All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Page 18

Her dad looked faintly surprised. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  The last time she’d seen him had been at Babulya’s funeral, when it would’ve been out of line for her to cause a scene. Before that, though, the last time had been brutal. Her father had wept in a way she hadn’t seen him do since Jenni’s funeral. It had been one of the ugliest moments of her life, and although she doubted there were many people who would have blamed her for the things she said, guilt still managed to linger with her.

  “I need to talk to you about . . . what happened,” Theresa began, and held up her hand to silence him before he could speak. “I need you to sit there and listen, Dad. I’m not in the mood for your excuses.”

  He nodded, leaning back in the chair, and gave her his silence.

  “I’m going into business with Ilya Stern.” Again, she waved at him to be quiet when he opened his mouth to speak. “We’re buying Zimmerman’s Diner together. I’ve already told him I can’t cosign anything with him, that I’m going to be a liability and not an asset. I have some cash I can put up toward the down payment, and we’re working out the details of what that all means. I have a friend who’s a lawyer, and it looks like we’re going to be putting together something similar to a rent-to-own agreement. I’ll promise to make payments toward my share of the property, along with some other things, and eventually I’ll be a part owner. But I need to know from you, Dad, that everything’s on track with you. So that I don’t end up in the same situation I did last year.”

  He frowned. “This doesn’t sound like a good idea, Ter. Ilya Stern? Rent to own?”

  “It’s unconventional, but it allows us both to participate in the project without my full initial financial contribution. Something I can’t possibly make,” she added sharply, “because you’ve basically put me into debt and ruined my credit.”

  “Believe me, honey, I never meant to put you in that situation,” her father began, but trailed off, perhaps at the sight of her expression.

  She lifted her chin, lips pressing together, not caring if she looked pissed off. “You didn’t mean to, but you did. And it’s going to take a long, long time to get out of it.”

  “I understand.”

  She was not convinced he did. Her father had not seemed to understand much beyond himself, his needs. His addictions. What he understood was that he’d been caught.

  “How’s it going in the program?” she asked.

  Ah. There it was. The first cut of his gaze. The shift in his chair. Her father coughed into his hand.

  “Good, good,” he said.

  “You haven’t been going,” she countered flatly. Not a question.

  He licked his lips. “I missed a few meetings. No big deal. I’m not using, Ter. I promise you that.”

  “You seemed out of control at the Sterns’, after Babulya’s funeral. You want to tell me that you weren’t even drinking?” She wished she’d grabbed a coffee before this all began, if only so she’d have something to do with her hands. She put them on the table, fingers linked, to keep herself from twisting them in her lap.

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “You know that doesn’t matter. You’re not supposed to be using anything while you’re in the program. You promised me you’d clean yourself up. It was our agreement.”

  So that she wouldn’t take this to the police. That he wouldn’t be arrested for identity theft. So they could both pretend they were able to maintain a semblance of a relationship with each other, no matter how strained and terrible it might be.

  His gaze turned steely, his jaw clenched, and that old familiar expression settled on his face. “Missing a meeting or two isn’t going to make a difference, Ter. I’m on track. I’m in a good place. I got a new job. It’s a shitty job, but it’s better than going to jail, I guess, huh?”

  She didn’t laugh at this attempt at what she assumed was humor. “Where?”

  “Doing janitorial for the school district. It’s at night, which is why it’s been hard for me to make the meetings. The ones I started off with are all in the evening, and sometimes I sleep through the ones in the morning.” He shrugged. “It happens. I’m doing the best I can. You don’t have to beat me up over it.”

  There were so many harsher ways she could’ve responded to him, but his defensiveness was typical. She wished she could stop letting it bother her, that niggling sense of doubt, like she was the one in the wrong. Like she was making it somehow hard for him.

  “You promised me, Dad.” She did not enjoy the way this simple statement seemed to break him, but she fought against feeling bad about it.

  “I know I did. And I told you I’m doing the best I can. Okay?” His tone softened, his expression shifting to match. He reached across the table to cover her hand with his, an embrace she allowed for a few seconds before she pulled away. “I’ve told you I’m sorry.”

  He had, indeed. Made amends, early on, when he’d begun working the steps. As far as Theresa was concerned, it had placed the onus of forgiveness on her without any real signs of changes in his behavior. Her father had apologized to her plenty of times over the years, in many ways. Then he’d ended up taking out a dozen different credit cards in her name and racking up thousands upon thousands of dollars in debt.

  “I want to know that you’re on track,” she repeated, stone-voiced. “Before I commit to this project, I need to be sure that I’m not going to end up fending off collection agencies or trying to get an apartment or a new car only to discover that my credit rating is so low again that I can’t get approved for anything. You promised me you’d quit the pills, you’d get some kind of help, and that you would never, never—”

  “I told you I’d never do that again, and I won’t! Okay?” He ran both his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “I’m getting help.”

  “Maybe you need rehab,” she told him. “Instead of convincing yourself that none of this was really your fault, and it’s all going to be okay so long as you say you’re sorry.”

  “How would you expect me to pay for it?” her father shot back.

