The River House Read online

  He received a smile emoji from Mark, and they were done. Gabe set his phone aside. He was adept at taking in new information, processing it, making a decision and moving forward—but he needed a moment to process Mark’s call. He hadn’t expected Felicity to be involved in the entrepreneurial boot camp, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected her to be living in the house on the river. To own it. He loved that place.

  “Should have bought it yourself, then,” he muttered.

  Instead he’d let Mark buy out his interest.

  He’d had no plans then, and he had none now ever to spend much time in his hometown. He’d gone in with Mark to buy the property in order to help their grandfather afford assisted living. They’d have paid his way, but that wasn’t what the old guy had wanted. The property had been in Flanagan hands for decades. Mark had designed the house—with Gabe’s input—and eventually bought Gabe out...which had made sense at the time. Mark was living in Knights Bridge. Gabe wasn’t. He’d never considered it might not stay in the family. If there was one spot in Knights Bridge he could get nostalgic about, it was that one.

  Of all the places for Felicity to end up.

  He took in the state of his condo. When he’d arrived that morning, he’d collapsed for a few hours’ sleep and had barely noticed the drop cloths, the covered furnishings, the smell of fresh paint. Workers had arrived mid-morning. The condo was undergoing cosmetic work ahead of going on the market. It would sell in a heartbeat, at a profit. Gabe had bought it two years ago more as an investment than as a place to live. It wasn’t home, not in the sense of Mark and Jess’s Colonial Revival. Gabe was young, unattached, didn’t have a baby on the way—and he liked to travel. He’d had top-notch employees and freelancers, all of whom worked remotely. He could work from anywhere that had an internet connection.

  His company’s new owners had kept on most of his employees and freelancers. Together, they’d take the company and its specialty in product development to the next level. Gabe liked starting businesses. He was good at it, although sometimes they didn’t work out. He’d had a few going when he’d launched the one he’d just sold. He liked being nimble, moving fast, and when that newest start-up had taken off, he’d focused on it. As it grew, he discovered digging in and building a company didn’t interest him as much as getting one off the ground, and he wasn’t particularly good at it. It’d been time to move on. Three years of intense work and focus had made his start-up attractive to a buyer who would do what he didn’t want to—couldn’t—do. As the founder, Gabe had done his best to make a clean exit.

  Clean from a business perspective, anyway. One of his freelancers, a customer development specialist who’d been with him from the start, happened to be in the process of divorcing the man who’d bought the company. She was out of a job and a marriage. Gabe had met with her in Los Angeles to reassure her he’d be in touch with any new venture.

  Everything had revolved around him during those intense years getting his business off the ground. Friends who’d been in his position advised him to have a post-sale plan in place, and he’d listened, at least to a degree. The boot camp had cropped up while he was still twiddling his thumbs in California, trying to figure out what was next.

  What was next was Knights Bridge and Felicity MacGregor.

  He hadn’t been to his hometown in months and he hadn’t seen Felicity in three years.

  He needed a reentry plan.

  * * *

  Gabe went into the master bedroom. The painters had taped off the windows and trim, but otherwise it was untouched. It was just the bed and a sheepskin he’d picked up in Ireland. He sat on the edge of his king-size bed and dug a small photo album out of his nightstand. His mother had put it together for him before her death. She’d done one for Mark, too. It contained pictures of their childhood, and hers, in Knights Bridge. Tucked inside was a sheet of Rhodia notepaper he’d folded in half three years ago that past February and hadn’t looked at since. He opened it now and wondered why he’d kept it. A cautionary tale? Hell if he knew.

  The note was in two parts, one he’d written, one Felicity had written. He’d written his portion in black Sharpie pen. They were the only pens he used. He was tidy, and he had his rituals. Felicity had resisted anything smacking of order, at least back then.

  Felicity,

  Meetings in Boston. Back at 5 p.m. Company arrives at 6 p.m. Hint.

