elrhiarhodan

Title: It Must Be Now - Part Three of Seven
Author: elrhiarhodan
Artist: treonb / Art Post
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, David Siegel, Diana Berrigan, Theodore "Mozzie" Winters, Theo Berrigan, Sara Ellis, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Peter/Elizabeth (Past), Peter/Neal (Past), Neal/Keller (Past), Peter/Neal
Word Count: ~60,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Major Character Illness
Beta Credit: pooh_collector, sinfulslasher
Summary: In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends. Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past - a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard - and a future that might come to an end far too soon.

Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to my alpha readers theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson, who provided an endless bounty of encouragement.

Even more thanks to my wonderful and talented artist, treonb, who created the beautiful and evocative promo video.

Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.

__________________





Neal supposed that hating Monday mornings was an adult thing, and at fifty years old, it was pretty well time he became an adult, because this was a Monday worth hating. He'd strolled into the offices of Sundance Equity a little after ten AM, settled in to review the latest acquisition strategy and before he finished his first cup of coffee, he got a text from the firm's troubleshooter, Diana Berrigan.

We have a problem. You have to come to the conference room.

Neal replied, I'm busy. I pay you a lot of money to make sure I don't have to deal with problems.

Don't make me come get you.

Neal sighed. He liked Diana from the moment Mozzie had hired her. She was tough, honest, smart, and she didn't put up with any bullshit. If she said he was needed, he'd damned well better get his ass into the conference room.

Where he found Diana, Mozzie, and a man with a badge on his belt.

Diana introduced him. "Neal, this is Special Agent Clinton Jones, from the New York FBI office. He specializes in white collar crime."

Neal shook the man's hand. "What brings you to Sundance Equity?" He tried not to worry. Diana did a good job keeping him and Mozzie out of trouble, but having the FBI show up was never a good thing.

"Your firm may have been the victim of a crime, and we're hoping that you can provide some assistance."

"Crime?" Neal looked at Mozzie, who was wearing a sour expression. Of course his friend and business partner would be reluctant to cooperate with the government.

Diana answered. "According to the FBI, Terrence Pratt's been using information we've provided about our acquisitions and divestments to line his own pockets." Pratt was their advisor at Whitcomb & White, he'd been handling their transactional work for the last three years.

Neal felt sick. "Insider trading?"

The agent nodded. "We've found emails from Pratt to the target of another insider trading investigation with confidential information about several of Sundance's recent acquisitions and sales."

Neal had to ask, "Who was Pratt in contact with?"

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information."

Neal shook his head. "I never liked the man, but he came highly recommended."

That seemed to interest Agent Jones. "By who?"

Neal looked over to Diana, and she nodded, so he gave up the information. "Dennis Flynn, from Flynn Capital Management."

Agent Jones' reaction was imperceptible, but for Neal – who'd made several fortunes by his skill in reading imperceptible reactions – it spoke volumes. Flynn was probably the insider that led Agent Jones to their door. "And now I guess you'd like us to give you all of our records regarding Sundance's dealings with Flynn."

"That would be helpful."

Mozzie finally said something, "You know, I really don't like the Feds coming in here, sticking their noses into our business."

The agent made a big mistake, taking on Mozzie and his attitude. "We could come back with a subpoena."

Moz got pugnacious. "And you know that that subpoena would be quashed like a bug. Sundance has no obligation to assist in your persecution."

Jones made another big mistake - trying to correct Mozzie. "Prosecution, you mean."

"I used the right word, Fed."

"Moz – come on," Neal tried to soothe his friend. "There's nothing wrong with helping put the bad guys away."

"I'm objecting on principle." Mozzie glared at him, at Diana, and at Agent Jones. Before storming out, he added, "Do what you want, but don't come crying to me when you find that you've got fleas."

"Fleas?" Jones seemed puzzled.

"Mozzie isn't a big fan of big government."

"Ah." Jones rocked back on his heels. "The Justice Department would appreciate your cooperation."

Now that Neal had committed to helping the FBI, he wasn't so sure it was a good idea. "We're a small firm and we really don't have the resources to devote to an extensive document production exercise."

Agent Jones tried to reassure him, "We'll limit the scope and make this as easy as possible for you."

"Okay." Neal supposed that they'd been lucky. After nearly twenty years in the business, this was the first time the government had come knocking. "Diana, can you wrap this up? I have work to do."

"Sure thing, boss."

