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Summer 1984
Climax, Alabama
Cayle released a breath through his gritted teeth, slumped against the cushions of his mother's mauve country floral sofa and raked a hand through his hair. "I can't believe you're doing this to him."
"I have no choice."
"Bull. You're making the choice that suits you." He glanced up, tried to will her closer, force her to sit down so that he wouldn't have to feel so small and helpless. But Breanna wouldn't oblige, didn't budge from her spot on the burgundy carpet. Cayle finally gave up, tried another tactic. "You're running away," he accused.
She slowly shook her head. "I'm not."
He stared at her, amazed by her calm. "You are one cold bitch, you know that."
"Insults like that are beneath even you, Cayle."
She stood there in front of him in all her sleek, black-haired beauty, delicate and regal, without a care in the world.
And Cayle wanted to wring her neck.
He hated her right then, hated her with the passion and ambivalence of one who hates only himself more for loving the hated object.
For almost two years now she had been flaunting her woman's body when she visited the house to study and make smoochy-face with Cayle's brother, Zach.
And for almost this long she had been professing her undying love for Zach with exuberance matched only by her money and privileged background.
Now she was telling Cayle she was leaving, going abroad to some fancy-smancy finishing school in Europe.
Cayle sneered at the mere idea that he had ever imagined himself remotely fond of her, realized now he'd only succumbed to raging sixteen-year-old hormones. And spite.
He glared at Breanna, made her take a step back.
Good, you haughty, selfish...
"Cayle, please." She came forward, hesitantly sat on the edge of the sofa as if she thought the cushions would bite her. "Don't be like this. I'm doing what I need to do."
"What about what Zach needs?"
"I can't do anything for him."
"Have you tried?" He arched a brow. "You never loved him, Breanna. You teased him. You teased us both, pretended you cared."
"I wasn't pretending! I do care."
Cayle huffed. "You have a strange way of showing it."
"I don't see why I should stop living because everyone thinks we belong together."
"Everyone except your family."
Breanna ignored the barb, continued her defense. "From the beginning everyone pushed us together as the romantic couple."
"Yeah. Like Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers. And now you're just plain tragic," he sneered.
"You always had a flair for the ironic," Breanna muttered, slowly shook her head out of frustration. Her dark hair fell over her closed eyes Veronica Lake style. "I care about Zach. I love him. But I'm not in love with him. I never have been."
He knew only too well how she felt about his older brother. She had more than clarified this when she'd made her final pass at him behind the bleachers last winter during the Climax Cougars' last match against the division leaders, and their cross-town rivals the Mobile Muskrats.
Zach's final game. His last taste of glory.
Cayle winced now as he remembered the pop that had reverberated throughout the entire stadium and had stopped the game cold late in the fourth quarter.
The Cougars had been behind by two touchdowns when Zach had leapt to snatch a Hail Mary pass ten yards from the Muskrats' end zone where a defensive end had converged and had cut him down at the two-yard line.
Zach hadn't gotten up. Cayle had yet to recover.
"Cayle."
He stared down at the hand on his arm. Soft creamy fingers that had never known a day's hard work squeezed his biceps.
"I'm not going to do your dirty work for you."
"You're no innocent in all this."
Cayle shook off her hand, lurched to his feet.
She didn't need to remind him. He'd already committed hara-kiri a thousand times over in his head for his transgression.
Looking at her now, he wondered how he had ever chosen the fugitive pleasures of her body over his brother's loyalty.
Yes, she was beautiful. God she was, with her lustrous long hair and fox-bright eyes. Beckoning. Calling. A body that nightly appeared in the wet dreams of a million teenage boys. He had been one. To feel her lips, lips that had given him his hardest, most memorable erection to date.
Cayle closed his eyes against the images of her hand in his lap during one Thanksgiving dinner. Remy slicing turkey with the electric carver. Mom's voice sweetly rising over the knife's buzz as she giggled at one of Zach's jokes. Zach eyeing Breanna across the table, squeezing her hand over the warmed buttered rolls.
All the while, her other hand rubbed Cayle under the table.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Breanna whispered and Cayle shook his head, stared at her as she stood beside him with tears glistening in her eyes like the scissors cut diamond in the engagement ring on her finger.
She had started out so unflappable, making him hate her, making him want her, making him want to hold her. Not now.
Don't do this to me. Don't act like it hurts you to leave my brother when he needs you most.
Breanna slid the ring off her finger. "You have to tell him for me." She moved closer, handed him the ring and a sealed pink
envelope addressed to Zach.
Reluctantly, Cayle took them, the faint aroma of her special musk fragrance wafting to him, making him sick. She'd had the nerve to scent the envelope?
"Tell him yourself."
"I can't."
"You're deserting him."
"No..." She covered her mouth with a fist, choked back a sob. "I can't stay...I have to...I have to go."
Cayle jerked his head up and down. "Of course you do," he dug. "The plane's going down so it's time to bail out."
"You don't understand." She cried in earnest now.
He grabbed her arms, shook her. "Stop it with your phony tears. You don't care about him. You don't care about anyone but yourself. I always knew you'd leave him if things got too down and dirty for you and your family's high-born sensibilities."
"No...not true. Not..." She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip. "This isn't easy for me!" She cried.
"But you think it's going to be easy for me?"
She didn't answer, recoiled at his scowl.
"How am I supposed to tell him you're splitting? That you're throwing back his ring only months after he's put it on your finger."
She wrenched herself out of his grasp, coldly returned his glare, composed once again. "I trust you to find a way, Cayle. You're good at telling people things they don't want to hear."
