The Way They Were

He hasn’t spoken her name in fourteen years. She keeps a journal hidden in the back of her closet and permits herself to write about him once a year—on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love. They promised to love one another forever, but tragedy tore them apart. Now, destiny may just bring them back together.

At eighteen, Rourke Flannigan and Kate Redmond thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together—until a family tragedy tore them apart. Fourteen years have passed and they’ve both carved out separate lives hundreds of miles apart—hers as a wife and mother, his as a successful, driven businessman. But once a year, on the anniversary of her daughter’s birth, Kate pulls out a red velvet journal and writes a letter, which she’ll never send, to the man who still owns her heart. Once a year, on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love, Rourke permits himself to read the annual investigative report detailing an ordinary day in Kate’s life.

When a subcontractor at one of Rourke’s holding companies is killed, Rourke decides to pay the widow a visit and offer condolences, never dreaming the widow will be Kate. As they embark on a cautious journey of rediscovery, one far greater than they could have imagined, secrets and lies threaten to destroy their newfound closeness—forever.

Dedication:

To young love, true love, and the beauty of second chances.

The Way They Were

by

Mary Campisi

Chapter 1

“
There’s just me and you, and we’re not talking.”—Clay Maden

Kate Maden watched her husband rifle through the dresser drawer in search of his Syracuse T-shirt. He called it his lucky shirt, but Kate knew a tattered orange and blue T-shirt had nothing to do with Clay’s success. Hard work and a will as strong as his twenty-two inch biceps were what made Clay Calhoon Maden ‘lucky’, but there was no use telling him that.

“Aha!” He yanked the T-shirt from the drawer and tossed it on the bed, then pulled open a second drawer.

“Looking for these?” Kate dangled a pair of thermal socks in her right hand.

Her husband’s sunburned face broke into a grin as he snatched them up and said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a drawl, “Babe, what would I do without you?”

That was Clay’s way of saying
I love you
. Not a sophisticated proclamation or a grand gesture marked by diamonds and roses. Just a look that spoke of commitment as strong as the equipment he used to tear down the sturdiest building. Any woman would be honored to have such a man by her side.

“I’m thinking this job could get us carpeting
and
a new washer,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the flowered comforter and pulled on a sock. “How about a front loader?”

“You don’t mind the drive?” He was a 5:00 a.m rise-and-shiner, but an hour’s drive on top of an early start time was a lot to ask.

“Nah. Every mile is that much closer to getting you that Berber carpeting.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “You just decide whether you want plain or one with those fancy designs.”

When he’d gone, Kate straightened the comforter and picked up his work clothes—jeans, flannel shirts, thermal socks. The only suit he’d ever worn had been the J.C. Penney pin-stripe on their wedding day. She thought of her husband’s calloused hands, his weathered skin, his bad back. He was a hard worker who believed in honor and the strength of a man’s word. He’d given her so much more than any other man—including the one who’d broken her heart.

***

Clay pulled up to the job site as the sun inched over the treetops. This was his sixth day and he’d decided to gain an hour on everybody so he could get home early. He pulled the gear from his truck, grabbed his thermos and hopped out, whistling Bon Jovi’s
It’s My Life
as he made his way across the grassy lot. This job would net him the carpeting, the washer and a hefty down payment on the eternity ring on hold at Zales. Wouldn’t Kate just croak? So, it wasn’t Tiffany’s, it was stamped with commitment and not even Tiffany’s sold those.

As he made his way toward the building, a battered Ford pickup barreled down the side road, kicking up gravel and dust. It squealed to a stop beside him and Clay’s foreman jumped out. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“Hey, Len.” Clay raised a hand at the grizzled man in Carhartt and flannel. “Thought I’d get a head start so I can make it home in time for Julia’s choir recital. She’s doing a solo.”

Len Slewinski scratched his chin and spit on the ground. “You reckon to break union rules by starting here without the rest of the crew?”

Clay grinned. “Pretty much.”

The older man shook his head and spit again. “Stubborn as your daddy. You know they say the owner of this here building is real persnickety about rules and regs.”

“Well he’s not here, is he? There’s just me and you and we’re not talking.” Len had worked with the Madens for twenty-eight years, in spite of a bum hip, a stiff knee, and last year’s double bypass.

“I don’t like it boy. That pretty little wife of yours wouldn’t like it either.”

“That’s why you’re not going to tell her. What are you doing here two hours before starting time?”

Len kicked a clump of dirt and coughed. “Skip asked if I’d post watch for him seein’ as he’s taking Shirley to Niagara Falls this weekend.”

“Let me guess. Another honeymoon?”

Len nodded. “You got it. Most women only get one honeymoon, less they switch husbands. I told him he better not say a peep to Loretta ‘cause I’m not leaving my own bed and I sure as hell ain’t leaving my john for some foolish fanciness.”

“Women like that sort of thing now and again.” Maybe he should take Kate to Niagara Falls. They could ride Maid of the Mist and eat Chinese like they had on their honeymoon.

“Mostly they start squawking if they hear somebody else is doing it. That’s why she can’t find out.”