Neal retreated to his office and launched the company's security camera application. When they'd installed the system, Moz had wanted to wire every room for sound, but he'd squashed the idea. The common areas and conference rooms were monitored, but without audio, and right now, Neal regretted that. He watched Diana and Agent Jones talk for a few minutes and he got the feeling – from their body language – that they knew each other quite well.

He didn't have long to wait for confirmation. Diana escorted the FBI agent out and came right to his office. Neal didn't bother to dismiss the security camera application – Diana knew she was being observed; it was her suggestion to put the cameras in.

Diana came in and flopped down on a chair. "I suppose you want to know what Agent Jones and I talked about."

"Actually, I'm more interested in how long you've known him."

"Of course you would be. We were at the Academy at the same time, and were both posted to New York. I worked in Antiterrorism and Clinton got assigned to Financial Crimes."

"You've remained in touch?"

"We've gotten together on occasion since I left the Bureau, but I haven't seen him in a couple of years."

"Okay – now what did you talk about?"

"He teased me about the cushy gig I'd landed. I wanted to tell him that keeping you and Moz in line was a hell of a lot harder than chasing terrorists through their bank accounts."

Neal chuckled. "I know you're exaggerating."

"Only slightly." Diana pinched her fingers together to demonstrate.

"Which reminds me. Played poker this weekend."

"And because you're telling me, I take it you weren't in Vegas or Connecticut or Atlantic City."

"Caz Abramov had a game going in the old New York Room."

"Neal…" Diana shook her head in exasperation. "You promised to stay away from private games. Especially ones run by Chechen mob bosses."

"That's never been proven." He shrugged. "Besides, I was bored."

"How much did you take home?"

Neal liked that she assumed he'd won. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a wire transfer receipt onto his desk. "Nine hundred thousand. The house took ten percent."

Diana took the piece of paper and grimaced. "You are going to give your accountant a headache."

Neal shrugged, "That's why I pay him a fortune. It keeps him in Tylenol. But we have a more immediate problem."

"Yeah – the Pedersen acquisition. We were going to see Pratt about that tomorrow."

"We're now without an advisor. Although I'm sure that there'll be plenty of banks lining up to offer their services."

"Which is another problem, you know." Diana grimaced.

"It is?"

"If we put the word out that Pratt's no longer working on Sundance business, people are going to want to know why."

The light dawned. "Which is going to make your friend, Agent Jones, very unhappy."

"Right."

"So, what do you suggest?"

"I know someone who might be able to step in and keep things quiet."

"Oh?"

"My former boss at the FBI went into M&A about ten years ago. Shall I contact him?"

"Sure – but we have to move on it this week. Wednesday by the latest. Old man Pedersen's a squirrelly bastard and he just might back out if there's a delay."

"Will do."

Two hours later, he got a calendar notice from Diana that the meeting had been set up with her old boss' new firm for Wednesday afternoon. Which was much less interesting than the text he got from Elizabeth Mitchell.

Have some ideas for your friend's party. When can we talk?

How about dinner tonight if you're free?

Five minutes passed without a reply and Neal wondered if Elizabeth was playing coy, but he was pleased when she did answer. Yes, free tonight.

Neal sent a reply without thinking, Let me cook for you – easier to discuss things without constant interruption. Then he wondered if he was coming on too strong. He wasn't looking to date her, and he was little more than a stranger.

But she didn't seem to mind. When and where?

He sent her his address and the time – eight o'clock. He then arranged for a grocery delivery – no point offering to make dinner for someone if he had no food to cook with.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth wasn't all that certain that having dinner with Neal Caffrey tonight was such a good idea. Not that she didn't want to see him again, or that she was bothered because he'd invited her to his apartment where he'd offered to cook dinner. She knew he wasn't looking for anything more than her skills as an event planner and maybe a platonic friendship – he'd made his preferences quite clear during their first meeting.

It was her own uncertain mood – one that she didn't want to inflict on a client. She was still so hurt and angry from what Peter said to her. To declare that they weren't friends? That they were divorced and therefore meant nothing to each other? And yet, part of her could understand her ex-husband's point. Why should he remain friends with her? After all, she'd divorced him. Yet, the way he'd spoken to her; the utter coldness, the absolute finality of his words – we are not friends – still had the power to make her burst into tears, like she did after Peter left her sitting alone at their table at Donatella's.

