Seven
Two days later, Esme finally had the strength to pull the unfinished drawing of Dane’s boat, Too Much, from its folder.
She was pretty, the Too Much. The most unlikely of Dane’s possessions, she was the only one he’d shown a real affection for. Which was the reason Esme chose to draw her instead of the big house.
An incomplete drawing.
An incomplete love affair. How utterly perfect! She knew she could finish it by memory, but it wouldn’t be the same. Besides, her tears would probably ruin the fine handmade paper. She sniffed.
After delivering the beach portfolio to Veronica, she hadn’t drawn a line. God, all she’d done was sniffle and watch daytime TV. Something she swore she’d never do. It was hell being sane, sensible, and cool, when all she wanted was to be in Dane’s arms.
Not that it would last.
She poured herself another cup of coffee, took a seat at her counter, and picked up the remote control for her tiny kitchen TV.
Might as well catch the noon news and get really depressed.
. . . all twenty-four low-income families left homeless by the Fairtowne Apartments fire in Messing, Tennessee, are in new digs courtesy of—and here’s the real news—Dane McCoy. Voted Louisiana’s most wanted man—in the marriage market—for three years running, McCoy’s been out of sight for a while, supposedly holed up with the zillions he made when he sold MacArte Electronics a couple of years ago. Now it seems, he’s turned his attention to philanthropy. Details are sketchy, and the man himself refuses all interviews, but rumors are you can find McCoy bucks just about anywhere on the globe, be it Ethiopia or some of New Orlean’s, neediest neighborhoods. And last weekend, according to the burned-out, and very grateful, tenants of the Fairtowne Apartments, a good share of those bucks ended up in Messing.
In other news . . .
Esme sat back in her chair, certain her jaw was about to hit her chest bone. When she gathered her wits, they spun in confusion. He should have told her.
Why in hell didn’t he tell her?
Her phone rang. On reflex she picked it up and immediately wished she hadn’t.
It was Marilee, and she was so excited, her voice was ten notches higher than normal. “Esme, thank you, thank you, thank you! I thank you and Leonardo thanks you.”
Esme leaned forward, put her elbows on the counter, and tried to concentrate. Why didn’t he tell me . . .
“Are you there, Esme. Did you hear me? Dane came through with the money. The spa is a go! There are conditions, of course, my brother’s a maniac for detail, but he met with Leonardo and me—he liked Leonardo, I can tell—and now everything’s set.”
Guilt stabbed her. She’d forgotten about Marilee and Leonardo’s spa idea, been far too busy being a righteous idiot and nursing a broken heart, which, as it turned out, was a self-inflicted wound. Damn. Damn. Damn!
“I’m glad,” she said to her friend and meant it. “When did you get the news?” She worked to keep her attention on her friend’s happiness, her brother’s good fortune.
“This morning. Dane literally flew in with the news and flew out. Said he was in a hurry, that he had to deliver some beignets or some dumb thing. I had no idea what he was talking about—”
Esme’s doorbell rang.
“Marilee, I’ve got to go. I’m happy for you and Leonardo. Tell him I’ll call him. Okay.” She hung up, took a breath, walked to her front door, and opened it.
There he was.
Oh, thank God, there he was.
Holding out a sack of beignets.
She closed her eyes tight, cleared her fogged senses, and opened them again, wanting to be sure he was real.
“I knew you’d miss me,” he said, not moving an inch, just standing there looking like heaven—except for the glint of devil in his blue eyes.
She rallied. “I missed the beignets.” She wouldn’t smile, she wouldn’t. They still had things to settle. He should have told her . . .
He flashed a grin, then stepped inside, walked around, and looked around. “Nice,” he said. “The kind of place I’d expect you to live. All color and light.” He looked out the window, tilted his head to see the sliver of ocean, only visible to her on her tiptoes. “Great view.” Then he turned from his inspection and set his gaze on her, seriously, intently, all trace of humor gone from his face. “But you don’t belong here. You belong with me.”
God, after the last few days without him, Esme couldn’t agree more, but she had one more fret chewing at the back of her mind. “You were on TV. The noon news.”
“Yeah, I know.” He didn’t look pleased about it.
“When I was accusing you of working too hard, trying to make more money—all those ridiculously pious things I said.” She stopped, because he’d stepped up to her, taken a long tendril of her hair in his fingers and was playing with it—like he’d done that first night at dinner. His knuckles brushed her collarbone. He was too close for her to think. When she stepped back, her hair slipped from his grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”
“I couldn’t. Not until I’d talked to Janzen. We had an agreement that everything we did, we did in complete anonymity. And”—he hesitated—“I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t think I was crazy.”
“For doing good things—like helping the people of Messing. I don’t understand.”
“Because Messing is a small piece of a big pie.” He took in a breath. “I plan to spend the next few years of my life giving away my money.”
“I don’t—” She stopped, her eyes widening. “You mean all your money.”
“Pretty much. It’s not my intention to start eating cat food anytime soon, but”—he looked away for a moment, his expression close to apologetic—“when a man is given too much, and so many are given so little . . .” He met her stunned gaze. “He has an obligation.”
“You weren’t given it, Dane. You earned it. Every penny.”
“Then I was given what I needed—talent, luck, whatever—to accomplish that. Same thing.” He shrugged.
“You also changed your mind. You’re backing the spa idea for Marilee and Leonardo.”
“For the same reason.” He ran a finger along her jaw, searched her face. “Everyone should have, should feel, what we have. What you’ve given to me. If your brother can help in that . . .” He let the sentence trail away, then frowned. “Plus, there’s Marilee who, if I don’t cough up the money, is liable to send me another sex therapist. And I can only handle one of those at a time.”
Esme was still processing, still trying to understand the complexity of the man she’d fallen in love with. “And that’s what you do all day, you and Janzen, you give away money.”
“It’s not as simple as that—and it does take work, Esme. Lots of work,” he said. “Early on we decided we’d vet our own causes. We didn’t want a barrage of bogus solicitations, the hassle of a foundation, or the publicity that came with it. We keep it personal, do our own thing, limit the admin costs as much as possible, and get the cash to where it will do the most good in the shortest possible time. That’s where the Internet comes in.”
She turned from him, knowing a sheen of tears misted her eyes. It wasn’t easy feeling the fool—with a full heart. He put his hands on her shoulders and rested his chin on her head. “So now that you know I’m not a salivating money-grabber—at least not anymore—will you marry me?”
She faced him, touched his cheek. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I have a key to that computer room of yours and permission to enter and ravish you any time, day or night.”
“So long as Janzen isn’t around to watch. Done.” He pulled her close and the scent of him, clean and woodsy, filled her. “Now let me hear it.”
She smiled, tilted her head to look at him. “I love you, Dane. I think I have since the very first . . . beignet.”