After the Climb Read online

  Now Chloe was my stylist. And after self-appointing this role, she’d dumped half my closet (and by that I meant she auctioned it off for charity), declared my look was “edgy elegance” and then she proceeded to fill my closet with that.

  I had to admit, since she took over, I’d made a lot of best dressed lists.

  And wearing the clothes she selected for me, I felt like I’d somehow come back to myself.

  But this was an issue now.

  Because instead of looking like this was casual and it didn’t mean anything to me, and thus I showed at drinks in the same outfit I’d been in at lunch, it looked like I’d made an effort.

  Or I was up myself and I couldn’t take Hollywood out of Prescott, which would be totally up myself.

  I had a defense.

  Mary had not packed a single thing that did not scream “Edgy Elegance!”

  In fact, the only non-heeled shoes I currently had access to were the slides I’d packed myself.

  But I could have worn those slides with this outfit.

  Or I could have not changed at all.

  And I did not do either.

  The next reason this was not a good idea was that it was not lost on me that picture had made the rounds, and now there we’d be, at a public bar, Duncan and me.

  If anyone took another snap, and it was a good possibility they would, it’d be a fan to a flame.

  However, I felt it was less of a good idea to ask him to come up to my suite to chat.

  No.

  After the knee brush at lunch, I knew that was a very, very bad idea.

  The last reason this was not a good idea was that I’d asked for this meeting with Duncan at all.

  We did not need closure.

  We’d had closure.

  Twenty-eight years of it.

  But did that stop me from asking Mary to get me his cell phone number?

  No.

  What was I doing?

  “Genny.”

  I turned on my stool and looked up at Duncan.

  And I didn’t miss the casual plaid shirt he’d been wearing with faded jeans at lunch was gone and a nice button down with dark-wash jeans had taken its place.

  He looked really, really good.

  Oh hell.

  We weren’t going for closure.

  We were both behaving like we were on a date.

  “Duncan,” I greeted.

  He looked to the barkeep, who was coming our way, but he was unable to order.

  Our attention was taken by a beautiful, impeccably dressed African American woman who was now at our sides.

  Damn.

  A fan.

  “Ms. Swan, Mr. Holloway, I’m Sienna Sinclair.”

  Not a fan.

  Or maybe still a fan.

  But also the owner of the hotel.

  “If you’d like to follow me, I think it’ll be more comfortable for you to be seated in our brand-new VIP area,” she finished.

  Her gaze then slid to the side, and I twisted to look over my shoulder to see a rather cozy corner booth recessed in an alcove in the back, in front of which two members of staff were erecting an attractive, freestanding folding screen.

  “If you’ll give me your order, Mr. Holloway, I’ll have it brought to your table,” she said.

  That cozy booth looked cozy.

  But the way they were positioning that screen, someone would have to be very intent on getting a picture of us around it.

  And it was much better than speaking with Duncan in my suite.

  I grabbed my drink and slid off my stool.

  Duncan ordered something that sounded like it was beer.

  I expressed my thanks to Ms. Sinclair, who inclined her head before she led the way, and Duncan put his hand light to the small of my back to guide me to the booth.

  I did not discourage this due to what it might look like if someone saw me doing it.

  But I had no idea how I made it to that booth considering every iota of my attention was on the touch of his hand, no matter how light, so I wasn’t sure how I managed to put one foot in front of the other.

  Okay, just me asking for this meet was a very, very bad idea.

  And that idea was getting worse by the second.

  I slid in, put my drink on the small table, and Duncan slid in beside me.

  Our hips were touching, and if I wanted to avoid that, I’d need to slide some more, which would put me on the floor.

  I gritted my teeth.

  Sienna Sinclair faded away after wishing us to enjoy our evening, and the staff closed us in with the screen, leaving only a small opening a human might, if they sucked in their tummies, get through.

  I turned instantly to Duncan.

  “I can’t stay long. My cat is upstairs.”

  He blinked fast and asked, “I’m sorry?”

