So Wright: The Wrights

by Jordan, Skye

  Miranda thought she’d dealt with the hurts from her past, but in moments like this, she realized her wounds had only scabbed over. Gypsy’s return felt like a fresh dose of salt.

  “People change, Miranda, and life is so damn short. Five years is too fucking long to hold a grudge. This is stupid and juvenile. Not like you at all. None of you kids had a choice in who your parents were or how your young lives were handled. Gypsy had no more say in what her father did than you had in what your mother did.”

  Miranda blew out a breath and wrapped her arms around her knees. Fundamentally, she agreed with Marty. Emotionally, she was so damn conflicted.

  “The only question now,” Marty said, “is how you want to handle this going forward. You can choose to turn your back on Gypsy, or you can choose to forgive her and rebuild a relationship with your sister. If you could get out of your own way, you’d see this is a pretty big step for her. She’s not stupid, and she had to know how you’d react, yet she came. She’s facing you. Risking just as much hurt as you would be by opening up to her.”

  Realizing this conversation wasn’t going anywhere, he changed topics. “Have you gotten any work done on your business plan?”

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “You spend all your time waiting for everything to be just right. You use it as an excuse not to jump.”

  Miranda dropped her hand and scowled up at him. “I do not. I’m working my way in the direction I want to go. It’s called planning.”

  “What you’re doing isn’t planning, it’s procrastination. There are over a dozen shipping containers you got for nothing gathering dust at home. You could be starting with what you have, gaining momentum to get interest from both potential buyers and potential investors, but you’re not. You’re working your ass off sixteen hours a day and spending your weekend volunteering.”

  “That job is funding my plan, and that volunteer project is building my portfolio,” she said, growing frustrated. Marty’s observations were hitting a little too close to her weaknesses. “Once this community is done, I’ll have something to show investors and buyers. I finish what I start, and I’m not taking time away from people who need roofs over their heads to further my own agenda.”

  “I’m not asking you to. But you need to take a hard look at where your focus has been and shift it. Find more balance—one weekend day here, forty hours at Pinnacle, and the rest on those designs you’ve refined to the nth degree. And stop taking shifts at the bar.”

  “I love the bar. The bar is my fun time. Besides, I’m saving your ungrateful ass from having to go in.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Hell, you haven’t even gone to the local SCORE group who could help you with your business plan, talk about next steps, guide you, all for free. You have so many resources at your fingertips that you aren’t grabbing, it makes me crazy.”

  She hated having her fears and flaws brought into the light. She had a hard enough time living with them hidden in locked closets.

  “I’m not Gypsy, okay? I didn’t go to college. I fucking dropped out of high school,” she said, her voice rising. “You think the kind of people I’m going to be asking for money from won’t care about that?”

  “You have your GED. It’s the same goddamned thing. You’re smart, Miranda. You’re clever. You’re creative. You can figure out anything you put your mind to. But you’re scared, and that fear is keeping you from figuring out what you need to know. You’re scared of people ridiculing your idea. You’re scared of people rejecting it. You’re scared of failing. You’re also afraid of succeeding.”

  “Afraid of succeeding?” She pulled a face. “That’s just stupid.”

  “If your idea takes off, if someone invests in your plan, you have to make it happen. You have to go all in. And you haven’t gone all in on anything since you learned to weld.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “Name one thing.” He spread his arms wide. “Friends? A relationship? Your family?”

  She couldn’t think of anything—all her friends were related to work. She’d never had a long-term relationship. She’d given up on her family years ago.

  She suddenly felt a little unglued, a little frantic. “Last time I looked, I was pretty invested in you and Elaina.”

  “We’re safe. You’ve known us since you were a kid. Mr. New York isn’t safe. Gypsy isn’t safe. Seeking investors isn’t safe. Starting a business isn’t safe.” His voice grew more deliberate. “You’ve got to get out of your box, Miranda. You’ve got to learn to take risks, or those drawings will always be just drawings. You’ll never know the joy of really loving someone. You have so much potential, and it makes me crazy to watch you back away from something that’s within your reach if you just stretch a little.”

