by Arden, Susan
Cynthia had not entered her father’s house since vacating his building. She was no longer welcome in his home, and she wouldn’t beg. Everything she’d had from college was in her old room there, not to mention her childhood memorabilia. She heaved a sigh, slipping on her shoes, and clutching her churning belly.
* * *
When she arrived at the attorney’s office, she found her aunt waiting outside the building.
Tia Sonya’s jaunty tilted head and her expression tamped down Cynthia’s worry.
Her aunt hugged her. “You look pale. Cariño, don’t fret. Your father doesn’t hold all the cards.” Tia held onto a set of manila envelopes in one hand.
“I’m fine,” Cynthia murmured. “It’s just a touch of the flu.”
“Take this.” Her aunt smirked and placed one of the envelopes into her hands. “Keep what’s inside in a safe spot.”
“Tia, what is this?” Staring down at the envelope, she recognized her mother’s familiar handwriting. Her eyes misted.
Tia Sonya exhaled. “These are financial documents your mother gave me to hold. I don’t think your father had access, or even knowledge of these.”
Her aunt and her father never got along well, but for the sake of her mother, Cynthia knew they had agreed to disagree on more than one occasion. Over the years, both sides of her family had attempted to be civil to each other, but that was all.
“Your name was on all of her accounts, right from the beginning.” Tia Sonya’s eyes held a spiteful gleam that caused Cynthia to question what might lie ahead.
Cynthia’s chest felt constricted as she and her aunt walked into the reception area. She spotted her father already seated inside a glass-paneled conference room. Dressed in a dark suit and his usual starched shirt, he held himself upright without making eye contact. The receptionist led them to the doorway and directed them inside the conference room.
Tia Sonya softly hissed under her breath, “So it comes to this.”
Her father stood as they entered and held a chair for her aunt, but Tia Sonya waved him off.
“Randall, sit down. I don’t need your help.” It was clear by her aunt’s response that the gloves were about to come off. Clean off. Tia Sonya sat and motioned to the chair next to her for Cynthia. “Next to me, mija.”
Each person seemed focused on the probate attorney, who proceeded to read the Will. Her father had his own attorney present, and he directed his attorney to hand a binder of documents to the probate attorney, and then directed the man to give one to Cynthia and her aunt. She flipped through her binder showing her aunt that it contained a stack of stamped copies of probate court documents contesting the Will.
Tia Sonya’s smile grew more and more Cheshire-like. “So it’s show-and-tell time, is it? Well, Randall, I didn’t want you to go it alone, so I’ve brought a little something as well.”
Cynthia leaned in and whispered, “Please, Tia Sonya—”
Her aunt turned to her and clucked, “Mija, this isn’t for you to worry about.” Tia held out the envelope to her father.
He gruffly reacted, taking hold of the envelope and brusquely ripping it open. As soon as he caught sight of the contents, his expression changed. He lifted his eyes for a split second, then slammed his gaze back toward the papers he held in a white-knuckled grasp.
Tia Sonya sniffed, and twisted her nose in a way that meant this wasn’t going to be pleasant. If the floor could open up, Cynthia wished that it would happen then and there. She crossed her leg and pushed one shoulder back against the chair, unable to look over at her father. She watched her aunt instead, noting how much she loved this proud fierce woman. Her aunt’s curly black hair, normally an unruly mane, was maintained in a tight braid that ran down her back. She looked more like a Catalan gypsy than a suburban widow. Sonya sat erect, and smiled over at her, winking sparkling pitch-colored eyes, reminding Cynthia so much of her mother.
Cynthia’s breath caught in her throat. She’d promised her mother to follow her dream. This was not the moment to buckle. She turned her head, back toward her father and studied his face growing redder with each second. Whatever her aunt had given him had not been well received.
He coughed harshly breaking the silence in the room. Shoving the papers back into the envelope, her father glared at her aunt. “What do you want, Sonya?”