He cursed her right before she leaned in, cupped his face and kissed him hard on the mouth.
"I'm sorry, Cayle. You can tell him that," she whispered then turned on her heels and fled the living room.
"Breanna! Bre!" He started after her but stopped abruptly at the door when he tasted the tears. He licked his lips, unsure if the tears were hers or his. He didn't care. But if he intended to deliver the devastating news to Zach, he needed to pull himself together, wipe away the waterworks and her sweet, oh so delicious and incriminating lipstick.
He fisted the ring, gripped it so hard the gems cut into his palm and drew blood.
Damn you, Breanna Walker. Damn you to hell!
Spring 1996
Scarsdale, New York
He grasped the espagnolette, almost caressed the decorative brass with his indecision. Slowly he turned, pushed the door in upon the dimly lit room. It was the only time in his life Thomas Keller had been tentative.
Lately, he had been so cautious with Sharise, like an inexperienced father handling his newborn daughter. He walked as if stepping on eggs, picked his words like a man barefoot and making his way through a field of broken glass.
This had been going on too long now. It was time to stop the madness and handle the situation.
"Sharise?"
No answer. As he had expected. Last week, he would have retreated--another alien concept--but not today. He stepped over the threshold, committing himself as he purposefully strode across the polished oak floor.
"Don't, Dad."
Thom froze midstep, took a deep breath. His kid, a mere babe at twenty-nine years, had him ready to tuck his tail between his legs and run? He, entrepreneur supreme and owner of a thriving chain of art and antique shops? He who had built from the ground up, penny-pinching for years before he'd gotten the business off the ground. Dazzling competitors with his acumen, earning their respect and deference with his gut instincts about the market. Indulging his numerous customers' quirks, fulfilling their wildest needs with his eclectic selection of reasonably priced quality items.
Thom had sacrificed his personal life in the name of success, worked way too hard to let his daughter, a child, intimidate him under his own roof.
He surged forward, stopped only an inch behind Sharise's wheelchair. He felt her brace herself, sitting up straight as he stared past her rigid back through the French window.
The day loomed gray and raw beyond the room and the verandah outside. He tried to put himself in her place, feel what she felt, see what she saw. He glanced out at the glistening, cobble smooth rocks of the shore and the lake's clear, windblown surface. Further in the distance the woods sprouted lush and green, defying Mother Nature's recent winter onslaught with its own promise of the coming season.
"Dr. Graham says your muscles are atrophic."
"Dr. Graham's brain is atrophic."
Thom grinned at his daughter's crack, glad she hadn't turned. He did not want to give her the satisfaction.
"This can't go on any longer."
"Who says?"
"You're acting like a child, Sharise."
"I'm acting like you've always treated me."
Thom sighed, closed his eyes. Touché. "Be that as it may, I won't let you do this to yourself."
She didn't answer, her silence more eloquent than any retort.
"Sharise..."
"Leave me alone."
"No."
Sharise glanced over a shoulder at the simple statement, tried to hold her father's glare but couldn't. She turned back to the French window, directed her gaze at the dreary sky as she ignored him.
Thom grabbed her chair and spun her around.
"Dad!" She stared at his face, gasped when she caught sight of her father's set jaw. She tried to match his look--his dark brown eyes burning into her slate ones--but she couldn't hold it.
Sharise had never experienced her father's wrath, only heard stories from partners and buyers, stories of which legends were made. Her rare glimpse of this side startled her.
"This is going to stop," he stated.
She folded her arms across her small breasts and pouted, a petulant child denied a treat.
Thom would have laughed if the situation weren't so serious. He could not afford humor or to expose a chink in his resolve. "You're going to work with a therapist. I've already spoken to Dr. Graham and he's referred me to Bruckner Rehab. It's an excellent institu-"
"I'm not going to any institute."
"They're sending someone here. Highly recommended."
"They'd have to be," Sharise sniped.
Thom continued as if she hadn't spoken. "It's all been arranged. Intensive one-to-one workouts. All you need to do is meet with the young man. Strictly a formality."
"A formality? You've actually left me something to do?"
"He'll be on my payroll, living here full-time."
Sharise's eyebrows shot up. "God! You haven't missed a trick. Just grabbed the bull by the balls, didn't you?"
Thom winced, hated it when she used that type of barroom, street language. A holdover from her rebellious days of dating and hanging with urban riffraff and hip-hop B-boys, he'd be willing to bet. Or maybe that egomaniacal, no-good bum of an ex had rubbed off on her with his artsy-fartsy, jobless crew. A writer. Thom just bet.
Well, no more of that unseemly behavior, he told himself. Her days of slumming were over as of the accident. As of now.
"Someone had to take the bull by the ba...horns," Thom emphasized.
Sharise smirked at his obvious discomfit. "I knew this would happen," she mumbled. "I knew you'd try to run roughshod over me and take over like I don't have a say."
"Your indifference says volumes, young lady."
Sharise shook her head, incredulous. "You really are some piece of work."
"Look in the mirror before you throw stones, Sharise."
"It's my life, dammit!"
"And I'm not going to watch you waste it."
"If I go back home to the city, you won't have to watch."
He bit back his retort, clenching his teeth. He wanted to ask her, demand to know how she planned to function in New York by herself and in her condition but realized that this would be playing right into her defeatist hand, reinforcing her self-indulgent trip.
"This is your home," he said quietly.
"I don't know how I let you talk me into moving back to this godforsaken mausoleum with you."
"It is what you make it. And, unfortunately, it's what you need right now," he stated.
"Since when did you know or care what I need?"