  Miranda’s mood plummeted. “I think you’re the grouch here today.”

  Marty swiped the coffee cup from Miranda’s hand. “I’ll get you your coffee. You need to be alert for the interview.”

  She looked up at him. “What interview?”

  “The one with the Nashville Sun.”

  Her first reaction was dread. It was hard to get excited about this kind of thing anymore. She used to hope for exposure to gain notoriety for her innovative thinking and design. Hoped to garner interest from someone who wanted to partner or invest. After a couple dozen interviews, she knew the articles garnered nothing more than a few kudos and recreational attention.

  So much damned disappointment in her life. Was it really so hard to understand her aversion to investing in anyone or anything?

  “Don’t tell me,” Miranda said with a teasing tone, hoping to lighten the conversation. “She’s from the home and décor column. You met her at Starbucks and bonded over your love of caramel macchiatos.”

  “Smartass. He’s from the business section, and he’s interested in how these kinds of homes could change the face of the homeless epidemic.”

  Still, Miranda was slow to warm up. “Interesting.”

  “You know what’s even more interesting?”

  “The number of women you snag with that sexy prosthetic leg?”

  “One of my army buddy’s sons has a friend who was in the special ops teams. The guy runs his own security outfit now called Manhunters. He’s based in Colorado, but he and his teams work all over the world. He’s raking in the profits, and he’s looking for a meaningful investment. I sent him your business plan. He loves the idea of helping vets, and your plan for creating alternative, affordable living environments for low-income folks.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You just bitched at me for not having a business plan.”

  “I got tired of waiting for you to get your head out of your ass and worked one up on my own. You can take twenty years and do this yourself, or you can accept help and be living your dream in two. Personally, I’d like to see it happen in two. I don’t know if I’ll be around in twenty. And you’re thirty years old, Miranda. Do you really want to be busting your ass on a construction site until you’re fifty or sixty? You need to work on your long game.”

  “Jesus, Marty. Go away. There’s got to be some hot fifty-something volunteer you should be chatting up.”

  Marty pushed off the container. “Show a little enthusiasm when you talk to the reporter. You may not be much of a numbers girl, but you’re a hell of a people person when you want to be, and publicity is important. Consider it a gateway drug to the good stuff.”

  8

  A lawyer, a forensic accountant, and an investigator sat across the conference table from Jack.

  It sounded a little like the beginning of a joke, but there wasn’t a whiff of amusement in the room.

  Over the weekend, Jack had read through all the information the team had collected, then combed through the company books until his vision blurred. When he needed a break from the numbers, he spent time with his dad, who sporadically remembered who Jack was one minute, only to stare right throug
h him the next.

  To add a little light to the darkness, Jack had built Legos skyscrapers with Jacob, taught James to throw a baseball, and let Joshua gnaw on his finger to relieve his teething pain. He’d also stopped by Spur’s hoping to find Miranda. No luck there.

  As Clark Bruin, Pinnacle’s attorney, sorted through his files, Jack let his mind drift to Miranda. He was torn on whether or not to hit the bar again tonight in hopes of getting her to agree to a real date. He wasn’t sure if that would seem stalkerish. Third night in a row and all.

  He was so bad at this. He understood normal dating patterns. When to call again after the first date. When to take it to the next level. But this… Whatever this was tipped Jack off-balance. He couldn’t pin down the what or why of the chemistry between them, and the intensity of it left him feeling vulnerable and edgy.

  In the back of his mind, he realized he hoped sleeping with her again would put him on an even keel. That somehow the second time around wouldn’t be as mind-blowing. Then there was the flip side of that problem. What in the hell would he do if this thing between them turned out to be just as good, or even better, than he’d thought?