Tia laughed. “Randall, these are the terms. Short and to the point.” Her aunt paused, demonstrating she knew how to capture the attention of the occupants of the room with her dramatic flair.
All the men in the room faced Sonya, tilting toward her in their collective chairs, obviously anxious to hear her next word.
“You’ll withdraw those documents today, every single one of them. And not one more word about my sister’s Will. My niece’s inheritance shall go untouched. Do you understand me, Randall Cainwright?” Tia lifted her hand, and then smoothed several of her fingers across her tightly braided hair. Her charm bracelet tinkled, and her aunt inhaled. “I don’t like repeating myself. I’ve outlined on the first page of those documents what will occur if you violate the terms.”
“Sonya, this is an outrage,” her father thundered.
“No, Randall, this is blackmail. Nothing more. Nothing less. It was unconscionable the way you treated my sister. You operate like a son-of-…”
Tia glanced over at her. Cynthia could feel her own eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Excuse me.” Her aunt lightly touched Cynthia’s arm before she continued. “Like a son-of-gun. Always expecting everyone to fall in line. Always. Never giving one inch. Well, not today. This Cuban immigrant is not going to back down.”
With that being said, Tia Sonya held up her chin defiantly. Her aunt proceeded to tap the arm of the chair while staring directly at the probate attorney. “What does Mr. Cainwright need to do so that my niece has access to her inheritance?”
The attorney spread his hands. “If Mr. Cainwright dismisses these claims, by way of filing the appropriate documents with the Court, the inheritance will be ruled upon by the probate judge. Within a couple months, all funds will be dispersed. Miss Cainwright, you should hear something by the beginning of September or sooner.”
“That should be done immediately, Randall. No more wasted time.” Tia Sonya turned back toward her. “Is that permissible with you?”
“Yes. Thank you, Tia.”
“Con mucho gusto. Para su mama. Your mother never would have wanted you to go without.”
The inheritance was more than Cynthia believed possible. Reading over the documents, she noticed, her father had not put any assets or holdings in Cynthia’s mother’s name. Not one thing from World Travel had Isabella Trujillo owned or controlled, and yet her mother had managed to accumulate some wealth on her own. Her mother. A quiet housewife.
As it turned out, her mother had a savings account, investments and some bonds. Altogether over $100,000 that would be taxed and dispersed. Considering that Cynthia was essentially penniless, her mother’s gift would help her get on her feet and then some.
She hugged her aunt, but she couldn’t find the right words to express her gratitude. “Tia, I won’t let my mom down. How can I ever repay you?” Tears welled in her eyes, until she blinked and they slipped down her cheeks.
Her aunt had her ever-present lace handkerchief ready that she dabbed at Cynthia’s cheeks. Tia softly said, “Thank me by writing that book, mija. Your mother was very proud of you. She loved you so much. Never forget that. Honor her and me by keeping your promise. Now, give me a smile.”
Chapter 9
Miami, Four Years Later
Sitting at the pool, Cynthia ordered an iced tea and drummed her fingers nervously. She’d agreed to the interview only after her agent had given her an ultimatum. She had two choices: face-to-face interviews and webcam videos, all the rage, or else she’d have to do the book tour for her newest release, Caught By Love. One or the other.
So far, Cynthia had delivered on her contract for a thr
ee-book deal, and she felt as if a weight had been lifted off of her. With Caught, she’d fulfilled her writing obligation and her promise to her mother and her beloved aunt.
Caught was the third in a romance series, and Cynthia was shocked when it ended up on several bestseller lists last month. Her agent had sent her a surprise contract, one proposing that she actively negotiate the movie rights.
She smiled as the waiter brought an older woman to her table. Cynthia immediately recognized Teresa Miller from her headshot. The longtime, well-respected journalist was in charge of the literary column for The Times.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet.” Teresa extended her hand, taking hold of Cynthia’s in firm a shake, then let go.