Thom closed his eyes again, crouched and took his daughter's limp hands in his. He gently squeezed. "Reese, I've always cared." He opened his eyes to look at her. When she averted her gaze, he continued. "It's settled, Sharise. He'll be here tomorrow afternoon."
"Just like that? You've already made the decision for me. Like always. Running my life."
Thom wearily pulled himself to his full height of five-ten, stared down at his daughter.
Why did she have to be so stubborn about this? And why did she have to look so much like her mother?
God, he missed her still. Not a day went by that he didn't think about her. And she'd been dead now twenty-nine years, had
never had the pleasure of knowing her baby who had become such a stubborn, auburn-haired hell raiser.
Thom turned on his heels, marched towards the door. He hesitated at the threshold, almost turned back but thought better of it. She was as bullheaded as she often accused him of being. He couldn't change her mind and he refused to beg for her permission or explain himself or his motives to her. She would do this whether she wanted to or not, whether she agreed with him or not. He knew Rachel would have approved and this was the thought that had kept him going, had made him so adamant with his daughter. Their daughter.
He knew if he turned, he'd have seen his daughter's full mouth set in an obstinate pout.
Let her sulk then. He hoped she'd be as tenacious in her rehabilitation as she'd so far been in her self-pity.
* * *
Cayle didn't know whom he disliked more. The exasperating prima donna daughter wearing her indisposition like a glowing badge of courage, or her high-and-mighty, health-club fit father with the impeccable fashion sense of a top dollar male model and enough green to clad his sleek form in beautifully tailored Savile Row suits.
From his first meeting with Thomas Keller in an opulently furnished back office of one of the man's several shops in mid-Manhattan last week (where Keller had grilled him, mercilessly firing questions at Cayle like a homicide detective interrogating
his prime suspect), to his arrival today at the flawlessly kept Keller estate that oozed all the trappings of wealth, power and success, Cayle found the father and daughter an intolerable tag team.
And the house wasn't a house; it was a 100-room mansion--a Tudor dwelling with enough floors and halls to turn around and confuse an individual with a superior sense of direction--the centerpiece of a 180-acre estate, which boasted, among other things, a stable of horses.
When Cayle had first arrived a couple of hours ago, stumbling behind the black housekeeper who'd led him to an unoccupied study on a lower floor of the mansion, he'd thought Rod Serling had been playing a cruel joke on him. The decor of the room completely duplicated the decor of Keller's downtown office from its dimensions, to the huge vintage sarouk spread across the cherry wood floor, to the wine drapes of Chinese silk framing the windows, to the wall behind Keller's desk faced in white marble.
Too rich for Cayle's blood but he appreciated the luxury and recognized that Keller was his own best customer, exercising a canny and economical source of advertising.
Cayle had settled against the wine cushions of the couch arranged catty-corner to Keller's enormous desk, absently running a palm along the sofa's lambent satin when Keller finally showed up to brief him one last time before taking him to meet Sharise.
Keller quickly outlined the accident that had resulted in his daughter's career- and life-threatening injuries. And by the time the two men reached her room, Cayle thought he was well prepared to face the woman. He was sorely mistaken.
Keller's formal and impersonal narrative did little to prepare Cayle for the sullen mite of a woman who, from the moment he was introduced to her, did everything short of cursing him from her wheelchair to ignoring him or outright insulting his motives and intelligence. Fulfilled every preconceived notion Cayle had ever harbored of individuals of means.
A bourgy rich debutante. Cayle cringed at the image.
He tried patience and understanding. He tried to let his sympathy and training override his inborn dislike. But it was hard for him to be objective in the face of such hostility.
Cayle now glowered at Ms. Keller. "Stop me if I'm boring you," he drawled.
"You were saying?"
"I was saying..." He sighed, ran a palm down his face. She was really making this impossible.
He wanted her to know what to expect from him and what he expected from her, but realized he had just wasted his breath and the last fifteen minutes of his valuable time outlining his treatment plan and summarizing his educational background and qualifications. Ms. Keller was showing about as much enthusiasm as a first grader who's caught sight of the Good Humor Man from her classroom near the end of a sweltering summer school day.
"Do you care about anything I've said?" Cayle blurted.
"Wherever did you get those mismatched eyes?"
He blinked a few times, shook his head. "Excuse me?"
"Actually, I think they're kind of sexy. Weird but sexy."
"You haven't listened to a word I've said."
"I've listened. It just doesn't concern me."
"Obviously."
"Don't sound so indignant, Mr. Miller. I didn't hire you or ask you to come here. That was dear old Dad's idea."
"Ms. Keller-"
"I prefer Reese," she purred.
"Regardless of why I'm here, the fact of the matter is, I am here and you have-"
"A green eye and a brown eye," she murmured, crinkled her brows and rubbed her chin as if she were trying to decide which one to poke a finger in first.
Cayle would have told her to stop being such a smart aleck but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
Granted, individuals with mismatched eyes were an oddity, Cayle thought. And he ought to know because he'd reached his twenty-eighth year and lived through years of childish taunts and ridicule without ever once bumping into someone with a pair of eyes like his. He had heard about the particular phenomenon many times but had never seen it.
"Ms. Keller..."
She had finally settled, focusing on his left eye, the green one. "Such an odd, vivid shade."
"You're taking this situation entirely too lightly."
"Hmm, yes. My rehabilitation." She leaned forward in her
chair, peered at each eye in turn.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm trying to decide whether or not to 'go'."
He stood up abruptly. He'd had just about enough of this crap and was ready to give her a peek at the old Cayle Miller, post-Breanna and pre-physical therapist: reckless, decadent, misogynistic womanizer.
