Damage Control

I hold up a finger. “Oh he’s—”

She goes into his office and I cringe. “I wasn’t supposed to let her in.”

Shane laughs. “It’s my mother. You never had a chance to stop her and my father knows that.” He holds up my coat to help me into it, and I slip my arms inside, only to have him lean in close, and murmur, “I’d drink the tea.”

I whirl around. “You heard?”

“I did and you were protecting me.”

“I was, but do you think—”

“All right then,” Maggie says, reappearing. “We are off.”

“I need to talk to you, Mother. Come see me when you get back.”

She points at her watch. “I have meetings. I’m not coming back up. I’ll call you.”

Shane does not look pleased and I wonder what he thinks she’s avoiding. Maggie laces her arm with mine and drags me forward, giving me no chance to even tell Shane good-bye. In fact, I have to wave at the receptionist and shout out, “Call me if there’s anything urgent!” before we step into the hallway.

“Gorgeous coat, honey,” Maggie says, punching the elevator button. “Did Shane buy it for you?”

And there it is. Her games and really, I think she is as much a master as her husband, because this is a subtle attempt to hit a nerve that sets me up to run my mouth later. I don’t take the bait. “You do know I get paid extremely well for working for your husband, don’t you?”

“Really?” she says. “How well?”

“Well enough that I was willing to take the title of secretary.”

“You’re a paralegal, right?”

“Yes,” I say, choking on the lie I need to get used to telling, but lies just don’t become me. “And I’m making more than I would in that role elsewhere.”

We step onto the elevator and this time she punches the button. “Well, you certainly earn it. He’s difficult. He always has been, but the cancer has made it worse.”

There is no grief in her voice, no torment like I feel in Shane when he speaks of his father. More like agitation, but then, he’s sleeping around on her, even now. “How long have you been married?”

“Thirty-seven years. I was a teenager when I married. Young, in love, and pregnant.”

“Oh. I had no idea. That must have been hard.”

“Believe it or not, back then your cranky boss was a charmer like Shane.”

“I see glimpses of that side of him.”

She sighs. “Me too, but it’s rare.” She stares ahead and for a moment doesn’t speak, and this time I do sense torment in her that she doesn’t wish for me to see, several floors passing before she’s back to chatter. “The restaurant is excellent and Mike Rogers, our stockholder, owns it, so we always get extra-special treatment.”

“Mike Rogers,” I say. “I hear his name all the time but have never seen him. I guess that will change at the board meeting next week.”

“Ah yes,” she says, the car stopping at the lobby level. “The board meeting.” We exit the car and walk to the garage elevator. “My husband is going to announce his retirement to prevent news of his cancer from leaking and then set a vote for the head of the table.”

“I figured as much but he’s been very hush-hush,” I say as we exit into the garage.

“Well, whatever you do”—she hits a clicker and a silver Mercedes I know is one of the most expensive they make, beeps—“don’t tell him I told you. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

We climb into the car and she starts telling me all about the food at the restaurant, and in only a few blocks we’re in the parking lot, with a flurry of snowflakes around us. She parks the car and her cell phone rings. She kills the engine and digs it out of her purse, glancing at the number. “The senator I’m working for. I have to take it.”

“Of course,” I say, removing my cell phone, with Shane on my mind.

I pull up my text messages and send him a note: What was I thinking? I should have gone along with your father and let him think I could influence you. Then I could have found out what he is up to. I’m a horrible spy.

His reply is instant: I don’t want you playing spy. You were perfect and I’ll show you how perfect tonight.

I type: Promise?

His response is exactly what I expect: Promise. And I never break a promise.

I smile and almost laugh.

“Is that my son you’re talking to?” Maggie asks, clearly having ended her call.

I glance up to find her staring at me. “Yes. It’s Shane. He’s good at making me laugh, which is perhaps the reason I can’t stay away from him.”

She gets a rather distant look, several beats passing before she agrees. “It’s certainly not a bad quality. Shall we go eat?”

“Yes. Please. I’m starving.” We both pull up the hoods to our coats and exit the car into the cold, snowy day, meeting at the trunk and making a mad dash for the restaurant.

One of the staff opens the door for us, and we rush into the warmth, tugging our hoods back down. We are greeted warmly by a thirty-something pretty blonde in jeans and boots who clearly knows Maggie. “We have your regular table ready, Mrs. Brandon. This way.”

“Mike’s a rancher,” Maggie explains, “so this place is all about that piece of culture.”

Boy is it, I think, as we are led to the left, where neon signs and cowboy hats decorate the walls. There’s even a jukebox by the pale wooden bar that matches the floors. We walk up several steps and claim one of only four booths that overlook rows of tables, with five big screens mounted on a wall above us. The waitress leaves us with menus, takes our drink order while we are still standing, and then both Maggie and I shed our coats before sitting down across from each other.