Cooper (The Family Simon Book 6) Page 2

  2

  Morgan Campbell swept the last bits of crumbs from the counter and tossed them into the trash before pulling the blinds closed over the kitchen sink window. It was just after seven o’clock, and she shivered slightly, tugging her cardigan tighter as a gust of wind whistled against the windowpanes, shaking them. It was dark as sin outside, and winter was not letting go anytime soon.

  It was one thing, on a list of many, that she hated about New England.

  She folded the damp dishrag and laid it beside the sink before stepping away. Morgan and her father had just finished their evening meal. It had been a simple affair—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. She’d be the first to admit she wasn’t much of a cook, so the meatloaf had been dry and the mashed potatoes runny, but hey, the broccoli had been done to perfection. Something her dad had remarked on several times—not because he liked broccoli or anything, but because they didn’t have much else to talk about.

  The television blared from the front of the house. She knew her father was already settled into his worn brown La-Z-Boy, and that his butt would stay there until he went to bed around midnight. She shook her head slowly, remembering the brown paper bag in the trash.

  He’d be stumbling to bed, more like.

  With a sigh, she dimmed the lights and headed for the stairs, saying a quick good-night to her father as she passed the front room. Not that he heard, and if he did, there was no response.

  Morgan had just entered her bedroom—her only intention to change into her pajamas and curl up with a good book—when she heard the front door open and then slam shut. The house vibrated from the force, and a few moments later, boots on the stairs told her that her book would have to wait.

  It wasn’t a pal of her father’s or anyone Morgan called friend (the no-doorbell kind of gave that away). And of course there was no knock at her bedroom door before it flew open. Heck, Morgan barely had time to turn around before her sister Sara breezed inside, tossing a pea-green coat onto Morgan’s bed, before flopping down beside it. Sara’s long blonde hair was windblown, and she flashed a quick smile as she settled back onto the worn pink-and-blue comforter. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.

  “So?” Her pouty lips glistened as she waited expectantly.

  Morgan knew why she was here and, irritated, crossed to the large oak armoire and grabbed her favorite pajamas without saying a word.

  “I hate when you do that.” Sara’s voice rose. “Don’t ignore me, Morgan. I’m not leaving until I get the scoop.”

  “And miss out on eight-o’clock freebies at the bar?”

  Sara laughed. “Sweetie, I can get free drinks all night long. I don’t need to punch a time clock.” A pause. “Come on. Did he at least ask about me?”

  Morgan didn’t bother to turn around. “Nope.”

  “But did you tell him I was your sister?”

  Morgan grimaced. No way was Sara leaving until they had this conversation. With a longing look at the book on the old, well-used desk beside her armoire, Morgan turned around.

  Sara leaned forward, forehead furrowed as she kicked out her booted feet, repeatedly scuffing the worn floorboards at the foot of the bed. “Well?”

  “No, Sara. I did not.” Morgan leaned against the armoire, her pajamas held in her arms, and waited for it. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Are you kidding me?” Sara jumped to her feet, a blur of hair and the vibrant red silk blouse she wore. “I told you to tell him we were sisters. Told you to chat me up.”

  “Well, shit, Sara. I guess I didn’t find time for a heart-to-heart with the guy while I was, you know, cleaning his toilets.”

  “Ew.” Sara’s face crinkled up. “Like I needed to hear that. Toilets and Cooper Simon shouldn’t be mentioned in the same sentence.” She flung her hands in the air—all dramatic and fired up. “The guy is… He’s just… He’s like…”

  Morgan couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sara. He’s human. His parents are human. They didn’t come down here on a spaceship. They didn’t hatch him out of a golden egg. He’s not a god, and from what I’ve read, he’s nothing close to angelic. He was born the same way all of us were.” She tossed her pajamas onto her bed, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “He just happens to eat his food with a silver spoon. That’s the only difference.”

  “Obviously,” Sara replied dryly. “But I would like to be that damn spoon, is all I’m saying. Just looking at the man’s mouth gave me mini orgasms the other day.”

