ten, she’d begged to go with him when he went to shoot skeet. He’d showed her how to shoot, but it hurt and it was loud and she’d cried, so he’d sent her to the shooting range office, disgusted with her for giving up so easily.
Later, Tara returned to the range for lessons, making the owner swear not to tell her father, determined to prove herself. By the time she got good enough, she no longer cared what her father thought of her.
Would sharing that have changed things between them?
It was too late to know.
Are you proud of me, Dad? Did you know how good I am? She’d sent him a packet, as CEO of Wharton Electronics, one of the dozens she sent to potential clients, but never heard a word. She didn’t need his approval, of course, but the first hurts were the deepest.
You had to heal yourself. She knew that. But being here again brought up those old teenage feelings. The Wharton Effect all over again. Her job was to ignore it, rise above it, kick it to the curb until she could finally, safely, escape for good.
Then there was Dylan. What about Dylan? There’d been this lingering thing in her head since she’d seen him, like a singer holding a note until she was about to pass out.
She missed him. Still. She wanted him. Still.
And that was the most ridiculous thing of all.
* * *
SATURDAY AT NOON, Dimitri helped Tara out of the the limousine in front of the house for the reception. She was dying for air-conditioning. She’d forgotten that October in Arizona was too warm for the navy business suit she’d worn. The sun had beat down mercilessly during the graveside service.
Hang in there, she told herself. Just a few more hours.
Then she could peel off her clothes, go for a swim or a run, borrow one of her father’s guns and shoot skeet until her shoulder throbbed, drive as fast as she could as far away as she wanted, or throw herself facedown on her bed and let the thick down pillows muffle her sobs.
Dimitri helped Tara’s mother out of the car. She’d held her own since the night in the kitchen, handled the visitation and the funeral with dignity and grace, accepting hugs, pats and cheek kisses with a smile. Her friends, the women who sat on charity boards with her and planned food drives and hosted fund-raising balls, seemed to buoy her. Maybe she felt she had to put on a front for them. Whatever it was, it helped her hold it together. Tara would keep an eye out at the reception in case she started to crack. Her mother’s dignity meant everything to her, so Tara would help preserve it.
The house was a cool relief, noisy with talk, smelling of rich food, flowers, wine and perfume. The dining room table groaned with food, waiters passed hot appetizers and the bartender was busy handing out drinks. Her father would have considered the full bar with top-shelf liquor too showy, but Tara wanted the best to honor him. She headed for the kitchen to be sure the caterers had everything they needed.
“Eat before you fall down.” Judith thrust a plate at Tara with a hunk of beef covered in mustard and a piece of cherry pie—Tara’s favorite as a kid. “You left that yogurt on the counter this morning.”
“Thanks, Judith, for thinking of me. I ran out of time to eat.”
“Can’t have you passing out in front of company. I told the bartender to water your mother’s gimlets. I’ll keep an eye on her. You greet the guests.”
She noticed Judith’s eyes were red. “How are you doing?”
“How do you think I’m doing? Supervising these airhead caterers I should get overtime.” She marched away in a huff, as private about her feelings as Tara’s mother.
Tara started circulating. She noticed Chief Fallon leaning close to her mother to talk. He’d stayed awhile at the visitation, too, bringing her mother a glass of water. The big bouquet on the dining room table had come from him. What had her mother said? Bill watches out for us.
Yeah? Was there more to it than that? It gave her the creeps to even contemplate.
Tara greeted people, made sure everyone had food and liquor. It was exhausting to talk to people who knew her or thought they did—people who hated her or resented her, friends who wanted to rehash wild times, phonies who expressed sympathy with smug eyes. As the