by Sarah Andre
“Gretch grabbed some of the handouts,” she said quickly, pointing to the papers next to the almost empty bottle of chardonnay. “Between the discount Ashby Enterprises is offering and the places I printed out from the Internet, we’ll be fine.” Her palms began to prick, and she clasped both sides of her cool glass. It was important to sound optimistic.
“If I’d been there…I’d have marched…right up to…that corporate…know-it-all and—”
“Aunt Milly, take a deep breath—”
“That know-it-all dated Hannah,” Gretch said, followed by whooshing oxygen as Aunt Milly stared at Hannah and Hannah stared at Gretch.
“Well, God bless America,” Aunt Milly said calmly, and the banding up the back of Hannah’s neck relaxed a fraction.
“I dated him in high school. It’s not like I have any pull.” Hannah swallowed an unladylike gulp of wine and reached for the bottle.
“But you did date him, and he did invite you for a drink,” Gretch pointed out. “And you’re working for his father. Surely you have some pull somewhere.”
“He doesn’t get along with his fa—”
“You mean the Wickham boy?” Aunt Milly asked.
The bottle hovered over her glass as Hannah frowned. “I’d forgotten you’d met him.” It had been one of the first times she’d invited Devon to her house—a barbecue celebrating her aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday. The starkest memories of that day were how embarrassed she’d been by the minuscule patch of backyard, the radio wedged in the kitchen window blaring music, and the amazingly raunchy gifts Aunt Milly’s friends had given her.
“I even remember Francesca.”
Hannah glanced up, tilted bottle forgotten. It had never occurred to her to talk about Devon’s mother with Aunt Milly, but she’d worked in the gift shop at the Museum of Contemporary Art. No doubt she’d seen Harrison’s wife.
“She was very active in Chicago’s art culture.” Milly stopped for breath. “She often wandered through the shop with her two children. Spoke to all of us as if we were colleagues, which, believe me, is unusual for the rich.”
“What…” Hannah had so many questions she didn’t know where to start. “What was she like?”
“A fiery Italian beauty—”
“Italian?” Devon had never mentioned that.
“Her father was American, but she grew up in Italy. Harrison Wickham met her on a business trip to Florence.”
Hannah took a microscopic breath. “So then…you know how she died.”
“Everyone in greater Chicago back then knew how she died.” Her aunt’s voice sounded like chipped ice.
“Do you think it was suicide?” Hannah asked. The wine bottle was still hovering, but she couldn’t seem to tilt her wrist farther. Gretch, for once, remained silent and wide-eyed.
“The police ruled it a suicide. Both the Sun-Times and Tribune went along with the theory.” Milly pursed her lips as she rattled out an exhale. “No one in the gift shop believed it. She loved life…loved those two little children. They came with her often and were so well behaved.”
Devon? Behaved?
“What was he like?” Hannah asked wistfully.
“Quite an art know-it all.” When had he turned his back on it? Milly laughed at the look on Hannah’s face. “In a sweet way. And such a handsome boy, even then. The three of them were always so happy. I remember wanting to say something to him during the barbecue.”
“The Wickham boy who’d lost his mother” pretty much summed up everything. Besides being gobsmacked by his looks, it was his tragedy that had initially drawn Hannah in high school—they’d both lost a parent, although only wispy memories of her father remained. His booming laugh; clasping his bright red hair as he galloped her around the house. And after he was gone, how instinctive it was to stay quiet and still during her mother’s long, dark moods. She poured the rest of the wine into her glass. “Well, Aunt Milly, it turns out that boy is a corporate shark.”
“We’re Googling this right now,” Gretch said firmly, scooting onto the chair in front of Hannah’s computer. “Francesca Wickham, Chicago, date…?”
“Gre—”
“Ninety-five,” Aunt Milly murmured. “I’ll never forget it.”
Gretch tapped the keys. A list popped up, and Hannah, although tipsy, fortified herself with another large sip of chardonnay. There was something tasteless and macabre about searching for these gory details. Google-stalking Devon to stay connected was one thing. But probing into his theory that his mother was murdered?