  Gabe

  P.S. You know I’m right

  Then her scrawl in blue Sharpie pen:

  I made brownies for you and your “company.” They’re in the freezer. Enjoy.

  Felicity, financial analyst

  P.S. We’ll see who’s right

  He’d left her that morning scowling at him in his bathroom doorway, wrapped in a wet, threadbare towel. He could have afforded new towels even then, but he hadn’t seen the need. It’d been her fifth day sleeping on his couch, nursing her wounds after getting fired from yet another finance job. She had degrees and knew her stuff, but her heart wasn’t in the work. He’d told her so, not mincing words. Then he’d jotted the note and was on his way. By the time he returned, she’d cleared out of his apartment. She’d cleaned up her pizza boxes, collected her dirty dishes, folded the blankets she’d borrowed, put her sheets and towels in the washing machine and tidied up the bathroom.

  His “company” had been a woman he’d invited over to watch a movie. She’d promptly discovered a stray pair of lacy bikini underpants Felicity had missed in the couch cushions, refused to believe his explanation and stormed out of his apartment before he’d had a chance to pour wine. He’d thrown out Felicity’s underpants—damned if he’d mail them to her—and opened the freezer. He’d figured he’d microwave a couple of brownies, drink the wine by himself and put the lousy day behind him. But there’d been no brownies, and he’d realized Felicity had never had any intention of making him brownies. She’d wanted him to open the freezer and not find any brownies.

  Spite. Pure spite.

  Seemed a bit childish now, but he supposed he’d had it coming.

  He’d drunk the wine without brownies, without a date for the evening, without Felicity camped out on his couch with take-out pad thai or another pizza delivery. The next morning, he’d decided the ball was in her court. She was the one whose life was a mess, and he needed to respect what she wanted to do—needed to do. He’d had what he wanted and needed to do, too. He didn’t have time to hold Felicity’s hand through another mess. Nearly a week on his couch had proven that to him. She was a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Since she didn’t want or appreciate his advice, why push it with her?

  And so he hadn’t. He’d let her go.

  He reread the note. Yeah. She’d been furious with him.

  He folded the note and returned it to the photo album. He’d be lying if he tried to tell himself or anyone else that he hadn’t missed her. Didn’t still, at times, miss her. Especially in those first few months, he would reach for his phone to send her a text or email her a cute puppy video, but he never had.

  He had been right about her hacking away in the wrong jungle. Who was planning parties in Knights Bridge now instead of scratching out a living in a career to which she was unsuited?

  “Didn’t matter you were right, pal.”

  If there was one thing he knew about Felicity, it was that she wouldn’t thank him for being right. She wouldn’t credit him with helping steer her onto a better course for herself.

  Assuming it was better.

  Gabe grabbed his laptop and sat on his bed, his back against several insanely expensive down pillows, and drafted an email to Felicity about the boot camp party. It took him thirty minutes to write the damn thing. Forever by his standards. Normally he was in, out, done. He didn’t angst, especially over something as trivial as planning a ninety-minute open house. He had limited experience hosting parties. In fact, no experienc
e. He’d always delegated that sort of detail. He was good at delegating.

  He was delegating now, if only because of Mark.

  Wording the email was tricky in part because he didn’t want to get Mark in trouble, never mind he was the one who’d created this situation by sticking his nose in with Felicity in the first place.

  Gabe gave an inward groan. This wasn’t an email to a Fortune 500 CEO. It was an email to a Knights Bridge party planner. To Felicity.

  He read it over:

  Dear Felicity,

  Mark tells me you’re able to put together the open house after the boot camp talks. Let me know if you need anything from me.

  Best,

  Gabriel

  It didn’t sound too stiff to him. Professional. This was a business arrangement. He read the email once more and changed Gabriel to Gabe. Using his full first name struck him as too formal and might make Felicity think he was feeling awkward and self-conscious. Whatever the case, it hit the wrong note with him. They were no longer friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. They’d drifted apart. She’d moved on; he’d moved on. That was all there was to it, and Gabriel suggested there was more to it.