  “Right,” Theresa said. “Because unless you’re using my name to run up your bills, you have no way to pay for anything.”

  Too far.

  She got up. “I want this to work out for me, Dad. I have the chance to be part of something fun that I also feel will be successful—”

  That earned a caustic laugh from him. “Right. With Ilya Stern? That kid isn’t going to make anything work.”

  “He’s not a kid. He’s almost forty years old.”

  “He had that dive shop for years and barely managed to make a go of it. What makes you think he could do any better with this?”

  “Because I’m involved,” Theresa said evenly, “and I do know how to make things work. I can be a success. I . . . Dad, I just need this chance to get back on my feet.”

  “And you think that somehow I’m going to mess it up for you?” He sounded weary. Resigned. Yet also a little resentful.

  “You did mess things up for me,” she said.

  “You act like I ruined your entire life.”

  She felt like crying but would not do that here. They’d already earned enough attention from the people at the tables around them. More than that, she’d decided long ago not to waste her tears on him.

  “I’m going,” she said. “You’ve been late on the past two payments to me. I need to know that I can count on you to come through.”

  He shook his head. “I got a little behind. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t pay my bills.”

  Again, she’d been too harsh. Too fierce. And again, Theresa fought not to feel bad about this. He didn’t deserve softness from her, not after everything he’d done.

  “You never lacked for anything, Theresa. You know that? You had a roof over your head. Clothes on your back. You never went hungry. And I was there for you,” her father said. Affronted. Desperate. Throwing stones.

  “And I ended up sleeping in my car!” She spa
t the words, hating the taste of them, a secret she’d been determined she would keep from him. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from taking a sick and twisted joy in the surprise on his face, or the dismay in his expression a few seconds after that.

  “Why didn’t you come home, Ter? You could’ve just come home. I’d always make a place for you. You know that.”

  “You made me a promise,” was all she said again. “I need you to keep it. For once, Dad. Just keep the promise.”

  She walked out on him without another word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ilya hadn’t been this nervous about meeting a woman in a long time, and the fact that it was Theresa Malone meant his anxiety made no sense. Still, he paced. If he’d been a smoker, he’d have gone through a pack already.

  She’d said she wanted to go in on the diner with him, but that she had to work out some things first. He knew that meant something with money. She’d been up front about not being able to cosign a mortgage with him, that she’d be a liability, and although it had been obvious there was way more to the story than she was telling him, he wasn’t worried about that. Or about getting a mortgage. With the money he had from selling the quarry, even after paying off his portion of the debts, he had plenty to put down on the diner, and despite years of skating on the edge of losing everything, he and Alicia had always paid their bills on time. He’d get a loan, no problem.

  He could do it without any help from Theresa, if he had to. He didn’t want to, and he couldn’t be sure why. All he knew was that it felt right to ask her. Felt right to imagine the two of them revitalizing something, making it new.

  Maybe he was simply being an idiot.

  Or maybe he was nervous because this felt nothing like a business meeting and everything like a date.

  He hadn’t been on an actual date in so long he was hard-pressed to recall exactly whom he’d been on a date with. He’d been more likely to go out and find an FWB for the night than make any kinds of plans in advance. “Once and done.” That had been his motto. Sure, it had made him an asshole. He’d never cared.

  She was late. Shit, she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t going to buy the diner with him. Worse, she was going to stand him up.

  At the sight of her car pulling into the lot on the far side, Ilya let out a long, slow breath. He stopped pacing. He smoothed his hair and adjusted his shirt. He should’ve worn a tie. Something nicer than these khakis and the button-down Oxford he’d snagged from Niko’s closet.

  Even from this distance, he could see that Theresa wore a dress. Low heels, but sexy with a pointed toe. He was a sucker for women in sexy shoes. She’d pulled the masses of her dark, curly hair on top of her head, a few tendrils escaping to fall around her face. She was smiling as she made her way toward him.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “Am I late?”

  “No, no. I was early. Shall we go in?” His hand naturally fell to the small of her back as he opened the door for her. Inside, the maître d’ took them to the table he’d requested toward the back of the restaurant. Someplace quiet, he’d said, so they could talk business.

  This was totally a date.

  It couldn’t be, though, for so many reasons that he wasn’t able to list them all on his fingers. Their convoluted family history. This pending business deal. His inability to make things work, romantically, with anyone long term.

  “Ilya,” she said, and he realized she’d been speaking to him.

  “Huh? Sorry. I was . . . I didn’t hear what you said. Um, yeah,” he said to the server who showed up at the table like a rabbit popping out of a hat. “A glass of the Crane Lake Merlot. No, you know what? Bring the bottle.”

  Theresa’s brows rose slightly before her expression settled. “Unsweetened iced tea for me, please. No lemon.”

  “So, you were saying?” Ilya reached for the small basket of rolls in the center of the table, offering it first to her before taking one for himself.

  “I said I put some things together with a friend who specializes in things like this, so I’m . . .” Again she paused. “Are you all right? What’s going on? You were staring.”