She needed to put that behind her. She needed to remember that she was the one who wanted to end their marriage. Peter was certainly free to choose not to retain a connection with her. But it was still hard to reconcile the cruelty of his words with her memories of the kind and loving man she's spent almost fifteen years of her life with.

El took a deep breath and tried to center her emotions as the car she'd hired pulled up to an elegant building on Central Park West. She'd googled Neal Caffrey's address after he gave it to her, and she wasn't at all surprised to find that he lived in the south tower of the San Remo, one of the most exclusive buildings on one of the most exclusive streets in Manhattan.

A doorman opened the car door and escorted her into the lobby. Neal must have alerted them, because the desk clerk told her she should take the south elevator to the twenty-first floor.

Burke Premier Events' clientele were some of the wealthiest people in New York; she'd been in private homes with chandeliers that probably cost more than her house in Brooklyn – so it was pretty hard to impress her. But there was something awe-inspiring about the short journey from the lobby to the twenty-first floor – as if she was being transported into another world.

There wasn't even a hallway, the elevator opened right into Neal's apartment, and he was waiting for her with a smile on his face. The sense of unreality disappeared as he took her coat and welcomed her into his home.

As he escorted her into the living room, with its bank of windows overlooking Central Park, El couldn't stop herself from taking in the magnificent view.

"It is incredible, isn't it?" Neal was standing next to her, hands in his pockets. "When I first moved to New York, a friend of mine had let me stay in a small apartment she had on the fourth floor of her house. It had an incredible view, too – almost unreal – and since then, I've never been able to live anyplace without one."

Elizabeth could understand that. "When I moved to New York after college, I spent a lot of time wandering around the city and fantasizing about my dream home. At first, I thought I wanted a place on Gramercy, just so I could have a key to the park. And then I wanted to live by the Metropolitan – everything was so elegant there. Or on Columbus Avenue, near the Museum of Natural History."

"What, no loft in the Village?"

"Hell no – that's where I was living. Not a loft, but a cramped two-bedroom, one-bathroom fourth floor walk-up with four other girls. It was pretty awful." She laughed at the memory of those early, crazy days in New York City. "That's why I finally decided that my dream home would be an apartment in either the Dakota or the San Remo. With lots of tall ceilings and an incredible view."

Neal noted, "They say the Dakota's haunted."

"I know, that's part of the attraction. But I'd take an apartment in the San Remo if I had to." El made that sound like such a hardship and they both laughed.

"Can I offer you a drink? A glass of wine?"

"Certainly. Wine will be fine." She lingered at the window while Neal went over to the wet bar. He came back with two glasses of white wine.

He handed her one. "How about a toast?"

"To what?"

"To new friends?"

El nodded. "Yes, to new friends."

The glasses clinked musically and El took a sip. There was a certain irony to the toast – as if Neal Caffrey was going to replace the friend she'd lost in Peter Burke.

"I hope you like scallops."

She blinked at the non sequitur. "Yes?"

"Good, because I'm making them for dinner."

"Oh! Dinner – how foolish of me." She felt flustered and silly. "You wanted to talk about Mozzie's birthday party and thought we'd have a better time talking without getting interrupted at a restaurant."

Neal tried to put her at ease. "Don't be embarrassed. I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a room and completely forgotten why I did."

El thought it was so charming that he'd admitted to the same flaw, just to put her at ease.

"Do you want to join me in the kitchen and give me your ideas about the party?"

"Sounds perfect."

El supposed that the apartment's original kitchen had been small and dark, since the San Remo had been built in an age when people who could afford to live in the building had servants to take care of their every little need. But this space had been renovated – it was bright, open and modern, and not in an intimidating way. It had the patina of a well-loved and often-used space.

Neal gestured to the large island in the middle of the room. "Take a seat and talk to me."

She settled onto one of the tall chairs and took another sip of wine to steady her nerves. "Well, we really didn't talk about location – but from what you'd told me about Mozzie, I wanted to find a venue that celebrated some of his eccentricities."

"I hope that means you're planning on having the party at the psych ward in Bellevue. Mozzie might actually enjoy that."

It was a good thing that El had just put down her wine glass, because she almost choked.

"Sorry – when you said 'celebrate some of his eccentricities', I couldn't resist."

She wiped her eyes. "No problem."

"Anyway – what sort of place do you think might fit that rather daunting bill?"

"Have you ever heard of Oheka Castle?"

"Hmm, it sounds vaguely familiar. Or am I thinking of Osaka Castle in Japan?"

"Well, I hadn't considered a destination party, but I could add that to the mix if you'd like."

