I’m in.”

* * *

T HAT NIGHT AFTER she was sure her mom was asleep, Posy slid out of bed in the guest room. Her mom had never redecorated her childhood bedroom and the pink-and-white color scheme and fussy flounces attached to every surface from the curtains to the comforter to the skirt on the vanity table made her claustrophobic.

She didn’t turn the light on as she walked down the carpeted upstairs hall and then quietly continued down the sweeping staircase to the foyer. Her mom and dad bought the house when the development it was in had still been a blueprint in the model house’s showcase living room. Trish picked out all the fixtures and upgrades and she’d clung stubbornly to the house even after her husband moved out.

If Trish had been able to admit back then that her life would never be the picture-perfect image she’d wanted, would she be in the same mess today? If she had dealt with the hole her divorce left in her life, would she have been so desperate to connect with other people? Would Posy still be trying to work off the guilt she felt over being the wrong sort of daughter and picking the wrong parent?

That kind of what-if was absurd, especially because her mom was going to finally sell the house. Trish had, thankfully, set up a retirement fund and while she’d recently taken a loan from it, the bulk of her savings was intact. That meant Posy could meet with a Realtor about the house. And when Trish came back, the two of them would talk to an accountant about Wonders.

The house needed a lot of work before it could be sold. After Posy and her dad moved out, Trish filled up the empty hours with stuff.

Like the display space at Wonders, every corner was packed with collections and collectibles—everything from lighthouses, to thimbles to dollhouse furniture. If only she’d collected something valuable—Matisses, maybe, or original O’Keeffes. Posy might joke with her about hoarding, but the truth was, they weren’t going to be able to show the house until they cleared it out. It was impossible to see the generous space in its current state.

She turned down the hallway, heading for the kitchen, where she flipped the light on, surprising Angel, who was crouched near the sliding glass doors staring out into the dark backyard. The dog jumped and then sat down with her tail to the doors, watching Posy. If Angel had been a human, Posy would have thought she was embarrassed.

“You peeping that golden retriever next door?” Angel didn’t move. “Don’t bother. He told me he only likes smooth-coated chicks. Your curls are a turnoff.”

The dog didn’t take her eyes off her.

“You’ve met this Mitch guy? Is he the real deal?”

Angel flopped on the floor, her head resting on crossed front paws. She lifted the corner of her top lip in what might have been a yawn, but was more likely a growl.

Posy sat in one of the black wooden chairs at the kitchen island. She turned on her iPad and looked up Mitch’s Train Yard. The ex-surgeon looked friendly and normal in his photo. She’d waited her entire life for her mom to turn her laser focus and need for love on someone else. Knowing she had a boyfriend explained the relatively few phone calls and texts she’d been getting recently.

She just hoped he was on the up-and-up.

Before she continued her research, Posy called her cousin Maddy.

“The Knoll Retreat and Healing Center. This is Sister Maddy.”

“Maddy, it’s Posy.”

“What’s up? I thought you were on your pilgrimage to Trish’s house.” Maddy’s voice was warm and rich, hinting at the singing talent that had sent her to college for musical theater before she switched gears her senior year and pursued a position in the Daughters of Respite religious order. “How are you?”

“I’m at my mom’s. I guess I’m going to be here for a couple days, helping out. She’s closing Wonders. And selling her house. She met a new guy.”

“When did this happen? Didn’t I talk to you yesterday?”

“It was fast. Did you know about the fundraiser she hosted last month?”

“Someone forwarded the link. I think the retreat center sent a donation.”

As she talked, Posy looked up Chloe Chastain’s It’s a Mad, Mad Mommy blog.

“I’m looking at Chloe Chastain’s blog post about it right now. You wouldn’t believe how many comments and link backs there are.”

“Let me open it up,” Maddy said, and Posy listened as her cousin hit some keys. “Whoa. She looks good in that picture.”

Mixed in with the fundraising posts were Chloe’s regular stock-in-trade photos of her adorable daughters doing adorable things, accompanied by entries written by Chloe, who looked fairly adorable herself at the ripe old age of twenty-six.

“Chloe Chastain always looks good. Bed head is probably afraid of her.”

“It figures she’d have a blog about making life perfect. Remember when we were little and she was constantly making us do pretend weddings?” Maddy said. “You’d get so incensed because she made you be the groom.”