Cayle reluctantly turned to go, figured even this probably wouldn't have fazed her.
"Leaving so soon?"
He stopped several steps from the door, felt blood rushing to his face and with feline glee, Sharise pounced. "Red ears. Green and brown eyes. You are a colorful little fellow. A walking traffic light, actually."
"When you're ready to take this seriously..." Cayle pivoted when he heard her speeding up behind him to roll her chair over his sneakered toes. He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut and grasped the doorjamb. The pain screaming along his nerves stole his ability to speak. Howling would have been a nice release but he couldn't even get a feeble "ow" passed his lips.
Sharise sat on the threshold, fists on her hips as she blocked his path with her chair and took advantage of his painful silence. "Let me tell you something Mr. Miller."
He opened his eyes, goggled down at her.
"My father may have given you the impression that I'm a helpless invalid unable to make decisions for myself but I can
assure you that's not the case."
He hunkered down to gingerly rub his injured foot. "Your father's not the one who thinks you're a helpless invalid," he rasped.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You figure it out." Cayle grimaced as he hitched by her. "And while you're straining your brain with that one, I think I'll go have a little conference with your dear old dad," he muttered.
And if he's lucky, he'll have a fatal heart attack before I can get to him and wrap my hands around his throat.
A needed change was definitely on the horizon. Ellamae Williams could feel it in her sixty-three-year-old bones.
She stood at the stove, Walkman headphones on as she wiggled her hips to the beat and added last-minute dashes of seasoning to her special beef stew. She dipped her pointer in the pot, tasted. Hmmm, needed just one more speck of oregano to give it an extra kick. Almost everything except the kitchen sink was in it anyway. Lean chunks of beef, potatoes, stewed tomatoes, corn, string beans, carrots.... Down-home cooking to stick to your ribs.
Not that anyone in this here household except herself would partake in the tasty dish. Maybe Mr. Keller, if he remembered he needed to eat something to live.
And that crazy, Lean Cuisine eating daughter of his?
Ellamae had just about given up on trying to get a decent meal down the girl. Ever since the child had stopped eating red meat and had, at ten years old, declared her desire to become a professional dancer, she'd been living on a diet of broiled fish and skinless chicken breasts, fresh fruit and vegetables, legumes, yogurt, pasta and brown rice. Not as horrible as those grapefruit and liquid diets but where was the sauce and gravy?
Ellamae couldn't get down with all the New Age logic of today's kids. Tofu, frozen yogurt as fattening as ice cream, some new leaner cooking oil substitute (Olestra, yech!) that gave you the runs and was more dangerous than the real thing. Jenny Craig, Slim Fast and Weight Watchers. Anorexia, Bulimia and...Lord have
mercy on Ellamae Williams' soul!
Then you had your health clubs that boasted treadmills and stairclimbers and stationary bikes that got you no further than you'd been before you started your journey.
Hmph. Give Ellamae a cheeseburger, fries and a pair of sneakers to walk off the tonnage after and she was good to go.
Oh, she knew she wasn't as light as she could have been but she had never had any complaints. And it was too late in the game to change her ways. Besides, last check-up her blood pressure had been a respectable 130/75 and her cholesterol had been a healthy 180. And at her age, carrying around 160 pounds on a five-seven frame, this wasn't so bad.
Ellamae bopped around the kitchen, hummed to her new Blackstreet tape (a recent gift from one of her granddaughters who was a die-hard Teddy Riley, New Jack Swing fan) and retrieved Spode plates and silverware from the glass china closet. She set four places at the black-marble dining table.
Somebody was going to share this here filling meal with her, even if she had to kill 'em, doggoneit!
She didn't think that Cayle Miller child would give her much of a problem. Tall, lean boy but he looked solid, like he might be able to pack away one of her hardy meals.
A door slammed with such force, Ellamae heard the noise over her blasting music, thought she was in the midst of an off-the-Richter-scale earthquake.
"Good. Get out! I didn't ask for your help anyway!"
Now that would be Reese, showing her skinny tail.
A low male voice answered, too quiet to be intelligible but Ellamae was almost certain it was angry.
That would be that youngin, Cayle. Lordy, the girl done got to that boy so soon? He couldn't have been in her room more than fifteen minutes, Ellamae thought.
"He can take this assignment and shove it where the-"
"Now don't you go lettin' these here people drive you nuts. Ya hear me, boy?"
Cayle came up short on the dining room threshold, looked up from his raging bull charge to see Ellamae standing near the stove, smiling at him as she lowered her headphones and settled them around her neck.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone could hear that."
"Don't you worry 'bout it none. I've been takin' care of that chil' more than twenty years now. I know she can get on a body's last nerve."
Cayle nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.
"Just you sit down at that table, count to ten--or a hundred, that's what usually works for me--before you fix yourself to go meetin' with Mr. Keller."
"How did you know-"
"That you were goin' to march into his office and tell 'im to shove his job? Oh, a lucky guess."
Cayle laughed as he pulled up a chair and took a seat at the glossy Nero table. He was disarmed by her warm smile, wondered if
he had finally found a friend in this enemy camp.
"Ellamae Williams." She wiped her palms on her apron, stepped forward and proffered a hand. "We weren't properly introduced earlier. Call me Ella."
"Cayle. Cayle Miller." He shook her hand, reveled in her homey scent, admired her strong grip.
"Cayle. Is that short for-"
"Caleb? No. It's just Cayle."
"Nice strong name. You wouldn't happen to be from the South?"
He blinked, surprised by her perceptiveness. "Alabama. Does it show?"