  “My cat. My building has a sanitation problem and I can’t return to my condo until it’s sorted. So I’m staying here. And I’m close to my cat. I’m an animal lover, as you, well, um…know. So my assistant brought her up. She’s a low maintenance cat, but she’s still in new surroundings, so I don’t want her up there alone for long.”

  “Your building has a sanitation problem?”

  “I’m trying not to think of that, but yes, my building. I, uh…live in a condo.”

  “Right. Gen—”

  “It’s a really nice one. But it might be too big of one, because the kids are now gone.”

  “Okay. But, you see, Ge—”

  “It’s fancy though, not a hint of wood around. Lots of marble. Crystal chandeliers. No wood.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he was now watching me very closely with an expression coming over his handsome face that was very, very dangerous.

  Which meant I kept babbling.

  “I’ve been there seven years. I love it.”

  “Do you now?” he murmured, his eyes falling to my mouth.

  Ohmigod!

  “Uh, yes. I have the most amazing view.”

  “Mm,” he hummed.

  My thighs started quivering.

  My mouth kept blabbing.

  “You should know that today is not normal. Maybe it’s Prescott. But mostly it’s you.”

  That got his eyes returning to mine.

  “What’s me?”

  “Me being with, uh…you. And you being you. Well, me being me too, but you’re also you.”

  There was silk in his deep voice, as well as humor, when he agreed, “I am me.”

  Why could I not stop talking?

  I really couldn’t because I kept doing it.

  “What I’m saying is, I can go grocery shopping and everything without being recognized. At least, down in Phoenix.”

  “Is that right?”

  I nodded, maybe fervently, and to stop doing that, I snatched up my drink and took a far-too-large sip.

  The lime in the gimlet hit me hard with sour and it took a lot not to make a face.

  Drink, bad.

  I put it down.

  “Excuse me,” we heard from beyond the screen.

  “Yeah?” Duncan answered.

  A waitress squeezed around.

  “Your drink, sir,” she said.

  His drink hit the table as did an elegant, cut crystal tall-sided bowl filled with a crisp bit of paper in which was tucked, to almost overflowing, a bevy of seasoned chicharrones.

  Yum.

  “Would you like another drink, Ms. Swan?” she offered.

  Absolutely not.

  “No,” I answered. “But thank you.”

  “I’ll be around in a bit to check on you,” she said, before she squeezed away.

  I took a deep breath.

  Duncan took a sip of beer.

  I turned to him to get a firm hold on this conversation, which meant having it, and ending it, and walking away.

  For good.

  I didn’t get that first word out.

  “What’s your cat’s name?” he asked.

  It came
out automatically. “Cookie.”

  “I thought you were a dog person.”

  “I am. I travel too much for a dog. And my building doesn’t let you have animals over a certain weight. So I’ve discovered my latent cat person.”

  “That sucks. The certain weight rule that is. Not you being a latent cat person.”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned at me and it was not lost on me it was all kinds of playful.

  And woefully effective.

  “I thought you rich, jet-set celebrities chartered planes and took your animals everywhere.”

  “Well, I might be a rich, jet-set celebrity, but I’m also a responsible pet owner, and I’m not certain dragging a cat, or a dog, all over the globe is good for the cat, or dog. Cookie notwithstanding,” I hastened to add. “But only for this trip and only because she doesn’t mind car rides…uh, much.”

  “What you’re saying is, you didn’t want to be without her, so you caved when you know she hated every second of being in the car on the way up here.”

  Cookie didn’t seem worse for the wear.

  In fact, she had found a cozy nook in the toss pillows on the bed to curl up in before I left for dinner, the very nook she was stretching out of when I returned.

  Though Mary reported she’d been vocal the entire way up, and I didn’t think Cookie was sharing her desire to get a better view out the windows.

  “Well, hated is a strong word.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I wished he’d quit humming all deep and rumbly like that.

  “Listen, Duncan—”

  “I have five.”

  My head ticked. “Sorry? Five?”