  “Nice. I’m sure Pastor Richards would love to know that.”

  Sara snorted. “Pastor Richards has seven kids, so I’m pretty darn sure he’s had at least seven orgasms in his lifetime.”

  “Six,” Morgan replied without thinking.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s got a set of twins.”

  “You’re a comedian. Who knew?” Her sister made a face.

  Morgan watched Sara glance at the bed. At the yellow-and-purple flannel pajamas. She reached down and ran her hand over them, the scarlet tips of her nails lingering along the frayed edges of the pants.

  “I can’t believe you still wear these,” Sara murmured.

  Something twisted in her chest, and it took a few moments before Morgan could respond. “They’re falling apart, but…”

  “I still have mine.” Sara glanced up at Morgan. “Do you remember when we got them?”

  Morgan didn’t answer because she couldn’t. So she nodded instead and stared at the floor, scrubbing at the fiery sting of tears in her eyes. It had been a mild Thanksgiving weekend, senior year. Her mother had insisted both girls accompany her to a local flea market, and against their protests, Catherine Campbell stood firm. Sara, a few years older and home from college, was hungover and annoying as hell, which only made things worse. Morgan had pretty much pouted the entire time.

  Morgan inhaled sharply as images fluttered into her head. They were so vivid, it felt as if she could step inside them.

  The bright sun making her wince as she followed her mother and sister around the market. The bare trees, ready for winter, that shot into the sky, looking like stick soldiers waiting to march. The sound of her mother’s laughter as Sara made a joke about baggy pants. The wind pulling at her mother’s long blonde hair.

  And the smell of vanilla. Warm. Sugar. Vanilla.

  They’d spent a few hours trekking up and down the stalls of the flea market, buying Christmas presents and the blue metallic wind chime that now hung on the back porch. By the time they reached the last row, Morgan was ready to go, but their mother paused at the last stall. And that was where she’d bought each of the girls a pair of purple flannel pajamas with little yellow swallows adorning them.

  “So my girls will always come home,” she’d said.

  Morgan had asked the question for both her and Sara. “What do you mean?”

  Her mother had smiled, that gentle smile that made Morgan’s heart ache. “The swallows are symbolic. You’re my swallows. I hope you both return to me.”

  Sara cleared her throat. Morgan’s eyes flew open, and the memories faded as quickly as they’d come. Her sister shoved her hands into the pockets of her silk jacket. “So when are you going back to his place? I could come and help you, maybe. If I can swing it with work.”

  “I’m not going back.” Morgan met her sister’s gaze. “He didn’t want me.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t want you?”

  Charity case. Middle-aged. Cooper Simon’s deep voice slid through her mind, and she didn’t have to look into a mirror to know her face was red. Humiliation was something she’d gotten used to over the last few years. Ever since the night everything changed. But still, it didn’t make it any easier to take. The only saving grace had been the fact that Morgan was a pro at hiding her emotions. The mask she used day to day was always handy.

  “Apparently, Charlie didn’t discuss hiring me with Mr. Simon, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled to find me in his house.”
Morgan shrugged and reached for her pajamas. “Whatever. It’s not as if this is my career choice, and since Dad doesn’t seem to care so much about the family business anymore, why should I?”

  That was an understatement. Campbell’s Home Services was floundering, buried under the weight of her father’s drinking, the economy, and a general air of nobody-gives-a-shit.

  Sara’s face softened. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You didn’t have to come back. I tried with him. Josh tried with him.” Her gaze slid from Morgan’s. “It’s partly why we split. We always seemed to fight over Dad and the business.”

  Morgan was silent, clutching the pajamas to her chest. She knew the last few years had been rough on her sister. That watching their father spiral down into a bottomless pit of booze and self-pity had taken its toll. She knew that. But dammit, Morgan’s pain was just as deep. Hell no, it was deeper, and she was still sinking. California—the dreams she’d had—all of it had disappeared. She’d thought coming back here, being away from the life she could no longer have, would help.