"That you're not a Yankee? Not really. I just picked up a little drawl."
"I've been in New York close to ten years," Cayle admitted, easily falling into conversation with the elderly woman. He liked her look. Young, almost ageless raisin-brown skin, prominent high cheeks, shoulder-length afrocentric braids, dark-chocolate eyes that demanded trust.
"I'm originally from Colepepper, Virginia, m'self, but I've got people in Alabama. Whereabout you hail from?"
Cayle flushed, couldn't imagine saying it to this senior citizen, even if she did look hip and comfortable in her Nike lavender nylon wind suit.
"Don't be shy, boy. Cain't be that bad.
The woman must be a mind reader, he thought. "Climax."
"Chil' what you mumblin' for? We're almost related! My people're from Coffee." She reached out a hand to ruffle his thick dark curls and Cayle chuckled, unoffended and charmed by her outrageous sense of humor.
Ella pulled up a chair, sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulder. "Feelin' all right now?"
Cayle nodded, smiled at her.
"Good. And I've got a homecooked meal that'll make ya feel even better. I ain't takin' no for an answer."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let's discuss how you're goin' to handle Ms. Sharise."
"I don't think-"
"Where there's a will there's a way, boy. She can be contained. Just have to know how to handle her."
Cayle doubted anyone had ever handled Sharise Keller without getting his or her hand bit. But he was willing to give it a shot. He hadn't yet backed down from a challenge.
"Ella...Ellamae?" Keller poked his head in the dining room, saw Cayle and Ella ensconced at the table, heads together as if they were plotting a royal takeover. "What the heck was all that racket a while ago?"
"Sharise and I-"
"Nothin' at all," Ella chimed in. "'cept I got a case a the butterfingers and dropped a couple a pots from the cupboards. Cayle here helped me clear up the mess a little before you got here."
"Well, how did your meeting go with Sharise, Cayle?" Keller warily eyed him as the young man gave Ella a look before answering.
"As well as could be expected."
Ella nodded her approval beside him.
"Well...good. That's good." Keller hesitated, took a seat opposite the pair. "You'll be staying for dinner then? I'm sure there's more than enough. Ella makes food for several marine companies."
"Actually, I just got an invitation I couldn't refuse."
* * *
"Make yourself comfortable, Cayle. This might take a bit." Keller sat behind his enormous desk, poured cabernet from a decanter into a burgundy glass. "Would you like some?" He motioned to his glass as Cayle took a seat on the wine sofa.
"I don't drink."
Keller raised his shoulders in a suit-yourself gesture, took a long swallow before placing his glass on the desk blotter. "Now, let's get back to our muttons."
"Mr. Keller..."
"I know what you're going to say, Cayle."
"I don't think you do."
"When I first interviewed you, I explained that Sharise would be a little difficult."
"She's more than a little difficult," Cayle muttered.
"Hostile, sullen, uncooperative. Am I warm?"
"Mr. Keller, you and Dr. Graham gave me ample preparation. You warned me so I thought I could..."
"Yes?" Keller arched a brow, waited.
Cayle sighed, forked a hand through his hair.
He didn't want to admit that he doubted his ability to handle the situation. He didn't want to tell the man that his daughter--his pride and joy--was a colossal spoiled brat who could try the patience of a saint and who needed to be thrown over a knee and spanked until she yelled uncle. He couldn't tell the man this. His own mama had always told him not to say anything if he didn't have anything nice to say. So why was he here? Because he certainly didn't have anything nice to say and he'd certainly had about all he could take of the Kellers for one day. He hated to admit defeat but there it was.
"I know what you're thinking, Cayle. And it couldn't be further from the truth."
"Really?"
"She's not a quitter."
Cayle stared at him across the expanse of the desk, skeptical.
"Sometimes I wish she were. A quitter, I mean. Or at least a little less stubborn. It would make my life a lot easier. But you see, Cayle, Sharise is what you might call...well, she's rebellious and...and she's a little on the spoiled side..."
A little? Cayle thought.
"...She likes to have her way and she'll fight to get it."
And this was the whole problem in a nutshell, Cayle told himself. She's always gotten her way. Well, not now, not this time, not with him. He was not going to mollycoddle a client. She would work and sweat like any of his other patients. She wasn't special.
"I'm not asking you to give her preferential treatment. I'm asking you to give her a chance. She needs that right now. She needs support that I alone don't seem able to give her."
"You need another type of therapist, sir. I'm not a psychologist or an intervention counselor."
"I know that and I'm certainly not expecting you to be either. I just think that you'd be good for her," Keller confessed, hadn't wanted to admit it but knew it was true.
From the first moment when the young man had bounded into his office--clad in Levi's, a cream Henley shirt and a pair of casual black Rockports, looking like JFK, Jr. in his footloose heyday and exuding all the self-confidence of a young cock who'd just lost his virginity to the prom queen--Thomas Keller had instinctively known Cayle Miller was just what the doctor had ordered. He'd known what Sharise's reaction would be at the sight of Cayle--an arrogant and attractive young man. She would bristle. And there would be her provocation.
Of course, Cayle Miller was well qualified in other important areas. Keller had done his research, wouldn't have hired the young man otherwise.
He had a solid background in exercise science, biomechanics,
anatomy and nutrition and had completed an impressive internship at Penn State University's Center for Sports Medicine before becoming a New York State licensed and registered physical therapist.
Dr. Graham himself had sung the young man's praises also, highlighting his exemplary work record and several hard-to-reach success stories, miracles--to hear Dr. Graham tell--that the boy had worked in his two years as a physical therapist at Bruckner in White Plains.