“I would have been happy being the priest. She just liked to make me mad.”

Maddy laughed. “It wasn’t as if she had to try very hard. Two people as competitive as you guys are—the conflict was inevitable.”

Except for her divorce, it sounded as if Chloe Chastain’s life had continued along the small-town-princess line it had been on when they were kids. Trish’s most common cause for complaint was that Posy wasn’t more like Chloe. There’d been a time when Posy would have sold her soul to be like her neighbor. In Posy’s worst memories, Chloe was always there, petite, poised, smart, graceful and so unrelentingly judgmental. Posy never felt more out of step than she did around Chloe.

“Look at the list of people who donated. Most of them aren’t even from here,” Maddy said. “This is huge.”

“My mom stole the money.” Posy was whispering even though no one else was around.

There was silence over the line.

Quickly, Posy went on, explaining how her mom had gotten into trouble. “Now this guy from the foundation is coming and I have to hold him off until my mom gets a loan from my aunt.”

“Oh. My. Goodness.”

“I hope the sisters don’t have your phone bugged.”

“Posy,” her cousin admonished. “Even if the sisters did listen in, they don’t have anything to do with punishing people for their sins. We have God for that.”

“Thank you, Maddy. You’re so kind. I can see why you went into the convent.”

“Does Chloe know?”

“No!”

“Because she won’t blink at the opportunity to bring your mom down. Imagine the traffic she’d get to her blog with that story? Especially if she can make herself look good in the process. Your mom will be crucified.”

Posy didn’t answer. What could she say?

“Sorry,” Maddy said. “That wasn’t helpful.”

“You haven’t met the guy from the Fallon Foundation when he’s been in town, have you?”

“Deacon? He seems very nice.”

“His brother, Wes.”

“I haven’t met that one.” She heard Maddy’s keyboard. “Let’s see what Google says.”

Posy knew enough about the world to know that if you were working for a foundation and you had the same last name as the guy who’d endowed it, you were probably privileged.

She typed his name in, too. Wes. Who named their kid Wes? People who wanted their kid to get beaten up in elementary school, that was who. His parents had made a bad call on that one.

Maddy’s keyboard fell silent and Posy stared at her own screen. Her cousin whistled.

“Your mom stole money from a really good-looking guy.”

There were hundreds of pictures of Wes Fallon, alone. The one that made her look twice was from some kind of formal event and showed a clear shot of his face.

The woman with him was wearing a dress slit up past where her underwear should have started. Her hair was tousled so one thick wave fell over her eye. She was undeniably sexy...and trying really, really hard. Wes had his arm around her waist and he was smiling down at her as if he knew she was being foolish, but he was having too much fun to care. Just a ridiculously handsome guy enjoying himself.

She’d always been a sucker for people who knew how to fit in and have fun.

“Call me tomorrow after you meet him, okay?” Maddy said. “And let me know if I can help.”

Posy hung up, browsed a few more pages of Wes Fallon pictures and then closed the tab. Now that she’d thoroughly depressed herself, she opened her email to send a message to Wyatt, her boss, that she needed to take some time off. An emergency. She rarely used her vacation, so she knew it wouldn’t be a problem. She’d call in tomorrow and talk to him just to be sure.

Four days tops. That was how long they’d estimated it might take for Trish to get to the city, get her aunt’s bank to set up a wire transfer and see the money cleared into her account.

If Posy could keep Wes Fallon and Chloe Chastain in the dark about the crime for four days at the most, her mom would be home free. And then maybe if she got rid of all this stuff and set her mom up with the model-train enthusiast, she could finally put down her load of guilt. The one she’d been carrying ever since the family court judge made the final custody arrangements by looking Posy in the eye and saying, “Pick.”

* * *

W HEN SHE GOT downstairs the next morning, she found a note written on thick white stationery with a red-and-green border and the Wonders logo at the top. Her mom had decided to strike out early for the city to get the money as soon as possible. Posy would meet the man from the foundation at one o’clock. Trish would be in touch as soon as she’d spoken with her aunt.

Posy didn’t like this. She and Trish had planned to have breakfast at the Lemon Drop together this morning. Her mom loved to be seen out with her daughter. Why would she skip that and why would she leave a note instead of waking Posy?

She called her mom’s cell, but it went straight to voice mail.

She glanced at the note again.