"No – let's keep this local." Neal went over to the fridge and started removing ingredients. "Don't mind me – I know that talking to my back is rude."

"That's okay – you're cooking."

"So, tell me about this place. Ikea Castle – sounds very eccentric. But I have to tell you, Mozzie's a bit of a germaphobe, and if you're planning something with a huge ball pit, he may not want to participate. Although he might really enjoy a contest to put together a room full of furniture with just an Allen wrench and no instructions."

El swallowed another gurgle of laughter, "Not Ikea Castle. Oheka Castle – it's an old Gold Coast estate in Cold Spring Harbor. The original owner, Otto H. Kahn, was something of an eccentric, himself. He had resented that his robber baron peers wouldn't let him into their exclusive clubs because he was Jewish. So he wanted to build the biggest private home in New York on top of the tallest point on Long Island. When he couldn't buy the property he wanted, he had his hill built. And he put a fake French chateau on top of it."

"Wait – I think I've heard of this place. Wasn't it in the news a while back? Something about the owner getting shot in the head?"

"Yes, yes – Gary Melius. He bought the property about thirty years ago and had poured a fortune into restoring it. It got to the point that he couldn't afford to put any more money into it and sold it to a Japanese developer. There were all sorts of lawsuits. Gary eventually repurchased the estate about fifteen years ago and opened it up for weddings and private parties. About two years ago, someone tried to assassinate him on the property – but no one's been arrested. I think whoever did it used one of the old underground tunnels to escape."

"Secret tunnels, an unsolved assassination attempt? This sounds like the perfect place for Moz."

As Neal cooked, El continued to relay details about Oheka. She'd managed a number of weddings there so she had a lot of trivia at her fingertips.

Soon, the smell of white wine and garlic and shallots filled the kitchen and her stomach let out an indelicate rumble.

To her embarrassment, Neal heard and commented. "Nothing I like better than cooking for someone who's hungry."

"It smells delicious."

"If you want to head into the dining room, I'll be there in a few minutes."

El took her wineglass with her as she wandered back through the apartment – the dining room was just off of the main living room and shared the incredible view of the park. It was a clear night, with a full moon rising, and she was again drawn to the windows.

Peter had proposed to her on a night like this, on a carriage ride through the park.

But El deliberately pushed the memory away. If she didn't, she'd likely break down and cry, and wouldn't that be professional?

Thankfully, Neal came in with the starter and El sat down. As they ate, she continued to outline some ideas about the party. "If you don't think Oheka is good, I have a few other venues to suggest."

"I think this castle sounds perfect, but tell me about the alternatives."

"Well, if your budget allows, you can host a private party in some of the museums in New York."

"Yes, I did know that. I was at a fundraiser at the New York Historical Society last summer."

"The one hosted by Andrew Stansler?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure that was the one. Had an ice bear for a centerpiece, right?"

El laughed and shook her head. "I did the planning for that party. That ice bear gave me more than a few sleepless nights. Andrew wanted it eight feet tall."

"It was big enough. And what a small world – you did an excellent job smoothing over that asshole's rough edges."

"Yeah, Andrew's not the most pleasant man to work for."

"So you want me to consider the New York Historical Society for Mozzie's party?"

"Actually, no – it's a bit too big for a birthday party. But the Frick is available and so is the Morgan Library. Although, technically, the events are supposed to be for corporate sponsors."

"Not a problem – Sundance Equity makes annual donations to both institutions. And the Metropolitan, the Whitney and the Museum of Modern Art. But I think the castle idea is the best. When do I have to commit?"

"If you want, I can make an appointment for us to go out to Cold Spring Harbor and look at the place. January is actually a good time for a party there, not too many weddings that month."

Neal nodded. "Then let's do it. I've got a number of things going on this week, but I should be available next Tuesday or Wednesday."

"I'll take care of it and let you know when we need to be there." El smiled and added, "I wish all my clients were so easy to please."

"Oh, I can be fussy if you want. We still have to pick colors for the napkins and the flowers and choose a menu, right?"

"That's true – but somehow, I don't think you're the kind of person who is going to sweat those details. I think you enjoy paying for others to do that."

Neal gave her an appreciative look. "That's really quite true. I'm far from helpless, but what's the point of asking for someone's expertise if I'm just going to insist that I know better."