"One of the best in the field, despite his youth," Dr. Graham had explained. "Although his methods can be a little unorthodox at times."
Keller wondered now, as he gave Cayle a look across the desk, just what the good doctor had meant by "unorthodox."
"How can I persuade you, Cayle? If it's the money..."
Cayle held up a hand. "Please. The salary's sufficient," he understated. Sufficient? It was more than sufficient. The money, along with the fringe benefit of living rent and expenses-free, was obscene and astronomical for the assignment, Cayle thought, trying not to downplay his own value. He could help out his mom with Zach's medical bills, the mortgage on the new co-op in New York.... No, it wasn't the money. He just wasn't sure he could deal with a woman like Sharise Keller on a strictly clinical basis. And he was sure he didn't want to test himself that far.
She was annoyingly beautiful and sexy with her dark-auburn hair and slate-gray eyes. Wild, reckless, rebellious. A spoiled self-destructive snob. Hopeless?
Cayle swallowed hard, surprised that most of the list could have easily been a description of him. How he used to be. After Breanna. After Zach. After his own "accident."
He'd gone on a ruinous spree of boozing and drugging and sex. He was lucky he still had a clean enough bill of health to enjoy life, lucky he was alive to enjoy anything.
"I know it's a challenge," Keller said as he stood, circled his desk and took a seat on the edge in front of Cayle. He leaned in. "Personally, I don't think I'd have the courage. Not many people would."
Cayle scowled and stood. You're one sly, smart bastard, Keller. "I'll start tomorrow then, as we previously agreed."
Keller was surprised, hadn't expected capitulation so easily. He quickly recovered, sat up. "Good. Tomorrow it is then." He proffered a hand and Cayle gave it a firm shake. "You won't be sorry, Cayle."
No, but you might be if this doesn't work out.
Sharise sat in the middle of the sweeping exercise room, folded her arms across her breasts and waited.
She had been preparing herself for this confrontation since last evening when she had had dinner alone in her room (and been severely reprimanded by Ella for her rudeness) until this morning when she'd gotten up and dressed for her workout. Hmph. She'd see about a "workout"
She was ready to read Mr. Cayle Miller, would show him a thing or three about who he was up against. Who the hell had he thought he was, strutting in here yesterday finer than JFK, Jr. and looking like People magazine's sexiest man alive?
Sharise would show him just how "serious" she could be. She'd be just as serious as cancer and he wouldn't like it one bit. Mr. Camelot Miller had gotten on her bad side yesterday and this was something one did not want to do with her. She was like her father in this respect.
Sharise stopped her fuming long enough to notice the liquid whistle floating at her from the hallway. The din grew, reverberating off the walls in a sickeningly peppy Disney tune.
She glowered a second before Cayle peeped his head through the entrance then made his way across the floor in an airy swagger that ticked her off more than his singing.
"Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go!" Cayle stopped in front of her as he finished the song.
"So, you changed your mind and decided to come back?"
Sharise sweetly questioned, taking a different approach than she had originally intended. She had planned to go for his jugular, literally, as soon as he showed his smug face.
"You don't scare me, Ms. Keller."
"Reese."
"If it'll make this go smoother."
"It won't. I just prefer it. I told you that."
Cayle grinned. "Yes. You did, didn't you."
"I don't like that sly gleam in your eyes, Mr. Miller."
"I prefer Cayle." He smirked, put his fists on his hips and pivoted to survey the accommodations.
Keller had spared no expense in setting up a gym. The room had all the state-of-the-art equipment endemic to the day's hottest health clubs: three different exercise centers with separate bench press and butterfly stations; motorized, dual-action treadmills, stairclimbers, bikes and power riders. And--the piece de resistance for the gymnast and recovering motor-vehicle-accident victim--the basic, essential parallel bars.
Housed in an area through the back exit and off to the right was an Olympic-size swimming pool with its own showers, sauna and full-size whirlpool attached.
Anything and everything to promote and encourage proper form, efficient motion and, most important of all, healing.
Cayle couldn't wait to get started with the trademark Feldenkrais method. He would loosen her up with some isometric exercises and vital stretches to prepare her muscles for the
rigorous exercises to come: non-weight bearing ambulation in the parallel bars, cross-training with free weights to sculpt and tone, weight-lifting for power, low- and high-impact aerobics--swimming, walking, bicycling and climbing--to strengthen her and increase her endurance.
Depending on how well their initial workouts went this week, Cayle saw no reason why she shouldn't be ready for the pool and maybe a go at the bars in a few weeks.
She was a dancer after all, and he was sure she wanted to get back to her arabesques, pirouettes, grand jetes and grand plies--or whatever the heck were the equivalent moves in modern dance--as soon as possible.
Cayle turned back to Sharise, rubbing together his hands and eagerly eyeing her body as if she were a juicy steak dinner and he hadn't had a solid meal in days.
Sharise only scowled at him.
He ignored her look. "At least you came ready to work," he observed, took in her slim legs encased in a pair of spandex shorts. A little pale against the black material hugging her thighs, not much muscle tone either. But she had possibilities, like she might once have had a nice set of gams, Cayle thought.
She was just such a damn tiny package, couldn't have weighed more than a buck-five soak and wet. And at, if he pushed it, five-one? Hell, Remy would have said she was slight enough to slip through a flute and not sound a note.
"Work, work, work. Why do you have such a one-track mind,
Mr. Miller?"
"Only way to get things done."
"You might be in for a wait."
"I have all day. In fact, my time is your time."
