Molly did think about it. And knew Charlotte was right—she couldn’t live with the “what ifs,” couldn’t watch Fox walk away because she was too scared to reach for him.
Her nerves were in knots by the time she returned home after work, but she wasn’t about to chicken out in her decision to talk to Fox, standing forever in place, caged by the grief and anger of the fifteen-year-old girl she’d once been. He wasn’t in the apartment, but his scent lingered in the air. Hugging a pillow to her chest for a minute, she breathed deep, then got moving; giving herself too much time to think would only ratchet up her nerves.
She was in the middle of preparing dinner when the sound of a key in the door had a smile breaking out over her face. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said and walked into his arms, the material of his black T-shirt soft against her cheek.
Duffel sliding to the floor and guitar already propped up beside the door, Fox massaged the back of her neck as he kissed her slow and deep. “I had images of you na**d on a bed of petals when I picked out the roses.” He stroked his finger down the shell of her ear with that sinful confession, his lips curved. “What are we doing tonight?”
She’d intended to suggest they stay at home and talk, but all at once, that felt too confining, too claustrophobic for what she needed to say. “I thought dinner, then maybe we could drive up Mount Eden?” The volcanic cone offered sweeping views of the city, the vista breathtaking at night.
“Sounds good.”
An hour and a half later, Molly realized she shouldn’t have delayed, her nerves so frayed that Fox had watched her with careful eyes throughout dinner. However, he hadn’t said anything, and now he parked the Ferrari at the top of the mountain she’d suggested, in front of the huge, sloping crater that told of a massive explosion millennia ago.
Getting out, he whistled at the view of the city spread out around them in every direction, thousands of lights glinting against the silky black of the night. “Damn. It’s three hundred and sixty degrees.”
His pleasure fed hers. “It’s one of my favorite places in the city.” Sliding her hand into Fox’s when he held it out, she walked with him along the path that led to another vantage point on the other side of the crater.
And in his touch, she found her courage. “My mother,” she began into the silence broken only by the whispering of the long grasses moving in the slight breeze, “loved my father.” It had been a toxic love that meant Karen Webster couldn’t walk away, even when loving Patrick Buchanan was a cancer on her soul.
“After the scandal broke,” Molly continued, Fox’s hand strong and warm around her own, “she resigned her board positions with various charitable organizations and stayed home with my father. I think she was waiting for him to dust himself off as he’d always done before.” Patrick Buchanan had been like the proverbial cat with nine lives. “She didn’t seem to understand how serious the charges were, that he’d certainly end up in prison.”
Arriving at the vantage point, the spot otherwise empty tonight, Molly gave herself a break and pointed out the glittering lights of the cars snaking over the Harbour Bridge, Auckland a city surrounded by water.
Fox wrapped his arms around her from behind, a tall, strong wall of protective heat. “Nice view, but you know the view I like better.” He bent to kiss her throat.
Shivering, she angled her neck for another.
“You figure people are making out in those cars where we parked?” Fox asked after fulfilling her silent request.
“I saw steam on the windows of the hatchback.” A long, quiet minute as she luxuriated in the feel of being held under a starlit sky while the city sparkled like a jewel-bright carpet below them. “Do you want to hear the rest?” she asked when she felt strong enough to face the past again. “It’s not particularly unique.”
“It’s about you.” Fox spread his legs, drew her even closer. “I want to know.”
Holding on to his forearms where they crossed her chest, Molly drew in a trembling breath. “When they granted him bail, my father came home and literally never left again until the day he died. He became an apathetic shadow of the brilliant, manipulative, controlling person I’d always known.”
To this day, Molly didn’t know if his withdrawal had been driven by shame, or simply disbelief that he, Patrick Buchanan, had been caught and held to account. “My mother… it was like she couldn’t function on any level without his orders.” Molly could still remember the bewildered look in her mother’s sky-blue eyes.
“After I came home and found her passed out drunk every day for a week”—Molly’s stomach churned at the remembered smell of alcohol drenching the air—“while my father sat staring at his computer, I began opening the mail that had piled up. That’s when I saw what he’d been doing.”
Chapter 23
“Drugs?”
“Close.” Her hands had begun to shake as she looked at the bank statements and final notices for bills. “Online gambling. He’d bankrupted us in a matter of weeks.” Worse, he hadn’t paid any of the insurance premiums since the day of his arrest, invalidating all the policies.
Fox’s voice was harsh when he spoke. “No man has the right to do that to his family.”
“I confronted him—I think part of me was hoping I’d misunderstood.” Like a child wanting to be assured the bogeyman wasn’t real. “When he stirred enough to yell at me to get the hell out, I waited for one of my mother’s sober days and showed her the papers. The way she looked at me… I broke her heart into a million pieces that day.” Molly would never forget that instant, never forget the unvarnished agony that had sent Karen Webster to the floor in a fetal curl.