The salad was delicious – the tomatoes on the perfect edge of ripeness, the mozzarella decadently creamy, the basil as fragrant as a fine perfume – a symphony of autumnal goodness. When she finished, she let out a small sigh. "I could have that every night, at least until the tomatoes are gone."

Neal offered gallantly, "We can skip the scallops and I'll bring you another salad."

"No, not after you've gone to all that trouble. And they do smell delicious."

"Well, then – let me get them for us. There's a bottle of Chardonnay breathing – would you mind pouring for us?"

Neal swept out of the dining room with their salad plates and Elizabeth did as he asked. This was perhaps the most unusual business dinner she ever had – it felt more like a first date. Or maybe a fifth date. And she was surprised that Neal didn't have someone serving, that he was taking care of everything himself. There was a grace to his actions, not practiced, but confident. She couldn't help but be reminded of the first time she'd dined at Peter's apartment. The food was terrible – overcooked pot roast, wine that had gone sour in the bottle and a boxed cake from Entenmann's that was as stale as the jokes in a Jay Leno monologue. He had been so adorably fumbling – apologizing for everything. Until she kissed him. And then the fumbling stopped and …

"Elizabeth?" Neal was holding two plates, each covered by a silver dome. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes – just fine."

Neal put the dish down in front of her and lifted the cloche with a touch of drama. There were three perfectly cooked diver scallops on a bed of creamy risotto, a far cry from the meal that Peter had made for her. "It looks too beautiful to eat."

"Thank you and you may sit here all night and admire it."

El had to laugh – there was something about Neal Caffrey's sense of humor that appealed to her. Peter had been so intense when they'd first started dating, so careful of her feelings, so damned scared that he'd say the wrong thing and send her running. Then she reminded herself that this wasn't a date and Neal Caffrey, with his astonishing good looks and delightful sense of humor, was simply a client.

Of course, she started eating and Neal followed suit. The conversation centered on the birthday party and unlike their first meeting, Neal was much more forthcoming about his friend and business partner.

"So, let me get this straight – Moz was one of your professors at MIT, but you actually met him when he was running a 'Find the Lady' game in Cambridge?"

"Yup. He claimed he was doing an experiment on the statistical gullibility of high IQ members of Generation X, but I suspect he just enjoyed fleecing the rich snots out of their money."

"How much did you take him for?"

Neal grinned and El almost wanted to fan herself as the full force of his smile hit her. "Five grand, and he was pissed. But appreciative of my talents." Neal shook his head. "It's hard to believe that was almost twenty-five years ago. We've seen some strange times together."

"Can you share?"

"Let's just say that I've had an interesting time convincing him we could make more money legitimately than as con artists."

"I can't wait to meet the birthday boy."

Dinner consumed, Neal suggested they relax in the living room. He had a photo album he wanted to show her. "Although some of his get-ups might send you running for the hills."

"I doubt it. You haven't met Bitsy Cunningham."

"Bitsy? A rather spry octogenarian with an endless fascination for male ass and fingers that pinch harder than binder clips?"

"Okay, you have met Bitsy. She hired me to arrange her granddaughter's bachelorette party last year and insisted on personally auditioning the male strippers. Did you know that there's an annual exotic dancer convention in Myrtle Beach? I thought I was going to have to bail her out of jail for molesting some guy in a gold lame banana hammock."

Neal struggled to contain his laughter. "I don't know what's more appalling, that there's really a convention for male strippers or that you had problems controlling an eighty-two year-old society grand dame at that convention."

In the living room, Neal retrieved the promised photo album. Mozzie was definitely an eccentric, and she couldn't help but comment at the man's interesting taste in hair styles.

"Those are all wigs. Moz was almost completely bald by the time he was twenty-five. You don't want to know what it took to convince him to get rid of the toupees."

As they turned the pages together, Neal sharing clever anecdotes, El stated the obvious, "You love him."

"He's the brother I never had. And he pulled me through some very difficult times. We haven't always seen eye-to-eye about everything, and there are times when I could cheerfully strangle him, but there is nothing I wouldn't do to make him happy."

"Then we'll give him a night he'll never want to forget."

"I am supremely confident that you will." Neal left her to flip through the album while he retrieved dessert.

When Neal came back, El looked at the perfectly composed tiramisu and wondered how in the hell he managed to create that.

Neal must have read the expression on her face. "This, I ordered in. I can't do pastry."

"Well, that's a relief!"

The dessert was delicious, but El declined the espresso. "I probably won't sleep tonight if I drink that."

