Page 22 of Dante
"I understand--"
"Mr. McLean, you said yourself that you have family in Ireland. That you're the only one still living in the states."
Dante frowned at the interruption but said nothing.
"That's right. My Ida died ten years ago, and we ran that store together."
"Your children and grandchildren all live in Ireland. I bet that's a lovely place to spend the rest of your life. And I'm sure they would love to have you with them." She took his hands in hers. "I have a brother and he's my only family, but I could not bear to be apart from him." She squeezed his hands. "Why don't you think of letting go of the past and looking forward to the future with family. I'm sure your Ida would say the same thing."
His light green eyes brightened for a moment as he stared at her. "You remind me of my daughter. Her name is Irene and she's beautiful and kind, just like you." He squeezed her hands. "You've made an old man feel comfortable in these surroundings."
Lifting his head, he looked around the elegant office, before bringing his gaze back to her. "Thank you."
He looked over at Dante who was watching the interplay expressionlessly. "I'll talk to the others, Mr. Livingston." He rose a little unsteadily. "Thanks for taking the time to see me. I know you're a very busy man."
"Not a problem."
"Let me see you out." Tucking her arm through his, Courtney guided him out, starting a conversation with him about Ireland.
Dante stared at the closed door and felt the mix of emotions that he could not control raging through his body.
She cared about people. She also took the trouble to read up on the project and had succeeded in putting the man at ease, enough to have him leaning towards the selling of his store.
He paced behind his desk, restless, the memory of Courtney's gentle, persuasive words lingering in the air. The scent of her perfume still hovered faintly, as if she had left a trace of herself behind, not just in the room but in his thoughts. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, not with her, nor with McLean, but with the ache of unease threading beneath his skin.
She saw through the wall he tried to keep around himself, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He prided himself on reason, on facts, on the clean lines of a spreadsheet or the orderly columns of a ledger, but people were never orderly. They spilled out of boundaries, carrying histories, loyalties, and dreams that could not be measured.
The intercom buzzed, startling him from his reverie. He pressed the button, expecting some trivial interruption, but it was Courtney's voice, soft but steady. "Mr. Livingston, there's someone from the city council on line two. They have questions about the redevelopment timeline."
"Put them through." He sat, steeling himself, his gaze flicking to the door as if expecting her to reappear. For a moment, he allowed himself to wish she would, a flash of her earnest eyes, her unwavering composure. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could learn from her, a lesson in the careful art of listening.
"Mr. Livingston?" The new voice crackled through the speaker. He squared his shoulders, ready for business. But beneath the practiced calm, something in him shifted, quietly, acknowledging that a project's success might mean more than new facades and fresh paint.
It might mean honoring the lives behind the storefronts, and recognizing the rare courage it took to care.
He glanced at the door once more, then turned his attention to the call, his resolve firmer, his heart unexpectedly engaged.
She supposed it was bound to happen sooner rather than later. While she would not be showing, oh please God! Let it be six months in before that happens. She was not showing and no one suspected anything.
Donald was his charming self, but had taken her refusal to go out with him in stride and told her he would keep asking until she simply got tired of saying no.
He was careful to stay away when their boss was around, which she was grateful for.
She also suspected that she should have made an early night of it. September had turned into October, and the weather had gotten decidedly cooler. With the change of the month, the symptoms had become more aggressive.
She had started to be off on some food items. The scent of any kind of meat sent her running to the bathroom, so she concluded the baby was a vegetarian. Dammit! Not to mention grapes and peaches that she loved so much.
She had taken to drinking gallons of tea, enough to sink a ship. And was sucking on mints all the time to keep from spitting every few minutes.
Her brother warned her that it was time to reveal all to her boss. Even though she was dreading it, she knew he was right.
But it had to be the right time. She had to find the perfect time to drop the news on him. And it had to be soon.
"I need to work for a few hours, maybe less tonight," he told her abruptly, looking up from the contract he was perusing. He had been especially unapproachable today, even more so than usual.
She knew that he had received some bad news concerning the Penn Street project. The store owners had finally given their consent to be bought out, but there had been a fire that had blazed through two of the stores. The press had been hinting that the company had something to do with it.
A quick and sure way of getting the owners out faster so that the demolition process could begin.