  “Good news.” Bruin looked just as a well-heeled, conservative attorney would, midfifties with salt-and-pepper hair, tailored blue suit, red power tie. “We won a judgment against Bruce Fischer in court today.”

  “That does sound good,” Jack said, “but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “It means you’ve got a great shot at getting back the money Fischer stole. At least most of it. He’s surely used some.”

  Jack still couldn’t quite breathe easily.

  “Your sister’s quick action really made a difference in this case,” Bruin said. “Authorities were able to dig into the investigation while Fischer’s trail is still relatively fresh. With your dad’s condition, Fischer probably thought he’d have a lot more time before you resorted to legal action.”

  “Or, he didn’t think he was suable while he was in international waters.” Tully, the forensic accountant, gave her suit jacket a prim tug. “Judging by his embezzlement scheme, he’s not the brightest crayon in the box.”

  “True,” Bruin agreed, “which is lucky for everyone on the right side of this. We’ve submitted the paperwork needed to freeze his bank accounts. It will take a few days for that to be processed. Then there’s a waiting period before the funds will be returned to Pinnacle’s bank account.”

  Jack’s chest finally unlocked. He exhaled and sat back. “Jesus, that is such good news. How long is the waiting period?”

  “One month,” Tully answered.

  Jack’s stress returned like the flick of a switch. “We’ve got payroll coming up in a few days, and Jen and I are tapped out.”

  “Your father had insurance for exactly this kind of situation, and your sister notified the carrier as soon as the company’s CFO told her about the missing funds. I’ve shared our investigative findings with them, which has enabled them to clear the claim. They should cover most of the essentials to keep Pinnacle going until we are able to legally seize the money.”

  Jack dropped his head and closed his eyes. “Thank God.”

  “We’ve put a watch on Fischer’s accounts,” Bruin said. “Any movement will be reported to the authorities.”

  “I tracked Fischer to the Caribbean.” Stuart Klein, the investigator, was a former military intelligence officer, and he looked the part, muscular and clean-cut, with the posture of a steel rod. “I’ve put out a BOLO with all law enforcement entities in the region, focusing on ports of entry. When he surfaces, we’ll go after him.”

  “What about Alex?” Jack asked. “I hate having him on the payroll. He’s always had his father’s back. He shouldn’t be allowed to stay at the company, especially not in a managerial capacity. For all we know, he’s feeding his father information that could interfere with all your work.”

  “If you fire him without documented cause,” Bruin reminded Jack, “you’ll be looking at a lawsuit.”

  “What about suspending him? Putting him on a leave of absence? The supply costs on this latest job are sky high, and he handles supply acquisition.”

  “I noticed that too,” Tully said, then glanced at Bruin. “Theft and/or money laundering could be a possibility.”

  “Give me a couple of weeks,” Klein said. “I’ll find enough to get him out. Talk to your IT guy and tighten surveillance in the office and on the construction site. My team will take care of it after hours.”

  When the meeting was over, Bruin walked with Jack toward the building’s exit.

  “How is Jon?” Bruin asked. “Is he going to recover, or is this the beginning of a slow decline?”

  “It’s going to take time.” Jack’s focus returned to what really mattered. “But we’re hopeful.”

  On the drive home, he found himself checking his phone for communication from Miranda, only to remember they hadn’t exchanged numbers. “I’m such an idiot.”

  Just as he turned the corner into the subdivision where he’d grown up, Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl” came on the radio. Jack was transported back in time, to the sight of Miranda and Violet, the other female bartender, lighting up the dance floor to this very song. The memory was so vivid, he could still see her long dark hair swinging out behind her, hear the quick tap of her cowboy boots on the wooden floor, imagine that smile lighting up the dim bar.

  By the time he pulled into the driveway, Jack was smiling, and his heart felt the same spark it had when Miranda had first held his gaze at the bar.

  Even if he didn’t understand it, Jack couldn’t deny there was something really special there. He’d go back.