"You do know that there's no more caffeine in a cup of espresso than there is in a cup of brewed coffee, and probably less if it's made with an Italian roast."

El nodded, "Of course, but it's still caffeine and it will still keep me awake."

"Then what can I get you?"

She tapped the base of her wine glass, "This will be fine."

Like the rest of the meal, the dessert was delicious. Sated and relaxing on the surprisingly comfortable couch, El wondered if maybe she shouldn't have refused the coffee. How many nights had she and Peter taken home dessert from Donatella's and had coffee at home? Then retreated to the bedroom to fuck like bunnies. She sighed and reminded herself that that wasn't her life anymore.

"Such a sad sound. Is everything all right?"

El blinked, she'd lost herself for a moment. "I guess."

"You want to talk about it? We're friends, right? You can tell me anything."

Neal's words so strongly echoed her own last words to Peter, and all the pain, all the confusion Peter's bitter speech had brought came roaring back.

She burst into tears.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For a few seconds, Neal stared at the sobbing woman sitting next to him and felt utterly helpless. Then his sense of empathy kicked in and he gently pulled her into his arms, murmuring soothing words. He had no idea what he said or did to make Elizabeth cry, but he'd do what he could to fix it.

The storm passed quickly and Elizabeth struggled, so he let go.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me."

Neal just handed her his handkerchief. "Want to talk about it?"

Elizabeth wiped her eyes and gave him a bitter smile. "Okay, I lied. I do know what happened, and it's probably best if I go now. If you want to hire another event planner, I'll understand." She stood up, but Neal grabbed her hand and pulled her back down.

"Tell me."

She sighed and shook her head. "It was what you said – about being friends. About being able to tell you anything."

"Okay – maybe I came on a little strong. But I was just so comfortable – it felt like we'd known each other for years."

"No – it's not that. It was the words."

Now Neal was utterly confused.

"I'm not making sense. It really is probably best if I go."

"No, actually it isn't. You don't have to tell me, but you're distraught and I can't – in good conscience – let you go before I know that you're okay."

Elizabeth didn't say anything, she just looked down. "You'll probably think I'm crazy."

"Hey, after all I've told you about Mozzie, do you think some tears are going to scare me off?"

That made Elizabeth smile, just a little.

"Now, tell me – what's going on?"

She sighed and frowned. "It's about my ex."

"He's giving you trouble?"

"Oh, no – not in the least. Or maybe not the way you think. He's a good man."

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical, but he divorced you and he's made you cry. How good can he be?"

"You're wrong. I divorced him."

"Ah – that will teach me to assume."

"Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said, 'Never assume'?"

Neal completed the quote, "'You make an ass out of you and me.' But you'll have to forgive me, it just seemed the obvious conclusion."

"Yeah, I guess it did. And I guess you'll want the whole story."

She sat there, looking so sad that Neal's heart broke, just a little. If there was anyone who needed a friend, at this moment, it was Elizabeth Mitchell. "If you want to tell me." He took her hand, squeezing it gently.

She nodded. "Maybe it'll help. I haven't been able to talk about this to anyone."

Despite Elizabeth's assertions that her ex-husband was a "good man", Neal had to wonder at what terrible things he had done to her.

"My husband expected perfection."

Neal immediately built a picture of a rigidly controlling man, who browbeat this intelligent, vibrant woman over the least little thing. But then Elizabeth destroyed that expectation.

"He expected perfection from himself, not from me. He worked so hard to be the perfect husband; he was constantly terrified of disappointing me. There was nothing I could mention that I wanted, or thought I wanted, or expressed a preference for, that he didn't make happen. If I said I liked having fresh flowers in the house, he arranged for daily deliveries of the most gorgeous bouquets. If I said something about liking the opera, he got season tickets for us, despite the fact that he hated opera. When I started my business, it was all he could do to get clients for me. And when I said I wanted to make it a success on my own, he just looked so hurt."

Neal didn't say anything, but he thought he understood.

"I know it sounds crazy. I was married to a wealthy, handsome, loving man who would lay the world at my feet. And I almost hated him for that."

"You wanted to stand on your own; you wanted to earn your own success."

"Yes. Is that so strange?"

"Not at all."

"But it was more than that. He was so … insecure about us. As if he felt that if he did something wrong, I'd leave." She shook her head. "And in the end, that's exactly what happened."

"Were you married long?"

