Summer Nights

by Sanders, Jill

  “I thought we’d hit the hotel first, then have some food before heading over to the hospice,” he said, glancing sideways at her.

  She looked out her window and wished they were in Vegas for a good time instead of to bury her father.

  She’d told the hospice nurse last night that she would be arriving today. The woman had assured her that they would take care of her father and let her know when he passed.

  She’d received a call at a quarter past one in the morning that he’d passed away. She had cried herself asleep and hated that she’d shed a tear for a man who had only thought of her in his last days.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll need to call my mother. We may be heading to a funeral home instead, if he was moved.” She checked her phone, and there were a few messages she’d missed. She punched the phone and listened to them.

  “Anything important?” he asked, pulling into the hotel’s parking lot.

  She shut down her phone and glanced up. “Mom gave me the information to the funeral home. Dad’s being moved there this morning.”

  Every time she’d been in Vegas, she’d always stayed at the more basic hotels—MGM, the Rio—the kind that had been nice twenty or thirty years ago.

  She’d walked through the nicer hotels but hadn’t been to the Bellagio before.

  “We can go upstairs and clean up, then eat something here in the lobby,” he said, pulling her bag from the back of the car.

  “Sounds good. Somehow the dry heat is worse than Florida’s humidity.”

  “A lot of people think the opposite,” he suggested as he held open the door for her.

  They stepped into the lobby of the hotel, and she became too busy looking at the Chihuly ceiling and enjoying all the sights and sounds to chat with him anymore.

  She stood back as he checked them in at the front desk. When he handed her a card key to the room, she suddenly realized that not only had they not talked about how much it had cost to fly them there and rent the car, but she hadn’t even asked him about the hotel room’s cost or arrangements yet. Had he booked her her own room, or did he automatically expect that they would be sharing one?

  “If you keep the receipts for the trip, I’ll reimburse you,” she said as they made their way toward the elevators, avoiding the bellhops with a wave from Dylan.

  The fact that Dylan shrugged made her eyes narrow. When they stepped into the elevators and he punched one of the top floors, she took a moment to look at him.

  Who was this man, really? Why did they feel it was necessary to give them a fake name? She’d read more articles last night about the Costas. For the most part, the articles had all been fluff pieces about charities they hosted or dinner parties they had attended. She’d been too tired to do any deeper searching and figured she’d have some time on the plane, but there hadn’t been wireless.

  She gave him a sidelong glance and figured that she’d try the direct approach again.

  “You’re not telling me something,” she said as the elevator started to move.

  “Like what?” Was it her imagination, or did he look startled for a moment?

  “You and your brothers show up, looking for work.” She ticked items off with her fingers. “You instantly start sneaking around the camp.” When he opened his mouth to talk, she raised her eyebrows, which shut his mouth. “You know how to fly a plane and can, within a few hours’ notice, get one at a snap of your fingers to fly to Vegas, where your”—she air quoted—“‘family friend slash employee’ arranges our rental car and hotel.”

  She was interrupted when the elevator door slid open at their floor. She followed him down the hallway and stood back while he opened the door.

  When they stepped into the massive suite, she turned on him.

  “Okay, what the hell? Who are you? Really.”

  “Dylan Costa.” The way he said it had her heart rate spiking. He might as well have just told her Bond, James Bond instead. He said his name like it explained everything. But it didn’t explain why he’d lied to her.

  When she planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest again, he relented.

  “Let’s clean up and get something to eat; then we can talk.” At the thought of food, her stomach growled, as if contradicting her desire to get to the bottom of things.

  He started to walk past her, but she stopped him by placing her hand on his chest. A bad move, because just feeling those muscles under her fingertips accelerated her heart rate.

  “Promise me you won’t avoid answering any of my questions?” she asked a little breathlessly.

  His dark eyes met hers, and he nodded slowly. She searched his face but couldn’t penetrate his steady expression.

  To his credit, there were two bedrooms in the suite: a long hallway with identical rooms sitting on either side. The massive living and dining area sat at the end of the hallway, filling a giant U-shaped room. Two small balconies sat on either end, with access doors from each bedroom and the living room area.

  She could spend all day just watching the activity below—their room faced the famous fountains. She imagined the view at night would be just as amazing.

  She dumped her bag on the queen-size bed and walked into the bathroom to clean up. Seeing the massive tub, she instantly wished for enough time to try it out before leaving but instead ran a washcloth over the back of her neck to cool herself down.

  As they made their way back downstairs, she resumed her questioning. “Why did you all lie to us about your name?”

  He glanced at the other couple in the elevator before answering.

  “It was Owen’s idea.”

  She realized he didn’t want to go into it further, since the doors opened and a large group of people shuffled in, all with luggage that filled every inch of the elevator.

  They walked through the crowded casino toward one of the restaurants and waited for a table.

  When they were finally seated by a window, he said, “My family, the Costas, have a business. My father acts as the head of it, but my brothers and I are just trying to make our own way.”

