Begin Again

The Ludzecky family was well acquainted with tragedy, but none as horrific as this one.

The matriarch, Donuta Ludzecky, affectionately known as
Matka
, sat in the front pew of a Catholic church next to her best friend, Rosie Pettrone. The woman had suffered the worst loss any mother could have visited on her—losing a child or, in this case, losing two. Twin
boys. Twenty-eight years old. The driver of a truck had barreled through a red light and crumpled the front of the car. The boys were killed instantly. They had been married to Paulina and Antonia, Donuta’s two daughters. Like the good Polish woman that she was, Donuta sat stalwart, holding back any display of her own emotions. Of course, she suffered with and for her friend. But she also could
not help thinking of the effect this obscene event would have on her eight children.

Her gaze traveled first to her twin girls, dressed in black, shoulders hunched, sitting on either side of Rosie. Antonia had dissolved into tears the moment they had walked into church and had not stopped crying. Lukasz had to take care of her two-year-old son, who cried into his uncle’s chest. Paulina, stronger
both physically and emotionally than Nia, had slid her arms around her boys, and remained stone-faced. The crying would come later for her, Donuta knew. And their lives would never be the same without their men. Donuta had learned that fact from the death of her own husband when she was in her forties.

Her gaze landed on Lukasz. He and his wife, Kelsey, had come down from Binghamton after
the accident happened. Their near-perfect lives had been hard-won, and now their happiness would be shadowed by their sisters’ trauma. And Lukasz would suffer over living four hours away from the family. Next in age, Caterina was content as a mother, working in linguistics for the Secret Service, very much in love with her husband Aidan O’Neil. She would want to protect the girls, which would be impossible.
She had already made plans to stay in Queens with them for three weeks
.

Ana, the third oldest, had helped take care of Donuta’s other children, especially when more babies had come along and Donuta was in the hospital, giving birth or, twice, with exhaustion. Though Ana was happily married with one child, she would smother her twin sisters, trying to make things right for them.

Magdalena,
a year younger than Ana, would take over the logistics. A successful businesswoman, she would try to organize, strategize and “fix” whatever she could for her sisters. She did not yet know there was no fixing tragedy, that the girls needed to simply grieve, but Magdalena believed she could do anything she set her mind to.

And then there was Sofia, who had had tragedy of her own. At sixteen,
she had been diagnosed with leukemia. The treatment had forced her to give up her dancing aspirations. This one would go into herself unless someone stopped her. Donuta hoped her quiet daughter, fragile, thin as a willow, could withstand the sorrow that had come their way.

And last was Elizabeita. Who knew what the baby of the family would do? Bright enough to be a Rhodes Scholar and earn
two degrees at Oxford, pretty enough to be a model and bold enough to sky dive and jump off cliffs, the girl had been impossible to control all her life. Donuta worried about her. How would this one handle the overwhelming grief?

When the priest asked them to stand, Donuta chided herself. She was thinking about her family’s welfare, and here was poor Rosie, who had suffered such loss. However,
the fact remained: Donuta would be a friend in every way, but her role as
Matka
would make her priority her children, as always.

“Stop fidgeting. I’m almost done.” Magdalena, who was fussing Paulina’s hair into a French braid, chided her younger sister. They sat before a vanity in Magdalena’s elegant condo in the financial district
.

Paulina stared in the mirror. “Sorry, but I just don’t see the point of this. Tying it back would be easier.”

“You’re
going to meet with the architect for this new project. You should be presentable.”

“Why? I won’t get more jobs from him because of my hair.”

Magdalena, who always looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
, sighed. “I hate that you hide your beauty.”

“I don’t hide it. It’s just not important to me.” Paulina touched her face. Her cheekbones
were
high and her skin clear. “So
don’t you dare ask for me to put on makeup.”

“There, I’m done.” Her sister picked up a hand mirror and showed Paulina the back of her head.

Thick and tightly woven, hanging down to her rib cage, the braid was pretty. But the sight made her sad. She could still see her husband with his big hand fisted in her hair. He’d whispered,
Grow it long again. That was sexy as hell.

“You don’t
like the style?” Magdalena asked, probably noting her expression
.

“I love it.”

“But?”

Trying to diffuse the memory, Paulina sniffed at the row of jars and tubes containing creams Magdalena had lined up on the counter. “My hair was short when Donnie died. He wanted me to let it grow, but I couldn’t see the point.” The notion still prickled.

Magdalena’s smile disappeared. “Yours
grew the fastest.”

In some kind of unconscious solidarity, all seven of the Ludzecky girls had grown their hair long since the Pettrone brothers’ deaths, to match Antonia’s, which she’d always let reach down her back. No one had planned it, but now they all sported the same thick, sun-streaked blond locks. Donnie
would
have loved it.

Magdalena kissed Paulina’s head to signify she understood.
“Think happy thoughts today, and put on the dress I brought you.”

“Really, Mags, I have some dressy clothes of my own.” Well, not quite dressy, but presentable enough for a business meeting.

“Humor me.”