  He shut down the car, and silence flooded the interior. Knowing the ghost of his father waited inside dimmed the flash of happiness brought by thoughts of Miranda.

  He closed the front door and heard the television playing in the family room. He made his way that direction and found his father in the same place Jack had left him, sitting in the recliner that had been the bane of his mother’s existence and the subject of many a family joke. Despite the television playing a World War II documentary, one of his father’s favorite interests, Jon stared blankly out the window.

  His father had been a young, fit, vibrant seventy-two-year-old when his wife had passed away. Jon had nursed her to the grave, then sunk one foot in beside her. After fifty-one years of marriage, Jack didn’t blame him. And he missed her too. They’d been the best parents a kid could ask for. He didn’t mind stepping up to take care of his dad for a change. He just wish he didn’t feel so helpless.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  His father’s watery blue eyes tracked in slow motion until they finally paused on Jack. A smile flickered across Jon’s face, then disappeared, and a bit of a confused stare followed. His father clearly didn’t recognize him.

  “Well, hey there.” He sounded utterly destroyed, his voice as thin as his skin was pale.

  “How are you doing?” Jack asked. “Bet you’re ready for some dinner.”

  It was only five o’clock, but his dad ate early now. Turned in early too. Jon’s whole life had shrunk to fit into just a few hours of the twenty-four available.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  This was another problem, Jon’s lack of appetite. His dad had lost at least twenty pounds in the last six months. Jack tried to remember some of his father’s favorite foods.

  “What do you say I order a big baguette and some brie from the deli?” Jack asked.

  His father’s gaze veered toward Jack but didn’t focus. “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

  Jack would take what he could get. He stood and turned toward the door.

  “Your mother loved this song.”

  Jack’s ears perked, searching for music. A Lexus commercial played on the television with some kind of classical soundtrack. Mozart maybe? Jack instantly recalled how his own mood had changed when Luke Bryan brought back Jack’s memory of Miranda.

 
Jen said that looking at photos of their mother only caused Jon pain. But the watery smile on his dad’s face now made Jack think music might bring Jon joy.

  Jack went to the kitchen in search of the local deli’s phone number. He was just about to dial when he received an incoming call from his office in New York. “This is Jack.”

  “Hey, Jack.” Defeat and fatigue dragged at Bill’s voice. The senior partner at Jack’s architectural firm had stopped burning the midnight oil years ago, letting the younger crowd shoulder that burden. “I’m really sorry to bother you while you’re dealing with your dad.”

  “Not a problem, Bill. Is something wrong?”

  “Kelsey is having complications with her pregnancy. Her blood pressure is in the danger zone, and they’ve put her on bed rest until she delivers. She called it pre-something.”

  “Preeclampsia,” Jack said. “Jen had it with Joshua. Kelsey and the baby are okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. They’re both fine now. The thing is, there’s just too much work to have you both out indefinitely.”

  His stomach dropped a few inches. They wanted him back at the office. Back in New York. Several states away from his new infatuation. The one who’d left his hotel room and, as far as he knew, hadn’t looked back.

  “I want to give you time to work things out at home, but we’ve run into a problem with one of Kelsey’s projects—the shopping center in Los Angeles. I hate to ask, but you’re the only person with the experience required to handle a project that size and complexity.”

  Jack’s eyes slid closed. His shoulders sank. “Sure, I understand.”

  “I’d like to tell you it’s a one-time thing, but with Kelsey out, there’s no telling. For now, if you could help us out by being flexible, maybe flying where we need you out of Nashville for the time being? Until you get things handled with your dad?”

  “Of course.” But he had a boulder in his stomach now. He thought ahead, to eighteen-hour days, seven days a week on top of travel. Unable to support Jen. Unable to spend time with Dad. Killing any possibility of something more with Miranda. “Send me the info on Kelsey’s project or have her call me. Once I get that straightened out, I’ll check in with you to see how things are going at the office.”