“She won’t hear it from me. Tell you what, why don’t you go fetch yourself some of those fried eggs over easy at Sophie’s? That way you can say you didn’t see anybody breaking code and it’ll be true.”

Len jawed on the idea for all of three seconds. “You got yourself a deal. Be careful, boy. Just ‘cause you done it your whole life don’t make it safe. Them scaffolds is tricky. Fifty feet is still fifty feet.”

“Got it.” If Len didn’t stop yakking Clay would lose his early start.

“See you in a few.” Len threw the truck into gear and bumped down the dirt road.

Clay headed toward the building, calculating the time he’d already lost. Damn, he’d have to work fast. He could secure the side section before Len got back. He entered the building through a side door and flipped the light switch. A stark expanse of beams, metal, and cement were all that remained of Jennings and Seward Faucet. Len said the new owner planned on putting some of those high-end condos in here.

A spark of anger surged through him as he thought of all the people who used to work in this building, people who had mortgages, tuition, and grocery bills. They’d lost out because China could make faucets cheaper than upstate New York. What kind of jobs could a high-end condo give to a machinist?

The rich kept stuffing their pockets and the poor fell deeper in debt. As a boy, Clay had never thought about which group he belonged to—his parents made sure he and his brother had a new jacket every winter and enough food on the table for seconds. Things changed the summer a rich kid from Chicago moved to Montpelier and taught Clay just how much he didn’t have.

Clay sucked in a breath and pictured the first blow of the wrecking ball as it slammed into the building in a moving, swaying dance of destruction culminating in a rubble of steel and concrete. Len said Clay had the deadliest aim he’d ever seen. Maybe because he pictured the rich kid’s pretty-boy face each time he swung.

Clay tossed his gear next to the scaffold and rummaged through his bag for his safety harness. Damn. He must have left it on the front seat of the truck. He glanced up the scaffolding to the top. In all the years he’d been demolishing, he’d only needed his harness twice. His Syracuse T-shirt and skill would keep him safe. He grasped the first rung of scaffold and heaved himself up.

***

Fifty minutes later, Len returned with a fried egg and bacon sandwich for Clay. “Clay? Where are you?” He scanned the beams and scaffolding in search of his boss. “You in the can?” Len made his way toward the back door and the three port-a-potties lined up like little blue boxes. “Clay?” He pulled open each port-a-potty door. Empty. Well, empty except for the smell of bad business. Dang, where the hell was he? Len stepped back into the building and scanned the area a second time.

It was then he spotted a crane hook swaying thirty feet away, just a slight sway, not enough to make a dent in a tin can. “Clay?” Len forgot his bum knee as he broke into an awkward run. “Clay!” He stopped short when he reached the crane. “Jesus, God Almighty.” The boy lay sprawled on the concrete, arms and legs flung out, neck bent too far to be natural. A small pool of blood circled his head like a red halo.

Len knelt beside his friend, knowing before he touched him, he was dead. “Jesus, God, and all the Saints.” Len crossed himself and felt Clay’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He rocked back on his knees, swiping his eyes as he stared at the red-brown stubble on Clay’s jaw.

How the hell had this happened? In all the years he’d been with the company, they’d never lost a person. And now this. Len’s gaze flitted over Clay’s back. A blue SYRACUSE splashed across it in bold letters. Where was his harness? A sliver of panic inched up his legs and landed in his gut.
Where the hell was his damn harness?

Len pushed himself up and blew out a steadying breath as he made his way to Clay’s truck and yanked out his safety harness. The boy was not going to be remembered as the reckless fool who got himself killed because he hadn’t worn a damn safety harness. That would make him nothing more than a statistic for an insurance company and Clay and his family deserved better than that.

Chapter 2

“
Money is all those kind of people want anyway.”—Diana Flannigan

“Mr. Flannigan? Excuse me, sir, but your niece just called again.”

Rourke Flannigan glanced up from the financial reports spread out on his desk. Niece? Oh yes, Abigail. “What did she want this time, Maxine?”

Rourke shook his head and forced the curse back down his throat. Maxine didn’t appreciate “cuss” words as she called them and since she was the only secretary he’d ever hired who didn’t want to marry him, he tried to honor her request and saved the swear words for when she was out of earshot. And right now, he’d saved up quite a few under the name of Abigail.

Rourke leaned back in his chair and considered his current situation. “What am I supposed to do with her? I haven’t been around a thirteen year old in,” he paused and thought, “damn, oh, sorry, Maxine, in almost twenty years since
I
was thirteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do I know about thirteen year olds? They’re rude, slovenly, and self-centered. Why would anyone want one, can you tell me that, Maxine?”

“I suppose they grow on a person, Mr. Flannigan.”

Spoken as the spinster Maxine was, as though she were referring to moss or lichen. “I suppose, but good Lord, why would a person actually choose to be stuck with a child?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

Rourke laughed. “Which is why we suit so very well.” His laughter shrank to a half sigh. “But here I am, saddled with a niece I haven’t seen in seven years and am now solely responsible for because my free-spirited sister and her idiotic friends decided to fly a prop plane across the Indian Ocean.” Damn them. “How ridiculously irresponsible.”