“Oh my God,” Gretch whispered. “She was so beautiful.”
Hannah leaped off the sofa, wine sloshing down her hand. She crossed the room in four steps.
“Yes. She was.” Aunt Milly hauled herself laboriously to her feet. “The whole ordeal was a tragic waste. I’m off to bed, girls.”
They chorused their good-nights without turning from the archived Tribune page filling the screen. The black-and-white photo captured Francesca mid-laugh—her even, white teeth and joyous expression enchanting. There was a strong resemblance between mother and son; a stronger similarity in how, even in one dimension, their charismatic personalities almost overpowered the viewer.
“What does it say?” Hannah whispered.
Gretch scrolled down. “Francesca Ashby Wickham, thirty-four, was found dead yesterday morning by her nine-year-old son. Initial indications reveal the death was a result of a thirty-foot fall, and police believe no foul play was involved. The fatal fall was alleged to have occurred in the early hours of Saturday morning on the Wickham property. The victim was unable to be revived. Winnetka police declined to comment further. Anonymous sources close to the family say husband Harrison, CEO of Wickham Corporation, is devastated and in seclusion. Francesca leaves behind two young children.”
“Devastated and in seclusion?” Hannah’s legs were so weak, she plopped at Gretchen’s feet; wine sloshing again, chilling her fingers. Boots sauntered over and struggled to climb in her lap. “Devon is so sure that Harrison murdered her.” Her comment went unanswered as Gretch busied herself clicking the next Google link and scanning it.
“This is a week later… Medical examiner said there was no evidence of homicide…friends close to the family, all anonymous, say the marriage had been in trouble…” She clicked some more. “Ah, here… After weeks of investigation, Winnetka PD have ruled the death of Francesca Wickham a suicide. Although to date, no note has been found, police interviews with friends and staff indicate she had been unhappy over marital difficulties, and some claim she’d been contemplating divorce.”
“Choosing suicide over divorce?” Hannah asked.
“Maybe the nineties were different.”
“Not that different. Now it smacks of murder again.”
Gretch turned and swung her arm over the back of the chair. “Did he ever talk about her?”
“When we were first dating, in that exchange-of-information kind of way—I did, too, about my dad being shot during a routine traffic stop.” Hannah stroked Boots absently. “And that one time Dev showed me where he found her.” She fought the shiver. Why wouldn’t Harrison or the grandfather have built a fence along that cliff? Were the rich so arrogant they ignored safety for a pristine view?
Gretch nestled her chin on her forearm, her smile similar to Boots after a saucer of whole milk. “How did you capture that magnificent beast?”
Wine buzzed happy vibes through Hannah. “The hell if I know. I saw him the first day I transferred in, standing near his locker, laughing with a friend…so tall and handsome. So confident… I literally couldn’t feel my limbs.” She smiled to herself. “And what’s weird is he was completely unaware of this gaggle of girls walking slowly by, then finding a reason to turn and walk back. He never had a clue. What great-looking guy doesn’t know the effect he has on us?”
She glanced up at Gretch, who grinned, probably because of the dopey look on her face. “Anyway. A few weeks later, some jock was making fun of me, and
Devon took the guy down. Effortlessly. Then he looked over at me—really looked, Gretch—right into my shy, awkward soul. And I felt this…spark.” The giddiness of that moment tremored through her. She inhaled deeply. “Then I fled into the nearest bathroom and sobbed.”
“Sobbed? Sir Galahad had just rescued you.”
Hannah shrugged. She stroked Boots, who didn’t seem to mind her wine-wet palm. “I was embarrassed. Relieved. Awestruck. My reaction was to hide. He asked me out a few weeks later and—” She snapped her fingers. Boots’s tail twitched in annoyance. “We were inseparable. All ten months, he treated me like this priceless treasure. And always looked at me like that first time…like he saw me, spastic flaws and all. For a long time, I waited for the other shoe to drop.” She gestured wildly. “Why was someone so blessed—a DNA lottery winner, the richest guy in class, this super-popular, smart, genuinely funny, nice guy—going out with me?”