The pump of palms still came as a surprise to Cynthia; it had been many years since she’d performed the typical hook-and-greet that came with the territory of corporate America, and it was a routine she hadn’t missed.
“My pleasure, I’m a big fan of yours. Hard to believe I’m sitting here now.”
Teresa smiled, pulling a digital recorder out of her bag. “I hope you don’t mind. Believe it or not, it helps me get things right.”
“I can’t imagine having to get it all coordinated,” Cynthia said, smiling back at the journalist. Sitting there, she was unsure what she’d have to say that required quoting. Her life was quiet, filled with routine; a far cry from the glamorous lives of her characters.
“Perhaps we can start with why you’re reluctant to do interviews,” Teresa suggested.
Cynthia played with her straw while the journalist took out a pad and pen. “I prefer researching and writing. What can I say? I’m shy, which is a great disposition for a writer.” She bent the straw into a triangle and tossed it aside.
“Unless you’re asked to write a screenplay,” Teresa replied. “I’ve heard your work mentioned a time or two in connection with Hollywood. Is that where your interests lie?”
“I don’t know about all that. The movie industry can be fickle.” Heat inched up her neck and spread out across her face. She hadn’t imagined that there would be talk so soon about her book being made into a movie. She didn’t want to contemplate the success of what she’d written. It was easier and she preferred to contemplate what she’d hammer out next.
Teresa asked about her inspiration, where she wrote, if she had a schedule, and a number of other questions, none of which stressed her out. The columnist employed a laser focus on Cynthia as a writer.
At the conclusion of the interview, she breathed a deep sigh and shook Teresa’s hand. The journalist had kept her promise to ask no personal questions as part of the interview. Her life beyond being an author was private, and she wasn’t game for any poking or prying.
She stood, relief washing over her as she watched Teresa walk out of the pool area of the hotel and turn toward the direction of the bar.
* * *
Rob placed his camera bag up on the counter. He stopped by the hotel bar after shooting the cabanas on the far side of the pool and the newly installed landscaped beds and waterfalls with a troupe of models. His agent liked to mix it up and kept his name spinning in a wide circle. Not his cup of tea, but then again, with his pick of work assignments and this one being so close to home, he had agreed, knowing it was easy.
Next week, he’d be on the road heading to a desert location off the Sahara, where he’d be out of commission for days at a time—the way he’d preferred his life. The commercial work paid well and he dabbled in it when he could, but it was being on location, trekking around capturing unrelenting and untapped landscapes, that kept him whole. Or as complete as possible.
He set his own schedule and worked several months out of the year, broken up into weeks of intense travel. The rest of the time he taught two university courses and avoided being nagged to death by his New York gallery manager. He shot what he enjoyed and taught enthusiastic students because he wanted to share his love of photography.
“Ice water,” he ordered.
“Aren’t you Rob Graham?” Teresa asked. “You are! You did a shoot for The Times a while back, published not long ago.”
“Are you a reporter or something?”
“Journalist.” Teresa ordered a drink from the bartender.
A group of models walked by in a haze of flowing dresses. “Hey, Rob!” several called out, offering flirty waves.
One girl sauntered up to him and he moved over to give her wide berth. “You drinkin’ alone?” the model asked, running a finger over his camera case.
“Actually, I’m talking to a reporter.” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “My work schedule is hell.”
“Sure thing. Maybe next time.” The girl pushed off the bar, smiling at him.
Rob didn’t bother to watch her walk away. He returned his attention to the reporter, squinting, unable to recall her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember—”
“Oh, not me. The Times. I cover their literary column. Teresa Miller.”
He laughed at the memory. Never had he been caught in such a violent storm with miles of flat land. No cover in sight. But man, had he gotten some shots of Mother Nature in all her fury.
“Definitely recall Wyoming weather. The storms. Yeah, what a trip.” He furrowed his fingers through his hair. “Quite a time.”
She laughed. “Thunderstorms. I can only imagine. But tremendous work. And you’re working today?” She gazed at his camera bag.