There was a P.S. on the back. Angel’s lamb and rice–formula dog food was in a plastic container in the pantry. The best-before date was coming up and Angel had a delicate stomach. If Posy needed to restock, she should be sure to buy the premium food.

Angel lifted her front paw and scratched at the glass sliding door. She wanted out.

“That makes two of us, sugar.”

* * *

W ES BALANCED THE BOX of Hand-to-Hand promotional

T-shirts and bumper stickers on his hip as he unlocked the door to his temporary office. He left the key in the lock momentarily while he scratched his head. The hospital staff had had to shave a strip above his ear to stitch up a cut the doctors were pretty sure came from one of the metal parts on the truck’s grille. And then, of course, Gary Krota shaved the rest of the hair off on their last night out. The hair growing in not only itched incessantly, it made it impossible for him to forget the accident for longer than five minutes at a time.

Deacon had arranged for him to rent office space in the Kirkland town center. He thought it was a good idea for Wes to be in proximity to the mayor and the members of the town board, who had offices in the building. Without their zoning variance, the site Deacon had picked out wouldn’t be approved.

The door swung open when he turned the key, and Wes stepped inside. The room was cramped, but the two windows set in the back wall made up for the small size. He put the box of shirts and stickers on the floor near the door and let his duffel bag slide to the ground as he opened the blinds. The office overlooked a small staff parking lot and an empty playground behind the building. Midday on a Tuesday didn’t seem like a popular time—all the swings were empty and not one kid was on the basketball court.

It was a shame to see such a nice court going to waste.

He hadn’t played since his accident, but his doctor had cleared him for normal activities before he left Madrid. His shoulder would need some physical therapy, but it didn’t hurt anymore.

He had the ball in his bag.

Flipping the cord, he let the blinds fall back down. Later. He was here to do a job for Deacon.

Trish Jones, the lady who collected the donations, was due in just a few minutes. He kicked the duffel bag behind the desk and then opened the box of shirts. Deacon’s wife, Julia, said he needed some props for his charm offensive. He was supposed to give the Hand-to-Hand shirts out so that eventually it would seem inevitable to the town that the partnership was going to go through.

Wes left his office and went in search of the Kirkland mayor. He found an office with the mayor’s nameplate on the wall. When he knocked on the doorjamb, the young guy sitting behind the desk looked up.

“I’m Wes Fallon, from the Fallon Foundation. I thought I’d say hello to Mayor Meacham.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fallon. I’ve been hoping to meet you.” The guy hopped up and came around to shake hands. “Ryan O’Malley, the mayor’s special assistant.”

“Good to meet you, too,” Wes said. Ryan looked as if he’d only recently graduated from college, but he had a firm handshake and his dark suit made Wes wonder if he’d underdressed in dark jeans and a golf shirt.

“The mayor isn’t in at the moment, I expect him back shortly,” Ryan said. “But I wanted to tell you how much respect I have for the work you’re doing. This Hand-to-Hand center is the kind of innovation we need in the community services world.”

Wes smiled. “We just have to get the variance and then we’ll be all set. In the meantime, can I give you a T-shirt or a sticker?”

Ryan smiled and took one of each. Then he asked for a second shirt for his fiancée.

Wes handed them over, happy to have recruited his first ally in Kirkland.

A short guy with blond hair thinning on the top entered the office. “Hey, there you are, Wes,” he said. “Great to see you again.”

Wes smiled and nodded even though he didn’t know how the guy knew him.

At that moment a tall woman with dark hair glanced into the office, but kept walking down the hall.

“Wes,” Ryan said, “this is Mayor Meacham.”

“Jay,” the mayor said. “Call me Jay.” He took Wes’s hand and pumped it. “It’s good to have you here. Man, it’s been years.”

Wes had no memory of Jay Meacham. He had very few memories of anything that happened to him before Deacon got custody of him when he was eight, but he doubted Jay knew him from that long ago. Deacon wouldn’t have forgotten to tell him that the mayor of Kirkland was actually their long-lost cousin.

Jay must have noticed his confusion. “I met you after the last game your first season at Western U. I’m an alum, too. Big supporter of the basketball team.”

Wes still didn’t remember meeting the mayor, but he remembered that game, in particular one of the sweetest three-pointers he’d shot in his life. He wasn’t much of a jumper, but he’d had springs in his legs that night and he’d scored right over the head of the defender from the Cardinals team.