"Do you have a lot of patience?"
"Actually, you're the only one on my calendar." He smiled and approached her chair.
"Ha-ha. You're a real weisen-"
Cayle slid one arm under her thighs, the other around her shoulders and lifted her from the chair in one fluid motion.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked.
"Getting this party started right." He took several steps away from her chair and gently lowered her to the mat.
"I don't think I like your high-handed attitude."
"Join the club."
"You've tried the me-Tarzan-you-Jane act with other girls out there then?" she purred.
"Try again. Besides, I've never seen anyone who needs a severe 'tudinal adjustment more than you, sweetie."
Sharise grit her teeth against the endearment. "You know what? You don't have to like my attitude. As I said before, I didn't ask you to be here...honey."
Cayle grinned, eased her back against the mat, surprised when she complied without comment. He decided to press his luck further, hunkered down and gripped one slim ankle in both his hands. He rotated gently, first one ankle then the other.
Sharise hissed. "Stop."
"We're just getting started," Cayle said, grasped her bare left foot, slowly pushed forward, bending her knee towards her chest. He got half way before she winced.
"I said stop."
"Aw c'mon. You know it doesn't hurt that much," he cajoled, refused to let her give in to the pain.
Cayle slid forward, knelt astride her thighs. If she didn't get this part over with now, she would never move on or improve, he told himself, smoothly massaging first her knees, then each thigh, though he had only angled one leg. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth the entire while.
"This is the good part," he assured.
"Says who?"
"Fine, lazy. Let's try something else."
"I said, stop. Stop it right now!" Sharise exploded, struggled up on her elbows.
Cayle felt the slight flex of her thigh muscles against his. If she had the ability, he thought, she would have probably kneed him. And he definitely didn't want to be a part of that action. Just keep those tiny tootsies and knees clear of the jewels.
"Get off me." Sharise glared at him.
"I'm not on you," he teased.
"You know what I mean. I don't like you straddling me like this. You're invading my space."
"It's the only way we can get this done."
"Says you."
"Maybe later, once you've graduated your workou-"
"There's not going to be any workouts and we're not going to try anything else because I'm finished now." She tried to roll onto her side but his thighs blocked her. Perspiration beaded her forehead as she turned beneath him. "Get off me!"
Reluctantly, Cayle leaned back, watched her from his haunches as she searched for her wheelchair. When she spotted it, practically on the other side of the room, Cayle saw the question loudly splashed across her small features: How and when had he managed to get it all the way over there?
"You really oughta learn to hide those better."
"What?" Sharise frowned.
"Your emotions. They're spilling right past those lovely, long-lashed eyes of yours."
"You dirty, low-life, smart-ass, son-of-a-" She flipped onto her stomach, breathing heavily as she balanced her upper body on her palms in a girl's push-up.
"You're more outta shape than I thought," he commented. "I thought you used to be a dancer..." Cayle shook his head, tsk-tsking. "You've let your body go to pot. Shame. Real shame."
"Bring me my chair!"
Cayle peered at her red face drenched in sweat as she muttered then flung a string of expletives at him.
He sat back and watched her; surprised she didn't pop a blood vessel. Surprised at some of the vocabulary flying out of
her mouth too.
"Very creative. Now that's one I haven't heard about my mother," Cayle said and thought she had a more foul mouth than some of the bikers he used to roll with back in Mobile right before his own accident. Booze and motor vehicles just did not mix well together, he told himself now.
She was working on his father's side of the family now, drawing colorful pictures of those ancestors with her black-and-blue prose.
Cayle leapt to his feet. Time to split, let her cool off.
Sharise had other ideas. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" she demanded.
He moved to take a step by her and she lunged at him, grabbed for his legs. Cayle gingerly sidestepped. She missed his jeans by inches.
He laughed down at her as he headed towards the exit.
"Come back here! Get me to my chair!"
"Think I'm going to check in your fridge, see if the right type of food is stocked for maximum refueling," Cayle threw over a shoulder. "Don't stop your workout on my account. I'll be back in a jiff."
Sharise swore, slammed a fist against the mat. "Damn you, Miller! Come back-"
He closed the door on the rest, shook his head and chuckled. He felt bad. Maybe a little. But if he had her figured right, she would drag herself to her chair and be sitting in it waiting to
attack the first person within reach.
That is, if she didn't immediately follow him to the kitchen for an expedient ambush.
Cayle looked forward to it.
* * *
He whistled all the way to the kitchen. Hot dog, he was in a good mood! And he didn't even know why. Maybe it was because he had shown that maddening woman who was boss. And God knows she had needed to be shown.
Cayle bumped into Ella in the kitchen, almost mowed her down as he rounded the corner where she was stacking that morning's cleaned breakfast dishes in an overhead cabinet.
"Ooh! I'm sorry, Ella." He caught her by the arms before she would have lost her balance.
"My goodness! Who knew there was such a diesel engine in that lean body?"
Cayle chuckled. There was no denying Ellamae Williams had a wonderful way with words.
"What're you up to, so bright and happy this morning?" she asked as he strolled by her to raid the cookie jar on the Carrara marble counter across the room.
Cayle's hand emerged with three Chips Ahoy. He bit into one. "Oh nothing. Nothing at all," he said between bites.
"Hmm. Sounds like you're making progress?"
"Something like that."
Ella eyed him as he lackadaisically leaned back on his
elbows and crossed his ankles in front of him. She shook her head as she headed for the table, pulled out a chair and took a seat. She peered across at Cayle.
He raised his brows. "Problem?"
"Could be."