“Lightning storms,” he corrected. “Today, I’m here for a fashion shoot.”
“Ah, the infamous fall spreads, huh? Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, glancing up at him.
“No. But you?”
“One is my limit.” She removed a pack of cigarettes and offered one to him.
“No thanks. Are you here on business?” He jutted his chin toward her notebook. He wasn’t up for much more give-and-take conversation and desired to down his water and make it back home to complete the photo editing.
“Poolside author interview. Cynthia Cainwright.”
Rob choked and slammed his glass down on the bar. It felt as though he’d swallowed a gallon of seawater.
She clapped him on the back. “Whoa. You all right?”
“I’m fine,” he sputtered. “Ice cube.” He straightened up and eyed the pool area. Between oiled bodies and umbrellas, he spotted her. She was wearing a dress, and her silky, dark hair danced in the breeze. When she turned and laughed, her profile was achingly lovely.
Staring at her, he felt as though he’d been struck by lightning from Wyoming. That was impossible, and then he reminded himself what he’d learned. It was myth. Lightning did, indeed, strike the same spot twice—right in the center of his chest.
Teresa chatted, but her voice grew distant as he studied Sam. Cynthia Cartwright. She turned, and then her back was to him. To him she was Sam. And Sam had moved to sit at a table under an umbrella. She leaned over, and he couldn’t see much more because a damn row of manicured shrubbery blocked his view. He had no idea what Teresa had said. His mind had a stack of his own interview questions, and he wanted answers.
“Can I get a card?” Teresa asked. “Rob? Hello?” The snap of her fingers broke him free of his mesmerized trance.
“Sorry. Sure.” He pulled out his wallet, unable to stop glancing back across the pool area.
“Well, it was nice talking with you. Here’s my card,” she said. Teresa gazed at him and then back at the pool area. “Do you know her, Cynthia Cainwright?”
“Funny, I actually started my career doing some work for World Travel. We met briefly. Years ago, but it seems like yesterday.”
“She’s interesting, and her romance books are hot right now. She’s a very private person, but she’s very pleasant.” Teresa winked.
“No doubt. I remember she was something special,” Rob murmured. “Take it easy.”
He picked up his camera bag and thought he’d walk away, just like he’d done four years ago.
Rob inhaled, but his
ribcage refused to expand. He’d regretted his decision back then. Every now and then he’d think about Sam, and wonder. But life had gone forward, not backward.
Except now, he had a choice to walk away, free and clear. Or take a chance.
He didn’t want to regret his decision for months on end as he’d done before. He gritted his teeth and scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw.
One quick hello. And then he’d be on his way. Hell, he didn’t even know she was a famous romance author worthy of an interview with The Times. After the photographs he’d taken, the article had never run. He’d later heard that she’d quit her job as a World Travel exec, but no one in the Cainwright empire had dared to lift the hushed veil that had fallen.
He’d been called on a few photo assignments by World Travel immediately after the shoot with Sam, but then he’d veered off the beaten-to-death path. He’d chosen to accept fewer assignments in order to dive into doing quality work.
After more than a few of his Tibetan and Peruvian prints had gained international notice, he’d finally garnered the means to determine what to do and when. He called the shots. Literally.
Inhaling, Rob pushed the gate open. A few feet away, Sam was overlooking the pool, sitting with her long legs crossed. She looked better than any lingerie model dressed in a pale pink dress and matching ribbon in her hair. He devoured the sight of her up close.
He found it a bit odd that she was in the area of the pool reserved for children. She swung her lovely leg, one of the pair he remembered all too well, and sipped an iced tea.
Sitting there, twisting her straw, Sam still resembled the little firecracker who screamed his name while exploding around him. No, not exactly. He took in the scene and by the way she held herself, there was something unreachable in her body language.
Oh hell, it was probably his imagination. No question, she’d become even more beautiful in the intervening years. She waved and he thought she might be with a boyfriend, or even a husband.