“You’re an idiot if you have to ask that.”
“Gretch, I’m still your boss.” Hannah giggled, because Gretch totally ran the show with her ex-personal trainer enthusiasm and iron hand. Yep, way too much wine on an empty stomach.
“Good lover?”
“So far no one’s come close.” Hannah blushed, grinning. “Actually, in any category. Making me feel special, wanted, unconditionally loved. I’ve never felt that spark with another guy. I’ll go to my grave knowing Devon was my soul mate.”
“You should have gone for that drink.”
The grin died. “I know.”
Gretch turned back to the computer and read in silence while Hannah stretched out on the carpet with an exhausted grunt. Boots realigned his obese body against her torso, immediately purring his contentment. The soothing sound and rumbling warmth were like invisible massage fingers, and as her muscles unwound, she closed her eyes.
Up popped snapshot moments of exquisite happiness with Devon lounging across the wrought-iron table, etched grooves bracketing that smiling mouth, muscles rippling every time he moved, his expression captivated despite her chattering about nothing.
She’d only ever known that tender side of Devon. This other Devon, who’d spat condo options into a mic, was a stranger. What had happened in New York to close that gentle side off from the world?
Chapter 14
“We’re ready to go, sir,” the pilot said, and Devon nodded his acknowledgment. He tossed back the rest of the Crown Royal, set the crystal glass in the deep cup holder, and sank into the butter-smooth leather headrest. Seconds later, the jet rolled down the tarmac.
Maybe it was the burning whisky or the fact that he was leaving the worst of his day behind, but as the Gulfstream taxied, his spirits lifted, and by the time it soared in the air, his confidence was restored. He’d meet Westcott for breakfast and convince him not to sell his shares, even if he had to bluff or outright lie. He’d make up with Nicole the second he got home tonight, and together they’d arrange dinner for her family tomorrow. Their united front would prove he was much more suited to marry Nicole than that suck-up Jason Deel. End of nightmarish week.
Outside the window, the downtown lights shrunk to microscopic dots. Such a beautiful city, but Chicago meant Harrison, and being around the old man brought out a hateful side of Devon—a side that even on his worst day in Manhattan, he didn’t recognize. Eric would have to take over the Rogers Park project; Devon was never setting foot in this city or that damn house again, no matter what.
Turning from the vanishing skyline, he grabbed the heavy decanter and poured himself another Crown. You ran off so you wouldn’t end up like Father. But guess what? That’s exactly who you’ve turned into. It’s all about money and power. Business over family. Shit, that still hurt. Was Frannie right?
No! There was not one aspect of Harrison he liked or respected, especially the cutthroat boardroom tactics and laying waste to honest, hardworking people.
So tossing people out is just business? A vision of Hannah’s shell-shocked face filled his mind, and he tried to drown it with half the whisky. He wasn’t like Harrison, goddamn it! The Rogers Park project was an upscale, multi-use development that would benefit the city and its people.
Shit, the line sounded smarmy even to him. Hannah must hate his guts. I hope you find happiness, Dev. What kind of remark was that? All he wanted was an orderly, efficient life. No gooey feelings and trip-hammering pulses. Hannah needed to stay in his past, in an adolescent time where love meant everything.
He rubbed his eyelids hard, fighting the lingering headache and the way his thoughts still stuck on her like some annoying advertising jingle. Fuck it. He finished off the whisky and checked his email, texting replies until his eyelids felt like ten-ton boulders. He’d had a total of four hours of sleep in the last two days. Dozing the last hour home was more important than this request from a Houston marketing director to fire a slacker named Tim Barnaby.
Grudgingly, he slipped off his seat belt, too tired to even hit the head, but nature called. He swung the door open mid-yawn.
“Hi, Uncle Devon.”
His heart stopped. When it started again, it thundered in his ears. “Holy shit.” He stared at the boy sitting casually on top of the toilet lid, playing some PSP game and looking suspiciously delighted with himself.
“Holy shit,” he said again, because that was the only thought still screaming through his brain. He mentally slapped himself and inhaled a gallon of oxygen. “What are you doing here?”