  There was, but whatever.

  He hit Send and got up and found a bottle of Scotch he’d bought in Edinburgh to celebrate some milestone in his business. He didn’t remember the details, but he did remember the Scotch. He splashed some into his glass and found his way back to his bedroom.

  He glanced at his in-box but Felicity hadn’t yet responded.

  He drank his Scotch and headed out for a late dinner on his own. By the time he returned to his condo, he was marginally less preoccupied with his ex-friend in Knights Bridge.

  * * *

  Gabe slept late but was awake before his assistant, Shannon Rivera, arrived. She was his last remaining employee. She’d lived next door to him at his first house and only ventured into the city if she had no other option. She’d arranged for the workers at his condo. He figured she knew most of them. Thirty-four, married to a police officer and mother of three, she had finely honed instincts about what he should do in any given situation.

  Probably should ask her what to do about Felicity.

  He checked his email, still in bed, which wasn’t a great habit but since he was alone, who cared?

  He had a reply from Felicity:

  Dear Gabe,

  Thank you for your email. I’m sure I can manage without involving you in any details. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any questions.

  Best wishes,

  Felicity MacGregor

  He kicked off his duvet and sat up straight. He read the email again. No second thoughts on her part about being self-consciously stuffy and awkwardly formal, obviously.

  So much for bygones being bygones.

  He grinned and rolled out of bed. Sort of appropriate he was in the buff while dealing with a snotty email from Felicity MacGregor. Was he misinterpreting her email? Was she actually self-conscious and awkward?

  “Hell, yeah.”

  He contemplated his response for a good thirty seconds. Then he typed it:

  Great, my one request is to have brownies on the menu.

  Gabe

  He hit Send before he could change his mind. She’d know the mention of brownies was deliberate, a reminder of their past—their abrupt parting of ways three years ago.

  By the time he made coffee and let in the painters, Felicity had responded:

  I already had brownies on the menu. Everything’s well in hand. Enjoy your stay in Knights Bridge. I might not see you since there’s a good chance I’ll be in Wyoming.

  Gabe stared at the email. No signature. Just those dashed-off words, striking back at him for his own dashed-off words.

  It was the gut punch Felicity had intended it to be.

  Back in high school, they would sit out on the rocks by their favorite swimming hole on the river and plan trips to Paris, London, Vienna, Vancouver, Sonoma—they’d had a long list. But the place that had captured their teenage imaginations and gripped their teenage souls had been Wyoming. It became their default getaway. Whenever anything happened, they’d say, I’m going to Wyoming now.

  And they would go together.

  Always together.

  “Start packing,” one or the other of them would say. “I’m not going without you.”

  As much as he’d traveled, Gabe had yet to visit Wyoming. He wondered if Felicity had, but the crack about going now—it’d been the slap in the face she’d meant it to be, a reminder of innocent times when their futures had been filled with possibilities. Failure, dashed hopes, tragedies, mistakes and all the other ups and downs of a normal life had seemed avoidable or at least distant.

  Less so these days.

  Gabe greeted Shannon when she arrived. She handed him a doughnut. “The best in Boston,” she said.

  “I’ve no doubts.”

  “Good. Never doubt me when it comes to doughnuts.”

  He bit into it, and it was so good he knew he’d have another before he left for Knights Bridge. Shannon helped herself to the gooiest doughnut in the box and updated him on the condo work, his schedule, messages, things he needed to sign and possible itineraries for a trip to Australia and New Zealand he wanted to move off his someday/maybe list onto his calendar. “Take a look at Wyoming, too, would you?” he asked her.

  She frowned. She was dark-haired, blue-eyed and casually dressed in capris pants, a tunic top and sandals. “Wyoming. Sure.”

  She retreated to the foyer with her doughnut to let in more workers.

  Gabe stood at the living room windows. The last of the early-morning fog was burning off. It’d be another beautiful summer day in Boston. Where was Felicity now? Out on her deck above the river? Counting plastic champagne glasses? Picking out party favors?