Cayle crossed the floor, took a chair facing her, straddled it and hugged its tall straight wooden back as he looked at her. "You think I'm doing something wrong?"
She shook her head again. "Don't rightly know. I'm thinkin' you shouldn't be getting over-confident just yet, the way you seem to be. Don't sleep on her."
"I wouldn't dream of doing that."
She stared at him for a long moment then nodded. "I didn't think you would but it's easy to get comfortable. They draw you in that way."
"They? You mean her and dear old daddy."
Ella nodded, serious. "The Kellers, one and the same."
"They're not so tough."
"Many have tried but few have survived."
"How have you done it? Survived?"
"Me? Oh, I'm tough as a greasy spoon steak. Had to be. By the time I'd gotten here, Mr. Keller and that hellion daughter of his had gone through several nannies and housekeepers. Sharise was five then. And she's only gotten worse with age, if you can imagine that."
Cayle couldn't imagine it, nervously laughed as a shiver
shot through his spine at the very thought. "So...she's always been such a...so...difficult?"
Ella grinned at his uneasiness. "Ever since I've known her." She nodded, her smile growing. "I remember the first week I started working for the Kellers. Got a phone call from the child's kindergarten teacher the first morning asking for someone to come pick up Sharise.
"Seems the girl had put a powerful beatin' on some boy. Bloodied 'im up pretty bad."
"Sounds like Sharise's handiwork."
"You said it." Ella nodded. "But from what I heard, the kid deserved it. Among other things, he'd been botherin' the chil' somethin' awful about Mother's Day and her not being able to make a card for her mother since she didn't have one anymore. Of course, Sharise didn't take too kindly to his teasin'."
"Where is her mother?" Cayle blurted.
"Hemorrhaged to death in the back of an ambulance giving birth to Reese..."
"God, that's horrible."
Ella went on, as if by rote. "The nearest hospital was one of them private do-dads. Wouldn't take her, not even as an emergent case. No insurance. So they re-routed the ambulance to the next available city hospital all the way across town.
"Anyway, the EMTs delivered Sharise in the ambulance on the way. She survived. Her mother didn't."
"God..." Cayle sighed, helplessly shook his head as his
heart softened a little for the tortured five-year-old and the willful woman who had grown up not knowing a mother's gentle touch or a mother's sweet smell. Only the grief of a widowed father. "That's so...horrible," he repeated.
"Mr. Keller thought so too and would have sued but back then, he didn't have the means. Not like he does now. If he had..."
He would have ripped the hospital and every responsible figurehead doctor and administrator to shreds, Cayle told himself and wondered how they could do it. How could they let her die like that?
"She's had it pretty rough, Cayle. Especially since the accident." Ella stared at him and when he didn't respond, she continued. "She was in pretty bad shape directly after. Worse than now. She had swelling on the brain, was comatose for several weeks, had a bout of pneumonia. They really didn't expect her to live, much less walk."
Cayle waited, anxious to hear what type of new spin Ella would put on the she's-not-a-quitter speech since he had already gotten one from Keller.
"Once Sharise came around, understood the extent of her injuries, she dug down, ready to fight. Threw herself hog-wild into rehab, worked like something was driving her. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. It was like a light had been shut off. Can't rightly put my finger on when this happened."
"So this is where I came in?"
Ella shook her head. "Not right away. Took a while for Mr. Keller to put his foot down.
"Sharise had been on a tear for a spell. Didn't want to work with any of the therapists. Abused the home attendants, went through several in one week. Got so bad, Mr. Keller finally sent for her. Persuaded her to come out here for her rehab."
Cayle smirked, didn't believe it had been that easy. Persuasion was not a method he would have used to get Sharise Keller to do anything. A woman like her didn't respond to anything but iron will. Something of which he was well acquainted and had an abundant supply. He could fight fire with fire right up there with the best of them.
"What you thinkin' on, youngin?" Ella waved a hand in front of his face. "You got a mite too quiet over there for my comfort. Looked like my son for a second." She shook her head and chuckled at the thought. "I always knew when that boy was up to somethin'. He'd get real quiet and have a look like yours in his eyes. Plottin'."
Cayle nodded. "I'm making plans."
"Well, take everything I said into consideration."
"Definitely."
"You know, deep down I think Sharise wanted to come back. She needed to."
Cayle looked at her doubtfully.
Ella nodded. "She won't admit it, of course. She'd rather kick and scream, cry foul, try to make people feel sorry for her.
Like a child, she wants attention. Any kind."
Cayle thought of his own days being the runt younger brother, the "problem" kid because of his early bouts with ill health. All the while living in Zach's favored shadow.
He swallowed hard, tried to block out the guilt and grief. Bury the resentment.
Ella saw his struggle, didn't comment on how much his face gave away; boy couldn't have hidden a thing if he tried, she thought, knew the poor chil' was torn up about something other than Sharise's story. But she also knew when to keep her trap shut and when to speak. Now was the time for silence.
She got to her feet. "Well look at me. I've spilled about enough of this here family's secrets to last a body a lifetime. Better get to rustlin' up some lunch." She squeezed one of his shoulders as she passed him and Cayle looked up into her liquid brown eyes. "You're a good man. I feel it in m' bones and these here bones haven't steered me wrong yet."
He stared at her, waiting.
"She's not as bad as she makes herself out to be, Cayle. Just try not to be too hard on her."
Cayle didn't respond right away, unsure if he could do Ellamae's bidding and still get the job done. Except when he looked up into her compelling brown eyes, he was almost able to believe in miracles, to believe he could get Sharise back on track.
Finally he muttered, "I'll do my best, Ella."