Chris and Lucy kissed Edna good night, and Ken solemnly escorted them to their room.
Ken opened the door and patted Lucy on the head. “How about getting ready for bed, moppet. I’d like to talk to your mother.”
Chris felt herself slump. She was tired. She was wet. She was elated. She was depressed. She was no match for Ken Callahan Knight. She looked at him blankly and wondered what on earth he wanted to talk about. At the restaurant, he’d been pleasant but distant. There had been no talk of marriage or love. There had been no loving glances or intimate asides. She wasn’t sure if it had been a relief or a disappointment. She wasn’t sure about anything.
Ken took her purse from her shoulder and fished through it. He extracted her key ring and looked at it a moment. Chris knew he was recalling the kitchen key exchange, and she wondered if he’d been as moved by it as she had. Probably not, she thought. It had been a lark…remember? And how did he feel now-had it become something precious? She couldn’t tell by the guarded expression on his face. He returned her bag to her shoulder and worked a key onto the ring.
“I’ve moved out.” His voice was flat. No raspy sexiness. No gentle teasing or enfolding affection. It was a matter-of-fact statement that knocked the air out of Chris’ lungs and left only burning, searing pain. He took her hand and closed her fingers around the key ring. Warm, Chris thought sadly. His hands were always so nice and warm…and she felt so cold. He looked as if he might say something else, but then he turned abruptly and walked to the elevator-never looking back. The elevator doors closed behind him, and Chris watched the floors blink in red as he descended to the lobby.
Chapter 11
At five-ten Monday morning Chris pulled the silver Mercedes into the dark parking lot of the ice rink. She took the key from the ignition and slouched deep into the seat. I hate to admit it, she sighed, but I’m going to miss this car. It’s definitely a superior machine-it’s pretty, and it’s comfy, and everything works. In four days she could cash in her savings bond and buy a car of her own. Then she would have to return the Mercedes to Ken. How would she ever do that? she groaned. If she had to face him she was sure she’d do something stupid and maudlin…like burst into tears. Maybe she could get Bitsy to follow her out to Darby Hills and just leave the darn thing at his front gate.
A large pickup truck rolled into the space next to her. Its inhabitants cut the engine and waved. They looked around the lot and settled back with containers of coffee. That was strange. Only skaters were usually here at this hour of the morning. She scanned the parking area and realized that there were no familiar cars. An odd sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach-the sort of feeling she might get showing up for a party on time but a day late, or if she’d accidentally gone to the supermarket in her bedroom slippers. Maybe they were having problems with the ice, Chris reasoned. Every now and then the ancient compressor or decrepit Zamboni would break, and the rink manager would have to cancel skating until repairs could be made.
Chris stopped at the front door and read the professionally made sign. The rink was closed for alterations and would reopen under new management in a week. Chris was dumbfounded. There had been no warnings, no rumors. She had a skater en route to Nationals, and she didn’t have a skating rink. She rested her forehead against the glass door. When things started to go sour, they certainly went all the way…
She heard the familiar growl of a Nissan pickup and wheeled around to see Ken park the truck and spring from the cab, a massive set of keys jangling in his hand. With a grim set to his jaw, he opened the front door and pulled Chris inside. Without saying a word, he walked directly to the office and switched on the parking lot lights. He flipped on the rink lights and the lobby heater.
Chris still stood in the office doorway. “Let me guess. You bought the rink.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I needed a tax break, and I thought this would be more fun than Darby Hills.”
Chris felt a bewildering flood of emotions rushing through her: joy at seeing him; anger that her agony would be prolonged indefinitely; fear over her inability to resist him; and, perhaps most immediate, anxiety bordering on terror that her skaters wouldn’t have a home. Chris swallowed and ordered her heart to stop racing. “What do you plan to do with the rink?”
“Operate it at a loss…at least in the beginning.” He moved with efficient determination, his mouth unsmiling, his eyes glacier blue and just as cold. He pulled a contract out of his briefcase. “I’m offering you a job as head coach. I’m prepared to offer you a salary for helping me with scheduling and organizational problems. The rink will own exclusive rights to your services. The rink will take fifteen percent of all earnings from private and group lessons and in exchange will do bookkeeping, provide medical insurance, retirement benefits, and so on. You can read over the terms. The other coaches will get similar contracts, with the exception of salary.”
Chris stared, dazed, at the cool businessman standing in front of her. He looked like Ken Callahan in jeans and a navy hooded sweatshirt, but, without a shadow of a doubt, this man was Knight.
He took a schedule card from the top of the desk. “The other coaches will have the week off with pay. If you accept the job, you can begin now by drawing up a tentative schedule. The hockey teams have been notified and relocated to other rinks. It’s up to you whether we have public skating or not. I know you get a lot of your young skaters through learn-to-skate group lessons. You might want to keep a few public skating sessions so those kids and their parents can hack around together.”
Chris made an effort to subdue the excitement that was gurgling in her chest. If she understood correctly, he was turning the rink into a training facility for competitive skaters. She could finally get her skaters enough ice time to keep them here! The joy was lessened by the suspicion that this was all for her, that he was just being nice, again. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. “You’re doing this for me, aren’t you?”
His reaction was angry and abrupt. “I’m doing this for myself. It’s a tax break. It’s a toy. Sign the contract if you want the job. I’ll be here for the rest of the day to get things started. Tomorrow, I leave for Chicago and my foreman will complete the renovation. If you have any questions, I’ll be out by the ice. We’re installing a new ceiling that eventually should cut down on the electric bill.”
Chris turned away, blinking back tears. She was relieved to hear the office door close and his long strides disappear in the direction of the rink. She clenched her fists and shut her eyes tight. Well, he was following her directions. He had moved out of her house, and he had disengaged himself emotionally from her life. It was what she’d wanted then-and still wanted now-but she couldn’t help feeling a terrible sense of loss. She looked at the closed door and knew that this was her doing. She’d sent him away. But the speed and the extent of his disentanglement was shocking. What really hurt the most was the undeniable fact that she’d been right. Knight had squashed Callahan like a bug-just as she’d known he eventually would. Knight was cold and selfish and ruthlessly strong. Chris looked at the contract she held in her fist. She narrowed her eyes at the jumble of printed words. “Okay,” she breathed, “I can do this. I can deal with Kenneth Knight.” Unclenching her fists, she smoothed the wrinkles from the pieces of paper and threw the office door open, almost knocking a painter off his ladder. “Excuse me.”
The man clung to the doorjamb. “You must be the redhead that breaks people’s bones. I’ve been warned about you.”
Chris gnashed her teeth and growled, “Where is he?”
The painter smiled and pointed to the rink. “I think he’s hanging ceiling.”
Chris marched to the ice surface. Several men were on scaffolding, struggling to place slabs of aluminum- covered styrofoam on a gridwork of metal girders. Chris stomped to the scaffold holding Ken and gave it a kick.
He grabbed a metal handrail and looked down at her in annoyed surprise.
“I’m not paying fifteen percent to the rink,” she told him. “I’ll only pay ten.”
“You’re paying ten now, and you’re not getting any benefits. It’s costing you a fortune to buy your own medical and life insurance. If you sit down and figure it out, you’ll see that you’re better off under my management.”
“Ten percent.”
“Fifteen.”
“Take it and stick it-”
