Carla Neggers - The River House

His company’s new owners had kept on most of his employees and freelancers. Together, they’d take the company and its specialty in product development to the next level. Gabe liked starting businesses. He was good at it, although sometimes they didn’t work out. He’d had a few going when he’d launched the one he’d just sold. He liked being nimble, moving fast, and when that newest start-up had taken off, he’d focused on it. As it grew, he discovered digging in and building a company didn’t interest him as much as getting one off the ground, and he wasn’t particularly good at it. It’d been time to move on. Three years of intense work and focus had made his start-up attractive to a buyer who would do what he didn’t want to—couldn’t—do. As the founder, Gabe had done his best to make a clean exit.

Clean from a business perspective, anyway. One of his freelancers, a customer development specialist who’d been with him from the start, happened to be in the process of divorcing the man who’d bought the company. She was out of a job and a marriage. Gabe had met with her in Los Angeles to reassure her he’d be in touch with any new venture.

Everything had revolved around him during those intense years getting his business off the ground. Friends who’d been in his position advised him to have a post-sale plan in place, and he’d listened, at least to a degree. The boot camp had cropped up while he was still twiddling his thumbs in California, trying to figure out what was next.

What was next was Knights Bridge and Felicity MacGregor.

He hadn’t been to his hometown in months and he hadn’t seen Felicity in three years.

He needed a reentry plan.

* * *

Gabe went into the master bedroom. The painters had taped off the windows and trim, but otherwise it was untouched. It was just the bed and a sheepskin he’d picked up in Ireland. He sat on the edge of his king-size bed and dug a small photo album out of his nightstand. His mother had put it together for him before her death. She’d done one for Mark, too. It contained pictures of their childhood, and hers, in Knights Bridge. Tucked inside was a sheet of Rhodia notepaper he’d folded in half three years ago that past February and hadn’t looked at since. He opened it now and wondered why he’d kept it. A cautionary tale? Hell if he knew.

The note was in two parts, one he’d written, one Felicity had written. He’d written his portion in black Sharpie pen. They were the only pens he used. He was tidy, and he had his rituals. Felicity had resisted anything smacking of order, at least back then.

Felicity,

Meetings in Boston. Back at 5 p.m. Company arrives at 6 p.m. Hint.

Gabe

P.S. You know I’m right

Then her scrawl in blue Sharpie pen:

I made brownies for you and your “company.” They’re in the freezer. Enjoy.

Felicity, financial analyst

P.S. We’ll see who’s right

He’d left her that morning scowling at him in his bathroom doorway, wrapped in a wet, threadbare towel. He could have afforded new towels even then, but he hadn’t seen the need. It’d been her fifth day sleeping on his couch, nursing her wounds after getting fired from yet another finance job. She had degrees and knew her stuff, but her heart wasn’t in the work. He’d told her so, not mincing words. Then he’d jotted the note and was on his way. By the time he returned, she’d cleared out of his apartment. She’d cleaned up her pizza boxes, collected her dirty dishes, folded the blankets she’d borrowed, put her sheets and towels in the washing machine and tidied up the bathroom.

His “company” had been a woman he’d invited over to watch a movie. She’d promptly discovered a stray pair of lacy bikini underpants Felicity had missed in the couch cushions, refused to believe his explanation and stormed out of his apartment before he’d had a chance to pour wine. He’d thrown out Felicity’s underpants—damned if he’d mail them to her—and opened the freezer. He’d figured he’d microwave a couple of brownies, drink the wine by himself and put the lousy day behind him. But there’d been no brownies, and he’d realized Felicity had never had any intention of making him brownies. She’d wanted him to open the freezer and not find any brownies.

Spite. Pure spite.

Seemed a bit childish now, but he supposed he’d had it coming.

He’d drunk the wine without brownies, without a date for the evening, without Felicity camped out on his couch with take-out pad thai or another pizza delivery. The next morning, he’d decided the ball was in her court. She was the one whose life was a mess, and he needed to respect what she wanted to do—needed to do. He’d had what he wanted and needed to do, too. He didn’t have time to hold Felicity’s hand through another mess. Nearly a week on his couch had proven that to him. She was a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Since she didn’t want or appreciate his advice, why push it with her?

And so he hadn’t. He’d let her go.

He reread the note. Yeah. She’d been furious with him.

He folded the note and returned it to the photo album. He’d be lying if he tried to tell himself or anyone else that he hadn’t missed her. Didn’t still, at times, miss her. Especially in those first few months, he would reach for his phone to send her a text or email her a cute puppy video, but he never had.

He had been right about her hacking away in the wrong jungle. Who was planning parties in Knights Bridge now instead of scratching out a living in a career to which she was unsuited?

“Didn’t matter you were right, pal.”

If there was one thing he knew about Felicity, it was that she wouldn’t thank him for being right. She wouldn’t credit him with helping steer her onto a better course for herself.

Assuming it was better.

Gabe grabbed his laptop and sat on his bed, his back against several insanely expensive down pillows, and drafted an email to Felicity about the boot camp party. It took him thirty minutes to write the damn thing. Forever by his standards. Normally he was in, out, done. He didn’t angst, especially over something as trivial as planning a ninety-minute open house. He had limited experience hosting parties. In fact, no experience. He’d always delegated that sort of detail. He was good at delegating.

He was delegating now, if only because of Mark.

Wording the email was tricky in part because he didn’t want to get Mark in trouble, never mind he was the one who’d created this situation by sticking his nose in with Felicity in the first place.

Gabe gave an inward groan. This wasn’t an email to a Fortune 500 CEO. It was an email to a Knights Bridge party planner. To Felicity.

He read it over:

Dear Felicity,

Mark tells me you’re able to put together the open house after the boot camp talks. Let me know if you need anything from me.

Best,

Gabriel

It didn’t sound too stiff to him. Professional. This was a business arrangement. He read the email once more and changed Gabriel to Gabe. Using his full first name struck him as too formal and might make Felicity think he was feeling awkward and self-conscious. Whatever the case, it hit the wrong note with him. They were no longer friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. They’d drifted apart. She’d moved on; he’d moved on. That was all there was to it, and Gabriel suggested there was more to it.

There was, but whatever.

He hit Send and got up and found a bottle of Scotch he’d bought in Edinburgh to celebrate some milestone in his business. He didn’t remember the details, but he did remember the Scotch. He splashed some into his glass and found his way back to his bedroom.

He glanced at his in-box but Felicity hadn’t yet responded.