  “Animals.” He reached for a chicharron. “Not counting the horses. Three dogs. A cat. And a rabbit.”

  He’d always loved animals.

  All of them.

  Even snakes.

  So this did not surprise me.

  Though I was probably more relieved than was healthy that he did not share he had a snake, since what would it matter to me if he did?

  He started counting them down.

  “Shasta, my rescue husky. Rocco, Sully’s tripod silver receiver. Bounce, Gage’s rabbit. Tuck, our cat. And my baby, Killer.”

  “Your baby?” I whispered.

  “A Peekapoo. Pekingese, poodle mix. She weighs about twelve pounds. Could not believe that score at the shelter. Then again, they all were scores from the shelter.”

  He crunched into the chicharron.

  “I thought you were a vegetarian,” I noted.

  “I avoid meat. I limit intake of products produced from animals, specifically cows and pigs, because cows cause an environmental issue, and the treatment of swine for consumption is unconscionable. Examples, I use almond milk and go for olive oil instead of butter. But I’m not a vegetarian.”

  Okay, well that explained that.

  “Though, just to say,” he continued, “as proved seconds ago, my conscious isn’t exactly clear since I find it harder to say no to pork because…bacon, and well…” He dipped his head to the chicharrones with his lips twitching.

  He’d always leaned toward pork. Even at restaurants, he’d go for a chop rather than a steak.

  I didn’t need this memory of how well I knew him.

  “You have a twelve-pound girl dog named Killer?” I asked.

  “My son Gage has an interesting sense of humor.”

  I could not get caught on thoughts of Duncan having a little dog he referred to as his “baby” or a son he spoke of fondly who had an interesting sense of humor.

  What I needed to get caught on was guiding us to whatever closure we needed to achieve.

  But curiosity got the better of me.

  Because he’d always loved horses and always wanted to own one.

  “How many horses do you have?”

  “Three.”

  “Do you ride a lot?”

  “Yes, seein’ as I got three horses to exercise and the boys are at school.”

  “Where do you ride them?”

  He crunched, chewed, swallowed, and said, “’Round my land. I managed to nab ninety acres, though it took me ten years of buying neighbors out.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled.

  “Most of that butts the National Forest, so we got plenty of space to ride,” he shared.

  “That’s great,” I muttered.

  And I shouldn’t ask.

  I shouldn’t want to know.

  It shouldn’t mean anything to me.

  But I asked anyway.

  Because it meant something to me.

  “Your boys are at school?”

  He nodded, took a sip of beer, set it aside and reached for another chicharron.

  But he didn’t take a bite.

  He answered, “Sully’s at Purdue. He’s gonna save the world in ways his old man can’t. He’s studying to be an environmental engineer.”

  “Impressive,” I said. And it was. “And Gage?”

  “He’s at University of Arizona, and I should have known things were going south when he majored in communications. Mostly, I think he needs to get the wild out of his system before he comes to work for me. They both had jobs at the store throughout high school. But Sully did it because his dad told him he had to. Gage did it because he liked to score chicks who were into hiking, climbing and trail running. But that’s because Gage likes hiking, climbing and trail running. Sully does too, but he’d stop to dig in the dirt. Gage wouldn’t stop until he reached the peak. But after Gage fails out of college, gets sick of being a river rafting guide or some shit like that, and gets serious, he’ll come work for me.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  He shrugged, ate his chicharron, and answered, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is, whatever he chooses, he’s happy.”

  So…

  Duncan was not his father’s son.

  Duncan’s dad was a plumber.

  And I never sat a meal at their house—and I sat many meals at their house, both as a little kid hanging with her buddies, then as his girlfriend, times two—when Burt Holloway didn’t mention in some form how someday Duncan was going to join him as a member of his union.

  It was never fun, but the older Duncan got, the nastier the conversations became.

  What, you too good to be a plumber, boy?

  I like to be outside, Dad, and there isn’t a lot of plumbing done outside.