“Nice to see you again,” Wes said.

The tall woman he’d seen before passed the open door again and then paused. She stood behind the mayor, but since she was about six inches taller than him, she had a perfect view into the room.

“That was some game,” Jay said, oblivious to the woman. “You had twenty-eight points.” He’d been holding a baseball cap by his side, and now he put it on. “You signed my T-shirt that night. Mind signing my hat now?”

He bent his head as he handed Wes a Sharpie. “I’ll have a whole Wes Fallon outfit.”

Wes took the Sharpie and stared down at the guy. His neck was bent and Wes noticed that the skin there was sunburned. In college he’d gotten a huge kick out of signing stuff for people. In Madrid, it was part of his job. He was retired now. And this? This was just awkward.

Ryan turned slightly to the side, straightening one of the perfectly aligned stacks of paper on his desk, and Wes was grateful to him. The woman watched intently. He wondered for a second if she was Trish Jones, but she was much too young.

The mayor was still waiting.

The woman crossed her arms.

“You want to take the hat off?” he tried.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Just go ahead and sign it on the brim.”

Because signing a hat while it’s on another man’s head isn’t awkward and uncomfortable at all.

He made the mistake of looking at the woman again. She stared right back, waiting to see what he would do. She knew how idiotic this was.

It was a stroke of freaking amazing luck that Jay had followed Wes’s college career and what he needed to do was to capitalize on that connection regardless of how it made him feel. For Deacon.

Wes uncapped the Sharpie and pinched the brim of the hat between his fingers to hold it steady. He felt Jay’s breath on his hand as he rushed an illegible scrawl across the brim. When he was finished, he tapped Jay on the head with the pen. And if he wasn’t so careful about tapping lightly, well, maybe the mayor would remember to take his hat off the next time he asked someone for an autograph. “Done.”

“I have to say, I’m thrilled you’re here!” Jay clapped his hands. “Your brother must be pleased you’re available.”

When he realized what he’d said, Jay flushed right to his hairline, the color on his face matching his bright red neck. “Not that anyone would be pleased about your injury or your—”

“It’s okay, Jay. I’m happy to be in Kirkland. Deacon and I are both looking forward to the possibilities.”

The woman stepped into the office. Her legs were a mile long in tight blue jeans and Wes was distracted by an entirely different set of possibilities.

Ryan noticed her and waved her forward. “Mayor Meacham, we have another visitor.”

The mayor didn’t seem to hear him. “Did Ryan tell you about our lunchtime basketball league on Wednesdays? I told him to tell you.” Jay punched him lightly on the biceps. “We’ll help you keep in shape now that you’re a civilian.”

Based on how tight the muscle in his jaw looked, Wes was pretty sure Ryan was suppressing the urge to punch the mayor.

“I’d love to join,” he said. “Send me the details.”

Wes Fallon, small-town rec-league guy. Fabi would have a field day if she knew.

Ryan stepped around the mayor and said to the woman, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Posy Jones. I have an appointment with Mr. Fallon.”

Posy Jones. Her voice was rich and throaty in a way that made Wes think of late nights in dark bars. He tried not to notice how long her dark eyelashes were or the way her eyes seemed lit with humor.

“Posy,” Jay said. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Did you come with your mother?”

“My mother isn’t available today.” But she didn’t offer any additional details.

Not available? Where exactly was Trish Jones and the Fallon Foundation’s sixty-eight thousand dollars?

An awkward silence fell over the room. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to ask that exact question.

A weak person would have leaped to fill the silence, but Posy kept her mouth shut and her expression blank. As if she’d just informed them that the special of the day was apple pie but she really didn’t care one way or the other if they ordered it.

If something was up with the money, he would find out, but he didn’t want the mayor, or worse yet, his eager and überprofessional assistant to hear.

His brother had built the next phase of plans for his Fallon Foundation Centers around the Hand-to-Hand programs. Nothing mattered more to him than this venture. If there was something fishy with Trish’s unofficial fundraiser, it had the potential to ruin the goodwill of the town of Kirkland.

He owed Deacon a debt he could never repay, but he would keep trying. Whatever was going on with Posy Jones, her mom and this fundraiser, he’d put it straight.

* * *

P OSY WAS AT an enormous disadvantage and she knew it even before she walked into that office and got her first glimpse of Wes Fallon in the flesh. As it were.