Home to Laura - By Mary Sullivan Page 0,2

Mort had never laid bare before—unhappiness, regret and enough loneliness to bury a man. No wonder he drinks. The powerful man Mort had been shrank before Nick’s eyes.

With one quick jerk of his head, Nick admitted that he didn’t like this version of Mort, that it scared the daylights out of him. That it confirmed Nick’s fears that he himself was on a slippery slope barreling toward his own version of Mort’s life. And he wanted to stop.

“If you don’t make a real effort to change for that little girl—” Mort pointed a finger at himself “—then you’re looking at your future. You’re going to lose Emily. She told me she’s going to France to live with her mother. I want her to stay here. Make it happen.”

He walked from the room, closing the door without slamming it this time, leaving Nick stunned.

Emily wanted to live with her mother? She was leaving him? He imagined that big beautiful house empty save for him and a housekeeper who came in to cook and clean.

He heard the silence he would live with every day, every evening, without his daughter near to fill it with joyful sound.

Nick. Alone. Truly, truly alone. The thought raised old—positively ancient—feelings in him that he couldn’t name or place, and which made no sense. He’d never been alone. Had never been abandoned.

So why did Emily’s desire to move to Europe leave him feeling so panicked?

How could he imagine coming home from work and Emily not being there to greet him, to share her gossip from school, to relieve the unending emptiness he felt here in his office?

He couldn’t pinpoint when the emptiness had started, but the thought of what he felt at work spreading to his home terrified him.

For long minutes, Nick stood still, the man of action paralyzed, the man who took control in every situation momentarily lost. His heart rate kicked up and a shaky hollowness filled his stomach, as though he’d drunk too much coffee.

You’re looking at your future.

It was true. Old before his time, Nick was plagued with headaches and stomach problems. At only thirty-two, he was already too far along on Mort’s road. He’d skipped his youth, had lost it too early.

He paced to the window. He’d worked his butt off to become CEO of Sanderson Developments. He’d earned his beautifully appointed corner office with the floor-to-ceiling windows in the heart of the business district. He pressed one hand against the window as though he could touch Seattle where it lay far below him. At this height, he had a stunning view of Elliott Bay.

He’d given Marsha and Emily a gorgeous home and all of the best that money could buy. It hadn’t been enough for Marsha. Good Lord, it seemed it wasn’t enough for Emily.

He stared around his office, bewildered. He was known as a brilliant strategist, a problem-solver without peer, but how did he fix what was broken in his personal life?

He stepped away from the window, noting as he did so that he had left his palm and fingerprints.

I am here. This is real.

Then why did so much of his life seem unreal, hollow, ephemeral?

Why did the business no longer fill him with fire? Why did he feel there should be more? That this life of shuffling papers and moving money couldn’t possibly be the end-all and be-all, the sum total of life? When had he become two-dimensional, like those drawings on ancient Greek vases before mankind had figured out how to draw the third dimension? Why did Nick lack depth? Because he’d only ever focused on his job.

Thirteen years ago, when he’d started with Mort, it had meant everything to him, and had been enough.

It no longer was.

Now, he didn’t have a clue what was wrong with him except that he wasn’t happy.

And now he knew that Emily wasn’t, either. His happiness didn’t matter. Hers, though? Oh, yes, it mattered immensely.

He would do anything for Emily, but he couldn’t run around half-cocked. What did she need?

He scrubbed his hands over his face. Damned if he knew. He opened the liquor cabinet built into the bookshelf unit that covered one wall and poured himself a Scotch. He emptied it in two gulps then stared at the empty glass, horrified at what he’d just done.

Was this how it started? He’d already spent thirteen years of his life emulating Mort. Was he about to spend the next thirty continuing to emulate him? To become the man in all of his self-destructive manifestations?

It