  Smart mouth. Always got a smart mouth. So…what? You’re gonna be a park ranger, pussy shit like that? Glorified mall cop, hanging around feelin’ like a big shot with nothin’ to do.

  Remembering this one particular conversation, which happened around the time Duncan was looking into what it would take to become a park ranger, and he’d made the mistake of mentioning that to his father, our conversation from lunch that day morphed over it and I wondered.

  Because I got to LA, and what happened to me did not happen to hardly anybody.

  I got an agent quickly.

  A few commercial jobs.

  I worked as a substitute teacher and had two roommates.

  And I was cast in Rita’s Way after only two other acting gigs, both as one-line, glorified extras, one on a sitcom, one on a gritty nighttime cop drama.

  But then, I was off.

  What would Duncan have done if he’d come with me?

  I’d never heard of a River Rain store until Rita’s Way signed off for good and I was starring in feature films.

  A chain of stores didn’t happen overnight.

  And it didn’t.

  “Hey,” Duncan called softly, and I focused on him. “You were a million miles away.”

  “I was remembering that dinner when your dad confronted you about being a park ranger.”

  He shook his head, took a sip of beer, but I stared at him with some surprise because his mouth didn’t get tight, the skin around his eyes, nothing.

  Nothing at all, when before, just the mention of his father could put him in a bad mood that
it would take certain talents I’d honed to work out.

  “He passed. Heart disease,” he told me. “Five years ago. Mom’s down in Goodyear. She should be up here, where I can keep a closer eye on her. But she has her women and her bowling club and whatever else she does, and she won’t even discuss it. Not lost on me fifty years of marriage to Burt Holloway wasn’t easy. It’s like she’s on perpetual vacation and I worry about her, but I can’t find it in me to take it away from her.”

  I’d always liked his mom.

  Ruthy Holloway was quiet, sweet, a great cook, a mom who loved her only son (and I had suspicions she kept it at one child deliberately, so Burt couldn’t dig into another one) and a woman who was totally dominated by her husband.

  “Goodyear isn’t too far from me. I always liked your mom. I should go visit,” I murmured.

  “Baby,” Duncan murmured back.

  I snapped to, staring at him.

  What was I thinking, telling Duncan I should go see his mom?

  The expression on his face now was speaking volumes, and his mouth was opening to make them audible, and I was terrified what I’d do if he did.

  “I have three,” I announced.

  He looked bemused, which was a far safer look than the one he’d been wearing the instant before.

  “Three what?”

  “Kids,” I stated.

  Again, he was opening his mouth.

  But I kept speaking.

  “There’s Chloe, my oldest. She’s a stylish, perfectly accessorized, never-ending trail of lit rocket fuel.”

  Something else moved over his face, I couldn’t read it, but it didn’t matter.

  Yes, again, I kept talking.

  “Then there’s Matt. He came barely a year after Chloe. We…we…we…” I nearly pounded a fist on my chest in order to get out words that would indicate what any adult knew, children were the products of having sex, but somehow alluding to Duncan I’d had sex with another man, even if that man had been my husband for twenty-four years, had me regressing to a fourteen year old, “got pregnant again fast. He’s in his second year of med school. At USC. We’re very proud of him.”

  “Genny,” Duncan whispered.

  “Then there’s Sasha. Our baby. We took a break after Matt. You have children so you know, they’re a lot of work. Two babies that close together, I couldn’t quit working, but I was very hands-on with my kids, so I was a walking zombie. This means Sasha is three years younger than Matt. She, like Chloe, elected not to go to college, and instead, is a ‘student of the planet.’ Her words. And I kinda wished this meant she was a sci-fi geek, chasing around the country, looking for UFOs. Which likely gives indication that I try not to be judgy, but I think it’s been over a year since I’ve seen her when she didn’t have fresh flowers woven into her hair and I’m not sure she owns a pair of shoes. Though, she does have a cell phone. And needless to say, I have concerns about all of that. Because she can use her cell for GPS, but she has no direction.”