  But it hadn’t. She was just spinning her wheels. Just existing. That was how Morgan dealt with things. She hid behind a mask of silence while her sister Sara hid behind a mask of exaggeration. Sadly, both were forms of denial, and though Morgan was smart enough to realize this, she didn’t know how to fix it.

  She supposed some things weren’t fixable. Like her leg. Her scars. The visible scars were bad, they were ugly as hell, but it was the others that hurt the most, the ones that were hidden. Those were the real bastards.

  “Why don’t you come out with us?” Sara suddenly said. “I’m meeting a few girls at the Devil’s Gate. Really good band playing tonight.” She paused. “Hank will probably be there.”

  “Will you stop with the Hank thing? He and I are never going to be a thing.” Anger rolled through her. “I’m never going to be anybody’s thing. I know it, so I wish you’d let it go.”

  . She shook her head and turned toward the bathroom, feeling guilt and relief when she heard Sara move toward the door. It clicked open.

  “Eventually, you have to start living again, Morgan.”

  That anger inside her expanded, leaving her heart pounding. Out of it, something ugly grew, and she cocked her head to the side. “Living? That’s funny coming from you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re almost as screwed up as I am. But hey, if jumping in the sack with random men and throwing yourself at someone like Cooper Simon means you’re living, I guess you get a pass.”

  Sara was silent for a few moments. “At least I’m doing something. At least I’m not hiding behind a wall of pain that will never go away. Not until it’s dealt with. The difference between you and me is that I know I’ll get there. Eventually.” Her voice lowered. “But you… I’m scared for you. If you’re not careful, you’re going to wither away to nothing. You’ll be skin and bone and scars and just…nothing.”

  Morgan didn’t move. Not when the door closed and she knew her sister had left. Not when she heard Sara’s Suburban roar to life in the driveway. She stood in the silence of her room for a very, very long time, her mind whirling with memories. Her body paralyzed from bone-wrenching pain. With longing. With inconsolable sadness.

  When she finally made it to the bathroom, she tossed her purple-and-yellow pajamas onto the ground and barely made it to the toilet before she vomited. And there she lay until eventually she fell asleep.

  At twenty-seven, it was a great way to spend a Friday night.

  3

  By Wednesday morning, Cooper was willing to admit defeat, and that was something that didn’t come easy. Considering he’d done nothing but work out, play Mortal Kombat, surf the net, and do pretty much anything that didn’t involve sitting his butt in a chair and writing…well, it was inevitable. Hell, just the night before, he’d watched a documentary on the Son Doong cave system in Vietnam. It was an incredible documentary. An insightful documentary. But it was one he’d seen before, twice, actually, and still he’d put up his feet and settled in.

  He needed a change of scenery. A reboot. Or something.

  Cooper climbed the stairs to the old attic and reached for the door. The hinges were coated in rust, so they squeaked loudly, and it took a shove or two to get the damn thing open. He was immediately hit with an overwhelming musty odor, but he ignored it and stepped inside, coming to a standstill as he gazed around.

  He’d forgotten how impressive the space up here was. Even considering the amount of clutter—the antiques, the boxes, and framed art. Sunlight streamed in from the overly large windows, two to his left and two to his right, making the dust shimmer, invoking a magical feel. The glass, however, was frosted and the air chilled, and Cooper frowned, thinking that he should have gotten them replaced when he’d done the rest of the house the summer before.

  He took a few steps forward, his fingers trailing over a large frame cloaked in a heavy cover. He yanked the cloth aside and noted it was a painting—a beach scene complete with boats, seagulls, and the Atlantic Ocean. He moved farther into the room, then paused near a large trunk and a bunch of smaller boxes. He had no idea what they held and at the moment wasn’t interested in finding out. As far as he knew, most of the items up here belonged to the McLaren family, who’d sold the house to him at auction. The young man in charge, a distant relative from what Cooper knew, had no interest in any of the history up here, and so all these things sat.