"Almost fifteen years. We had a good marriage for most of that time, but over the last few years, I felt myself resenting him, resenting all of the expectations, his need to be perfect. I felt like I was living in a reality show where everything had to be just right. I guess, in the end, I just resented being married. My husband – my ex-husband – did nothing wrong. I just wanted more than he could give me."

Neal formed another image of Elizabeth's ex – a nebbishy, needy little man whose every actions stifled her.

"But I so hoped we could remain friends." Elizabeth's voice turned wobbly, as tears threatened again.

"You wanted to remain friends?"

She sniffled and wiped her nose with his handkerchief. "Yes, and I thought we were. He didn't fight with me over the divorce; he would have given me half of everything or more. In fact, the only argument we had was when he went behind my back, paid off the mortgage on our house in Brooklyn and took his name off of the deed."

"What a rotten thing to do." Neal didn't know what else to say.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Yeah, isn't it? And anyway, we agreed that we'd get together for dinner at least once a month."

"In keeping with your plan to remain friends?"

She nodded. "That's why I couldn't have dinner with you on Friday. And that's when it all went wrong."

"What happened?"

"I was teasing him a little. He'd asked me if I was dating anyone, and then I asked him the same question. He seemed appalled – as if seeing someone was an unforgivable sin."

Neal asked, because it seemed appropriate, "Maybe he's not over you?"

"Probably – but he didn't even want to entertain the idea of a casual relationship. Which was so strange, because we never had any trouble in bed. There was nothing either of us wasn’t willing to try. He was always very sexual."

Neal wasn't sure what response was required, so he just said, "Okay."

Elizabeth gave him a sheepish grin. "It seems I'm oversharing again."

"It's all right. So what happened at dinner?"

"Well, he seemed so down – but it was more than that. Like he was sick. So I asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, but I couldn't just leave it. So I said pretty much what you'd just said to me – that we're friends and that he could tell me anything."

She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, as if to steel herself against the pain the next part of her story would bring. "That's when he told me that we were simply exes. That we weren't friends and he was tired of pretending that we were."

Elizabeth's words stirred the echo of an old and terrible memory, and Neal felt the beginnings of a flop sweat gather between his shoulder blades.

Elizabeth didn't seem to notice and continued talking. "He looked at me like I was nothing, threw some money on the table and left. I guess I was naive to think that we could remain friends. I hurt him very badly when I asked for the divorce, maybe this is what I deserve."

Neal found the strength to put away his own pain – after all, he'd been doing it for a quarter of a century – and told Elizabeth, "No, you don't deserve to be hurt. Life isn't about tit-for-tat."

She twisted his handkerchief in her hands. "No, it's not, but I can't help feeling guilty for the pain I caused him."

Neal had known his share of people who had suffered through terrible relationships but couldn't bring themselves to end the pain. Moz was one of them – he still loved his wife – but they could only stand to be in each other's company for a few weeks at a time before they happily returned to their separate lives. "Let me ask you this, do you still want to be married?"

"No." Elizabeth's answer was quick and unequivocal.

"Then I think maybe your ex is right. Maybe it's time to move on and let him build his own life without you."

She nodded. "I think you're right. He just looked so unwell, so unhappy. I knew I caused that unhappiness."

"Maybe seeing you all the time just kept reminding him of what he no longer had."

"And I just kept pushing that knife deeper and deeper. He's such a good man; he probably resented me and these dinners but didn't want to say anything. It was like I was playing with him, toying with his emotions. Like you said, I was making sure I just kept reminding him of everything he'd lost. I was so selfish."

Neal wondered when he'd gotten a degree in psychotherapy, because he seemed to keep saying the right thing. "Don't beat yourself up. Your ex might have been cruel, but maybe it served its purpose."

"Yeah, what's the expression, 'cruel to be kind'?"

He nodded. "And I think you also might be feeling a bit of seller's remorse. You didn't want to stay, but you probably can't help wondering what would have happened if you did."

Elizabeth sighed. "No, I think I know what would have happened. I would have become bitter and overbearing and we both would have been utterly miserable."

"So maybe it's better that only one of you is miserable. Give it some time – maybe when your ex finds his footing, you can be friends again."

"You're right. How come you're so good at this?"

Neal tried to fob her off with the easy answer, "I've always been good at reading people. I made my first fortune playing poker."