  “So the plane belongs to your family?” She felt her stomach roll slightly. Was this mob money? The articles had all avoided mention of what the family business actually did.

  When he nodded, she glanced out the window as more fear roiled inside her.

  “Hey.” Dylan reached across the table and took her hand. “I just told you that I come from a family with money, not mass murderers.”

  “To me, it’s almost the same.” When his eyebrows shot up, she said, “My father is Jean Rowlett.” She waited until the name sank in and recognition hit him.

  “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand. “I hadn’t made the connection. I think I understand—that is, if all the rumors are true.”

  “They are.” She grimaced. “Just like the papers said—he left his wife and two daughters pretty much destitute. I was sixteen years old; Scarlett was fourteen.”

  “Didn’t your mother fight it? I mean, with any divorce, if she had a good lawyer, she could have . . .”

  “My father has many powerful friends,” she said. “My grandfather, his father, had been alive back then and bullied my mother into signing a prenuptial before the wedding.” She remembered the threats her mother had received after the divorce. “Then, she was practically forced into signing the divorce papers by my father”—she flickered into memories of the hell her mother had been put through—“in exchange for custody of Scarlett and me.”

  “Your father . . . blackmailed your mother? Using his own daughters as leverage?” he asked.

  Zoey took a sip from her water glass. “Yeah—now you can understand why it’s so hard for me to do this”—she glanced out the window—“to be here.”

  “I’m here for you.” He squeezed her hand. “My family may have money, but we’re not heartless.”

  But still, doubt was something she’d learned to live with ever since the day they were left with basically only their clothe
s on their backs and an old beat-up car they’d borrowed from a friend.

  “What about your father?” she asked after their burgers arrived. “Does he always just . . . disappear?”

  “He started the disappearing act just after Liam graduated high school. I suppose he figured he was finally free to travel and date who he wanted. At first, it was short trips,” he said between bites. “A weekend in Paris or relaxing on a Mexican beach somewhere.” He shrugged, then laughed. “We used to get into such trouble while he was gone.” He chuckled as he looked out the windows. “Then”—his smile fell away—“the trips grew longer, and when he started dating women our age . . .” She watched his body shiver and knew exactly what he’d gone through, how it made you feel to know that your parent was attractive to, and attracted by, people the same age as their children.

  She reached across the small table and took his hand. “I understand.”

  From there, as they ate lunch, the topic of conversation turned toward other family. She tried to dig a little deeper into his family life; instead, he gave her stories of the three of them growing up.

  He told her of the times he and his brothers had gotten into trouble, and she was reminded so much of herself and the Wildflowers.

  “One summer, we decided we all wanted motorcycles, so we borrowed a friend’s new Yamaha. Owen rode it first without incident; then it was my turn. I’d never ridden a bike before.” He chuckled. “I was twelve. Anyway, I pulled back on the gas and shot across the field, directly into the only tree, totaling his bike. Dad made me work all summer long to replace it.”

  “Were you hurt?” she asked.

  “No—just my pride. It took me almost five years to work up the nerve to get on another bike.”

  Perhaps they were nothing more than brothers worried about their father and their family business. Even if she felt they’d gone about things the wrong way.

  For a few moments, she almost forgot where they were, and why they were there. Then realization dawned on her, and she slumped in her chair and wished for a glass of wine instead of water.

  “It hit you again, didn’t it?” Dylan asked as he searched her eyes.

  “Yeah.” She sighed and thought about getting some fresh air before having to deal with the unknown. “How about we take a quick walk before we head over to the funeral home?”

  Dylan waved the waitress over, but before he could slap down his credit card, Zoey paid with cash.

  “I’m not going to have you paying for everything. And,” she said after standing up, “I expect to pay you back for my share of the rest of this. Even if it ends up going back into your father’s account.”

  “Fair enough.” He took her hand, and they walked out of the building.

  The hot air hit them, and she groaned. “I love the heat, but man, I miss the water in it.” She felt like her skin was drying up with each step and wondered if the hotel had ChapStick to combat the dryness.

  He chuckled. “Maybe just a short walk, then?”

  “To the fountains and back?” she suggested.

  Vegas was Vegas. The streets were crowded, but they still found a quiet place to watch the fountain show in the shade.

  Her mind circled around all the information he’d given her about his family and why he and his brothers had lied to them.

  She thought about some of the stupid decisions she’d made in her life and knew that she couldn’t hold most of it against him. After all, she’d washed out of the Olympics and had been injured because of one bad choice she’d made.

  “Shall we head out?” He held out his hand for hers.

  She knew he was offering more than just his hand: he was asking her if she’d forgiven him. Looking into his eyes, she took his hand. His smile shifted something deep inside her, and as they walked back toward the rental car, she realized that whatever came at her on this trip, she was thankful Dylan was on her side.