  He winced at his condescension. What an ass he was being. Good, professional, creative event planners made the lives of hosts easier and helped ensure guests had a wonderful time.

  But this was Felicity.

  “My entire family is involved in finance,” she’d told him. “I’ll make my own mark, but I’m a MacGregor. Money is what we do.”

  Had she given up her dreams because of him?

  Never mind he’d had good reason to lecture her, given her string of firings, her out-of-control debt and her days camped out on his couch. He’d seen so clearly then, that cold February morning, that being a financial analyst wasn’t working for her, and trying to make it work was making her miserable. But had it been his place to tell her so?

  He gritted his teeth. Probably not.

  He read her email again.

  Wyoming.

  He had no idea how to respond. His reentry plan was going to take more work than he’d thought, and probably more out of him than he wanted to admit.

  * * *

  Gabe spent the day doing what Shannon needed him to do, packing for Knights Bridge and resisting the temptation to look up Felicity’s party-planning website. By mid-afternoon, he was on his way to Logan Airport in his BMW SUV. It was an indulgence, but he was no longer that struggling kid, putting every dime to work, determined to make his mark and not drift through life. A fancy new car wasn’t a good investment, and he just didn’t care. Who would give a damn what kind of car he drove?

  He picked up Dylan McCaffrey and Russ Colton at the airport. They were clearly more eager to get to Knights Bridge than he was. Dylan had Olivia waiting for him. Russ had his new wife waiting for him. Gabe looked forward to seeing family and friends, but it wasn’t the same as having a woman in his life—and he didn’t, not in Knights Bridge or anywhere else.

  Both men were strongly built. Russ was ex-navy, Dylan a former professional hockey player. Gabe got along with them. As they hit the tunnel to head west, Dylan articulated his m
isgivings about being away from Olivia. “I know it’s irrational,” he said. “She has her parents there, her sister, friends. She’s independent. She can handle herself.”

  “She’s a Frost,” Gabe said, as if that explained everything.

  “A year and a half ago, I wouldn’t have had any idea what that means,” Dylan said.

  Gabe had difficulty imagining Olivia married and expecting a baby, but, contrary to his prejudices about his hometown, time hadn’t stood still in Knights Bridge since he’d lived there. The conversation shifted to basic security procedures for the entrepreneurial boot camp. Dylan and Russ both looked relieved at the change in subject from personal to professional matters. Gabe felt his relief right to his bones. He was the only one of the three who’d grown up in Knights Bridge and remembered Olivia and Jessica Frost as kids leaping into cold brooks and piles of raked leaves. He remembered Felicity, too, but she was another matter. Definitely more complicated.

  Dylan finally turned to Gabe. “We’ll make time to continue the conversation we started in San Diego.”

  Gabe nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

  A conversation about a new venture with Dylan and his friend and business partner, Noah Kendrick, the founder of NAK, the high-tech entertainment company they’d shepherded to immense success. With NAK sold to new owners, Dylan and Noah were turning their attention to fresh projects. Like Dylan, Noah had found himself falling in love with a Knights Bridge woman, Phoebe O’Dunn, the former Knights Bridge town librarian. Gabe remembered her, too. Quiet Phoebe, engaged to a California billionaire. They’d be arriving separately from Noah’s central California winery. Noah would be presenting at the entrepreneurial boot camp. Gabe could feel in his gut this trip was different from when he’d blown in and out of Knights Bridge last fall for his brother’s wedding.

  As he jumped on Storrow Drive, heading west out of the city, Knights Bridge might as well have been another world. Tired, preoccupied, Gabe had to admit he liked being behind the wheel of his BMW rather than his last car, a heap he’d bought off his mechanic father. “Years and years left in this sweetheart,” he’d told Gabe. His father wasn’t right about much, but he did know his cars. Gabe had donated the heap to the son of Mark’s assistant. As far as he knew, it was still running.