When she gave him a look that called him on the bullshit, Neal gave her a slight smile. "Okay. Someone I cared about – I loved – did something similar to me. We'd been together for three years – not exclusive, at least on his part. But I really fell for him. We'd just finished our degrees and had made plans on taking a place together when he started work in New York. Then one morning he told me that he was going to be doing something different with his life, and that we really weren't friends. All we'd been were fuck-buddies and now he wanted to have his own life."

"That's awful."

Neal shrugged, as if to deny the pain he still felt. "I think he wanted to pretend that he wasn't bisexual. He was going to be working in a field where even the slightest hint of homosexuality could spell career death, so he needed to convince the world that he was completely, one-hundred percent straight. I don't blame him for that, for not wanting to lead a double-life."

"But he didn't have to be such a bastard to you, did he?" Elizabeth took his hand to give him comfort, ironically mirroring his earlier gesture. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are."

"I'm just relieved you don't think I'm a nutcase."

"Far from it. You're a beautiful human being, Elizabeth Mitchell, and I'm very glad to have met you." Neal reached out and touched her cheek.

He enjoyed feeling her smile and briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss this woman – it had been a very long time since he'd done that. But as quickly as the thought formed, Neal realized it would be a mistake. He'd long since come to terms with the knowledge that women weren't for him – not romantically, not sexually. Besides, he'd rather have her as a friend and if there was one thing that Peter had taught him, real friends were rare and far too valuable to be discarded like old newspaper.

"Thank you." She smiled and let out a little sigh. "I think I'm okay, now."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "Yeah, and I think I should get home before I commit another disaster."

Neal wanted to disagree, but he understood the need to make a graceful exit. "Let me get a car for you." He didn't wait for Elizabeth to demur; he just called down to the front desk and asked them to arrange for a limo.

Of course, she argued with him, "You didn't need to do that, I have an Uber account."

Neal grimaced. "Don't get me started on them. I'd sooner take a rickshaw on the Cross-Bronx than get into an Uber car."

"I'm surprised, being in the venture capital business, I thought you'd be swooning over Uber. And Lyft."

"Nope. I don't believe that breaking the law and taking full page ads out in the New York Times justifying it as accommodating a market is a sustainable business model."

"You've never skirted regulations? You've never broken the rules?"

Neal didn't blame her skepticism – he was a Wall Street player and bending the rules came with the job description. "There was a time when I was little better than a con man, but I didn't …" He blinked as Elizabeth smiled. "You're winding me up."

"Yeah."

"I didn't think I was that easy to read."

"You're not easy to read at all – it was just a shot in the dark."

"And you hit the mark."

"A bull's eye, I think."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a dangerous woman, Elizabeth Mitchell?"

"No, but I kind of like that."

The phone rang, and Neal answered. It was the front desk, telling him that the car was waiting. "Shall I come down with you?" He helped her into her coat and made sure she had her bag.

"No, it's okay – I think I can make it to the lobby without committing any acts of mayhem. Even though I'm a dangerous woman."

Neal laughed. God, he liked this woman.

Elizabeth left, promising that she'd be in touch about the plans to go out to Long Island and see the "castle". Neal went back to the living room, struck by a strong wave of melancholy. The dessert dishes were still on the table, a mocking reminder that no one but him ever stayed here.

He knew it really didn't have to be like this. Maybe he could try harder to be less closed off, less wary, less compartmentalized. Matthew might have been out for a sugar daddy to keep him in the style he wanted to become accustomed to, but he wasn't stupid.

Maybe he should try a dating service. That was one step from paying for escorts. Hell, why not go all the way and hire a matchmaker? After all, he knew what he wanted in a man. Someone his age – maybe a year or two older, but nothing more and certainly nothing less. Someone who was successful – and Neal was quick to make the mental qualification that success didn't have to mean wealth. He'd be happy with someone who was happy with themselves. Someone who was comfortable in their own skin. He'd be kind, with a good sense of humor. He'd appreciate art and fine food, but wouldn't be a fuss-budget. He would be able to hold his own against anyone. An attractive package wasn't essential but there was nothing wrong with dark eyes, a good mouth, a strong face. He didn't want a fitness model, but long legs and a toned physique wouldn't hurt, either.

And maybe a mole at the base of his throat…

And then that train of thought derailed into a catastrophic wreck. His ideal mate was Peter Burke, or the man he imagined the twenty-five year-old Peter Burke had become, if he hadn't turned into such a cruel and selfish bastard.

Neal shook his head at his own folly. Maybe his life was better this way. He might be alone, but he'd never be disappointed.


END PART THREE - GO TO PART FOUR