  As he drove toward the funeral home, they talked about her time at the Olympics. For some reason, the first year after her injury, the subject had been tender, but now she could see past all the inner anger she had been carrying around.

  It was all her fault that she’d been injured. Sneaking out after they had officially qualified at the finals had been against the rules—she knew that—but she and her teammates had chanced it anyway to celebrate. Falling down the hotel’s fire escape and landing wrong on her knee had stripped her chances of actually playing at the Olympics.

  Still, as she talked to Dylan now, the only feeling left in her about her past was gratefulness that she’d gone as far as she had with her career.

  How many people could say they had made it to the Olympics?

  She hadn’t been the only one who’d snuck out that night, but she had been the only one who’d gotten injured and disqualified. Which, in some strange way, had boosted her into the spotlight for a short time.

  The image of her cheering on the sidelines, an ice pack on her swollen and bruised leg, was still used as the epitome of good sportsmanship.

  “That’s one of my favorites. Bad girl shows her support for her teammates.” Dylan smiled over at her. “It was rumored that you hadn’t been alone that night, sneaking out, yet you never tattled on any of your teammates. The photographer deserves a medal for capturing that moment.”

  She sighed. “My hair was a mess.”

  A burst of laughter escaped him. “I can’t believe that you’re worried about how your hair looked in such an iconic moment.”

  As they entered the funeral home, he held her hand. When they walked in, she explained to the woman behind the front counter whom she was there to see; then they were ushered into a back room.

  A man came in and informed her that her father had chosen to be cremated, but there would be a small private showing of his body before they would cremate him later that day.

  “We’ve done what we could to make the viewing more pleasant, but according to his lawyer, he didn’t want ‘a big fuss made over him.’”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll take you back to him now.” The man stood up, and they followed him to where her father was laid out in front of a row of chairs.

  She reached for Dylan’s hand as they made their way down the aisle.

  Her father looked so different that, for a moment, she questioned if they had been shown to the right room. Then she looked deeper into his face and could see the man he had been long ago.

  What could have been if he had been a better man, a better father? All the times she’d invited him to her games, and he hadn’t even shown a hint of interest in her or Scar.

  Tears streamed down her face, and she dashed them away with the tissue Dylan offered her. She leaned heavily on him and was thankful that she hadn’t had to do this alone.

  She knew Scarlett and her mother wouldn’t have been able to deal with any of it. Her sister was more emotional than she was and remained very bitter about how things had been left between them. Whatever time their father had cheated Zoey out of, Scar’s time had been even shorter. Maybe it was because Zoey had been older and had understood more, but Scar had taken their father’s lack of interest harder than she had. She knew her mother had left that part of her life in the past and was better for it. Being here, now, might have set her back too far.

  “Miss Rowlett.” They turned and saw a younger man in a very expensive suit approaching them. “I was told you would be stopping by today.” He held out his hand to shake. “I’m John Jackson. I was your father’s attorney. I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was—”

  Zoey tilted her head. “You don’t have to finish that. I know exactly what the man was.” She turned to her father again, her eyes dry at this point.

  “Still, my condolences.” He searched in his pockets and withdrew a card, which he handed to her. “While you’re in town, if you could find some time to swing by my offices, we can go over his will. There are some papers for you to sign. Did your sister, Scarle
tt, make the trip with you?”

  “No,” Zoey answered, her gaze turning back to her father, the man who’d caused so much pain and distrust in the sisters. “I only came because there was no one else.”

  “I understand you’ve elected to follow his wishes as far as his cremation?”

  She shrugged. “It’s all arranged, which leaves less for me to do.”

  “Then I’ll let you have some time. I hope to see you soon.” He turned to go.

  “Mr. Jackson,” she called after him, and he stopped. “How much did his second wife take?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Not as much as she wanted, but still, more than your mother got.”

  The fact that the man had been honest with her told her something about his character.

  “We’ll stop by your office tomorrow,” she blurted out. “How about eleven?”

  “I’ll arrange for it,” he said and turned with a wave and left.

  “I can’t stand lawyers,” Dylan muttered.

  “Not all of them are bad.” She sighed and spun away from her father. “The fact that he was honest about my father told me more than I needed.”

  “Now what?” Dylan asked.

  “He’s had his . . . showing . . .” She glanced up as a woman rushed into the room, causing Zoey’s temper to rise. Bridgette.

  She wore all black, with large crocodile tears to match her handbag.

  “Jean!” she cried and flung—actually flung—herself on Zoey’s father’s still figure, as if she had just found out about his death.

  “The second wife?” Dylan whispered.

  “Yeah.” Zoey really wished a glass of wine had rushed in instead.

  “She’s an actress, right?” His sarcasm caused Zoey to chuckle.

  “Dancer,” she corrected as the woman turned on her—her tears replaced with anger.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Bridgette accused her, causing Zoey’s eyebrows to jump up in disbelief. The woman had a lot of nerve, accusing her of not doing something she wouldn’t have done even if her father had asked it of her.