  He needed to fix this because he wanted the space for himself, but what to do with it all? He pondered the question for a few moments, eyes back on the exposed painting, and then he carefully covered it up. Cooper took one more look around, then headed downstairs, a plan in place. He grabbed his winter coat and a black knit hat before scooping his keys from the kitchen counter, and headed into the crisp New England air.

  It was early afternoon by the time he made it to Fisherman’s Landing. He drove by his brother’s place, but no one answered the door when he rang the bell. He tried Maverick’s cell, and again, no answer. He thought of swinging by Charlie’s garage (when Charlotte Samuels-Simon wasn’t sticking her nose in Cooper’s business, she was sticking her head under the hood of cars), but his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten for hours.

  So Cooper hopped back into his Land Rover and stopped by A Charmed Life—the best diner he’d ever had the pleasure of visiting. Jessie, the waitress and owner, gave him a big hug when he walked inside.

  “The fact that it’s taken weeks for us to see your pretty face is something I’ll try not to take personally.”

  Cooper flashed a smile and dropped a kiss to Jessie’s cheek. Her silver-blonde hair was pulled into an elegant ponytail, and small diamond earrings twinkled as brilliantly as her light blue eyes. He’d taken a liking to her the moment they’d met.

  “Darlin’, what the hell was I thinking?”

  She winked, a soft smile curving her pink lips. “Apparently, you weren’t.” She paused, motioning to her left. “You staying for some eats?”

  “Is that even a question?” he quipped, gently squeezing her shoulder.

  A few locals at the counter glanced up, nodded, and then went back to their very serious business of eating and talking. That was what Cooper liked about this place. No one cared that he was a Simon. Took him a while to figure that out, but there you had it.

  “Chowder and homemade biscuits?”

  “You bet.” He slid onto the nearest stool while Jessie walked behind the counter and stuck her head into the kitchen window. Her husband, Derek, gave a quick wave as he took her order.

  “Coffee while you wait?”

  Cooper doffed his hat and gloves and accepted a warm mug from Jessie. The brew was strong—just the way he liked it—and for the next couple of minutes, he sipped his coffee and studied the people around him. It was something he did—it was what made him a writer.

  The old guys at the counter were deep in conversation. The road to the St
anley Cup was in full swing, and from what he could tell, neither one of them could convince the other whose team had an advantage. Cooper had a feeling the Rangers were in it big this year, but in this instance, his opinion didn’t matter. The gentleman in the red knit hat was all about the Montreal Canadiens, while his buddy, sporting a frayed John Deere cap, was saying the Bruins were going to take it.

  Other than the guys at the counter, a young mother and her twins were holed up in a corner booth, an elderly couple held hands near the window as they waited for their food, and a group of teenaged girls near the door kept glancing his way and whispering among themselves. He shot them a smile—just because—and grinned to himself when they erupted in a tizzy of giggles and squeals.

  “You girls are going to be late for your last class,” Jessie admonished as she set a piping-hot bowl of chowder in front of Cooper. She shook her head and planted her hands on her hips as the girls left, their laughter and loud voices following them out. “I swear the power you have over the female race is something to behold.”

  “It’s a curse,” he said with a grin before digging in.

  “I bet,” she replied dryly. “I read about you and that model.” She tapped her fingers along the countertop, and he paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.

  Shit. Here we go.

  “What was her name? Mrs. Something-or-other, I believe.” Jessie topped up his coffee. “Mrs. being the most important part of that name, if you ask me.”

  Cooper swallowed the delicious chowder and glanced up at Jessie, but he had nothing to say. It was a well-known fact he had a habit of hooking up with women who were attached but looking for a little excitement. He scratched an itch and, in return, didn’t have to worry about a messy, complicated breakup. Of course it wasn’t always so cut-and-dried, but in this instance, the model, Cameron, and her husband, a finance giant, had an open marriage.