  He hadn’t meant to, but he’d been caught trying to figure out if the dress, the shoes, the hair, if it all meant that Theresa had been thinking of this as more than a simple business dinner between friends and potential business partners. He tore the roll into several pieces and made a show of looking for the butter. “Nope, I’m good.”

  “So I put it all together, and I brought along all the points she made and an outline of the agreement. We can change things if you want to. It’s a little unorthodox.” Theresa slid a few papers across the table toward him.

  Ilya looked at the papers, then at her. “Am I going to need an interpreter to understand this?”

  “I don’t think so. It lays out our individual responsibilities, both financial and otherwise. For example”—she leaned a little to point at an item lower down on the page—“it lays out how much I can contribute to the down payment and allows for me to make payments toward co-ownership. It covers what happens if either of us defaults. It has a sample schedule in there for work that might come up, along with a list of things we’d divide between us based on what I think works best with our strengths . . . you’re staring again.”

  He’d never thought he’d be turned on by a woman’s organizational skills, but watching her so carefully outline everything, he was definitely impressed. And aroused. He cleared his throat. “You put a lot of work into this.”

  “I think it’s important,” she said. “So that we go into this thing with clear heads and make it as easy as possible to keep ourselves on track.”

  “So you’re really going to do it? For real?”

  “Yes. For real.” She grinned. “We have an appointment with my friend tomorrow afternoon at three in her office. Can you make it?”

  He made a show of pulling out his phone to look at his calendar. “Oh, I don’t know, let me check my busy social schedule. I think I can pencil you in between my polo match and that custom tux fitting. Yes, yes, of course I can. Tomorrow.”

  Theresa laughed, her head tipping back, and in that moment Ilya thought how he would gladly make a jester of himself every single day, if only to make her laugh.

  This was dangerous. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it. He didn’t know how to stop it, but on the other hand, Ilya was positive he wouldn’t know how to keep it going, either.

  Theresa looked up as the waiter brought their drinks. “You know what? Pour two glasses, please.”

  “But you don’t—” Ilya began, but cut himself off when Theresa lifted her glass of crimson liquid.

  She nodded. “I don’t. But it’s not because I can’t. I usually prefer not to, that’s all.”

  He lifted his own glass to clink against hers. “Cheers.”

  They both sipped. She grimaced a little. Then laughed.

  “I haven’t had a glass of wine since my second year of college,” she said. “I didn’t like it then. This is better.”

  Ilya took up the menu to keep his attention on it and not the faint pink blush rising in her cheeks or the way her eyes sparkled or the white glint of her teeth. “So, what looks good? Steak? Shrimp? Lobster?”

  “All of the above. I’m starving. But I want to save room for dessert. Hey,” she added quietly, waiting until he looked up at her, “are you changing your mind? Because if you’re having second thoughts, you should tell me now. I can call Rita, cancel the meeting. No problem.”

  “No. The diner’s a great opportunity. And I do want you to help me with Babulya’s recipes. I need you . . . for that part.”

  He did not want to need her for anything.

  This date shouldn’t be a date. The flirting, as lighthearted as it had been, should never have happened. No more kissing. No more midnight swims. They couldn’t do any of that for so many reasons, but mostly because Ilya knew all too well that he would only end up ruining all this, and her, and he simply . . . could
. . . not.

  “I’m not changing my mind,” he said.

  The wine had been a mistake. After the first few sips, a warmth had spread through her. At least that was what Theresa told herself. That it was the wine, and nothing at all to do with the man across the table from her.

  The conversation at dinner had started off all right, then had become a little strained, but she’d kept it on track by focusing on their upcoming business partnership. Ilya had been enthusiastic about it, once she’d managed to get him talking. The menu, a liquor license, how they would decorate. So long as she kept the conversation aimed at the decisions they’d have to make for the business, he seemed happy.

  Yet even so, it seemed like he had trouble meeting her gaze. The easy familiarity they’d shared the past few times they’d been together wasn’t there. He kept looking over her shoulder or around the room.

  “Are you . . . waiting for someone?” she finally asked over dessert, a thick wedge of chocolate cheesecake she hadn’t left room for but was going to try to eat anyway. She dug in her fork and, at the first taste, let out a small noise of appreciation.

  Ilya had ordered cherry pie with a side of vanilla ice cream, but he hadn’t so much as picked up his fork. “No.”

  “You seem distracted.” Theresa licked the tines of her fork, savoring the dessert.

  Ilya grimaced. “Nah. It’s late, that’s all.”

  “It’s Friday night. You can sleep in tomorrow,” she began, meaning to tease him since, of course, he could sleep in late any day. At least for now. She watched him look past her to the room beyond, and her smile faded. “Did you have plans?”

  Ilya pressed his phone to light the screen, checking the time. There was a text alert. She couldn’t see whom it was from, not that she was trying to be nosy, but at the sight of it, he picked up his phone to swipe away the lock screen and type an answer. “Yeah, maybe. Something might be going on.”

  “Oh.” She nodded at the server who’d come over to ask her if she wanted a box for the rest of the cheesecake. She shook her head at the offer of more coffee. “I guess we should get the check and get out of here, then. So you can go and do . . . whatever it is you wanted to do.”