As Paulina stood and slipped into the sheath, she could appreciate the soft copper-colored silk flowing over her skin. It made her think of a man’s hands touching her.

“What’s wrong?
You flushed like you turned on a porn channel by mistake.”

Paulina sat to slide on her shoes. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” A hesitation, then, “Spill it, girl.” Sometimes all of the sisters, not just the twins, had a sixth sense about each other.

Briefly, Paulina looked into Magdalena’s eyes. They, too, were hazel, though her sister’s were almost almond shaped. “I miss having sex.
There, I said it out loud.”

“Ah.” Magdalena took Paulina’s hands in hers. “It’s been three years. Donnie wouldn’t want you to live like a nun.”

No, he wouldn’t. Once, when they were making out wills and designating the guardianship of their kids, they’d talked about what they’d want for each other if one of them died. Donnie, big, macho and protective as hell, had said,
Don’t mope over
me, babe. Go on with your life.

“No, Donnie wouldn’t want that. But Nia might.”

Her twin had not moved past her grief over Peter, Donnie’s twin, since their accident three years ago. Paulina had to tiptoe around her in order to even go forward in making changes in the business. Paulina certainly couldn’t confess her desire to be with another man, faceless though he was at this point.

Magdalena kept hold of her hands. Two years older than Paulina, this sister was the most worldly of any of them, having gone to Harvard Business School and, afterward, having built a wildly successful career as an operational analyst in a large money firm in Manhattan, where she lived. “Honey, we all know Nia is in a different place from you. And we respect her timeline in getting over the
grief. But you can’t let her hold you back.”

“That’s not the only thing.” Even when she shrugged, the silk caressed her. “I never go anywhere to meet men. I work with them all day but can’t get involved with my employees. There’s just nobody to date.”

“Then take up hobbies. Join a gym.”

Standing, Paulina turned to the mirror again. At five eight, her body was muscular and toned. “I
don’t need a gym. I do physical labor every day.” She turned away from her image.

“And where would I get the time for hobbies?”

“Let me think on this.”

Drawing back, Paulina checked her watch. “I have to be downtown in a half hour.”

“One of the company’s drivers is waiting for us. I can take you to Armstrong Associates on my way to work.”

Remembering what this woman had done
for them, Paulina’s whole being softened. “My rich, beautiful sister. Have I thanked you enough for coddling us the last three years?”

“Hush. No need.
Kocham ciebie
,
siostra
. Always.”

“And I love you.”

Paulina was still thinking about Magdalena when she arrived at 16 Park Avenue. After she exited the luxurious leather-seated town car, she drew her dressy coat around her, stared up
at the chrome-and-glass building. Befitting the architectural firm it housed on the top floors, the edifice had interesting angles that the late March sun sparkled off. She took a deep breath. The physical structure was somewhat intimidating. Her company, Pettrone and Ludzecky Builders, had gotten the construction bid for a new music hall in Queens, and Armstrong Associates had been chosen to design
it. Since Donnie had secured contracts for the firm two years out, only for the past twelve months had Paulina been making the deals. Though she’d snagged this project, she still wasn’t used to the process.

Shaking off the negative thoughts, she entered the building, carrying the purse Magdalena had insisted she bring. As she stepped into the elevator and watched the red numbers on the screen
go up, she vowed she would be calm and collected.

The elevator opened to a contemporary suite of offices. Stunning teak double doors greeted her. She couldn’t resist running her hand over the carving before she opened them to a large anteroom with a receptionist. The woman sat behind a sleek desk. “Hello. I’m Lana Bright. You must be Ms. Pettrone. Our ten o’clock is with you.”

“Yes to
both.”

Lana rose. After hanging up Paulina’s coat, the receptionist said, “Follow me.” They went down a short corridor to a second set of double doors, which mirrored the ones in the entrance. Lana knocked.

A deep voice within called out, “Come in.”

A man stood staring at the panorama beyond the windows that faced New York’s skyline. Paulina got a fleeting impression of long, lean
lines and wide shoulders before he turned and approached them. “Ms. Pettrone. Nice to meet you. I’m Adam Armstrong.”

“You, too, finally.” They shook hands.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend the initial meetings with the city and the structural engineers for this project.”

“I was told you were in Europe.”

“Designing an art museum in Florence.”

“That must have been a wonderful
experience.”

“It was.”

“Your father was a great substitute.”

His face shone at the mention of his dad. How sweet
.

“He’s the greatest man I know.” His smile was now a thousand watts. Actually, Adam was…arresting. His features were chiseled, his dark blond hair cut short enough to be neat but long enough to let the sun highlight it. His eyes were grass green.

Damn it all, she
thought. If she was scoping out her business associates, Paulina really needed to find a man.

The woman’s fingers were callused, Adam noticed when he shook her hand, and she didn’t wear a speck of makeup. But she looked remarkably different in person than she had on her firm’s website. More feminine, he guessed, though he never went for rounded cheeks and plain features. Adam
appreciated the ability of women to use makeup cleverly to enhance their appearance. “Come in. May I call you Paulina?”