“I took your advice and did what I wanted to do, instead of always doing what other people want all the time.”
Devon swallowed dust. “I don’t think I said that.” He was vaguely surprised his tone sounded so offhand, because his now very alert brain was stuck in primal scream mode. So loud and persistent, in fact, that he couldn’t problem-solve this.
The boy thumbed a couple of buttons, stood, and stuck the device in his back pocket. “I’m kinda thirsty.”
“How long have you been in there?”
“Dunno. Awhile.”
Devon stood aside, and his nephew headed down the aisle and chose a seat. The plush, spacious club chair was meant for beefy business types, and Todd seemed to drown in the vastness, reminding Devon, just in case he’d forgotten, that he had a child on board.
He snapped the tab on a Coke and handed it to the boy, then eyed the decanter of Crown wistfully. He needed a clear head. With a grunt, he threw himself in the opposite chair. “How did you get on board?” If the pilot had anything to do with this, there’d be hell to pay. As in: lawsuit hell.
“I did what you did. Told Mom I was going to my room, then snuck out and drove Grandfather’s Bentley.” Todd’s beam held such blatant pride that despite himself, Devon’s mouth quirked up.
“You drove? By yourself?”
“Sure. My dad’s let me drive a couple of times.”
“All the way to the airport?” Todd blushed. Even barely knowing his nephew, Devon’s stomach lurched at the thought. Thank God the little airport was all surface streets from Winnetka, not the freeway. “Go on,” he said gently. “What happened after you got there?”
“I watched the pilot walk around the plane a couple of times and check some stuff on a clipboard, and when he went into the building, I just climbed in.”
As the shock passed, a tiny part of Devon gave his nephew kudos for having the balls to pull this off. It sure as hell beat any of his stunts. But once that thought flitted past, Devon nailed him with his boardroom stare. “Did you leave a note for your mom?” Todd shook his head, and Devon’s gut flip-flopped expensive whisky. “Why not? She’s probably worried sick.”
“I was afraid she’d find it, and come and get me before we took off.”
Devon rubbed his eyelids, hard. Maybe there was aspirin in the john. “Well, here’s the bad news: you’re in—we are in a lot of trouble.” He took out his cell phone. The battery was low, but he could get in one fast call.
“I don’t want to go back! I want to stay with you.”<
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How did parents deal with outbursts like this? Devon fumbled around in his mind for words, and finally went for frank honesty. “You can’t stay with me, Todd. You’re a kid. You’re Francine’s kid. I can’t take care of you.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘why not’?” He couldn’t imagine the albatross of someone depending on him.
“I won’t be much trouble, I swear. We get along, and I’m happy when I’m around you. My parents”—Todd spread his hands—“all they do is yell…at me, at each other. Maybe if I left, they’d get along. At least they’d stop arguing over me all the time.”
Christ, the kid was blaming himself for the custody fight. “Todd, I’m sorry. I wish I could.”
The boy teared up, and he swallowed hard a few times. “It’s just that, well, there’s another reason I can’t go back.”
Fucking Christ. “What?”
Another gulp. “I—I’m the one who started the fire.”
Devon squinted at the boy. Could the searing pain behind his eye be a stroke?
“It was an accident, I swear! I can’t go back, don’t you see? Grandfather’s bound to find out. I want to puke every time I see the arson guy wandering around upstairs.” The Coke can trembled in his hands. “I’ll be in so much trouble.”
Devon leaned his elbows on his knees, which put him at Todd’s height. He forced his expression to remain calm. “What happened?”
Todd sniffed. “I was, you know, trying to figure out how to smoke.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Yes. But Grandfather’s going to kill me.”
As Devon gazed into the boy’s pleading eyes, pity surged through him. He remembered the horror of anticipating Harrison’s wrath like it was yesterday. But apparently Joseph was being fingered for the fire, and if Devon could do nothing else to fix the chaos of his visit, he could do this. “All right, look. We’re almost to New York. How about if you stay the weekend, but that’s all. And when you get home, the first thing you do is face your grandfather like a man and tell the truth.”
