by Meg Maxwell
He stepped closer. “Your mother told my father a bunch of nonsense about the second great love of his life, and now he’s traveling all over Texas to find this woman. I’d appreciate it if you could put an end to this...ridiculousness.”
Oh, boy.
“Mr....” she began, stalling.
“My name is Carson Ford.”
Olivia knew that name. Well, not Carson, but Ford. Her mother had mentioned a Ford. Edward or something like that.
“My father is Edmund Ford,” he said, lowering his voice. “Suffice it to say he’s a bigwig at Texas Trust here in Blue Gulch. He’s also a vulnerable widower. Your mother told him that his second great love is a hairstylist named Sarah with green eyes. He’s now racing around to every hair salon in the county asking for Sarahs with green eyes. People are going to think he’s nuts. He’s had seven haircuts in the past two weeks.”
Oliva froze. Hair salon. Sarah. Green eyes. That could only be one person.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “She filled you in on this scam?”
Olivia bit her lip. Her aunt, her mother’s sister who’d gotten into a terrible argument with Miranda five years ago and hadn’t been seen or heard from since, was named Sarah. And a hairstylist. With green eyes.
What the heck was this? Oh, Mom, what did you do?
He waited for her to respond, but when she didn’t, he said, “Look, will you please talk some sense into my father? Explain that your mother ran a good game, a scam, fed people what they wanted to hear for lots of money. My father can go back to his normal life and I can focus on my own. This is interfering with my job and people are counting on me.”
She felt herself bristle at the word scam, but she ignored it. For now. “What is your job?” She hadn’t meant to ask that, but it came tumbling out of her mouth.
“I’m a private investigator. I specialize in finding people who don’t want to be found—mostly of the criminal and/or fraudulent variety,” he added with emphasis.
She stepped back, not expecting that. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say he did for a living, but private investigator wasn’t it. Actually, she’d been thinking lawyer. Shark, at that.
She herself had thought about hiring a private investigator to find her aunt when her own online searches had led nowhere. Suffice it to say, to use his own phrase, that Carson Ford would not be interested in helping to locate this particular Sarah. “My mother is not a criminal or a fraud.” And she’s gone, she thought, her heart pinching.
He didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at her as if waiting for her to give something away with her expression, catch her in a lie. This man clearly also paid attention to people; it was his job to do so. She would have to be careful around him.
Wait a minute. No, she did not. Her mother’s business was her mother’s business. Olivia had no secrets, nothing to hide about Miranda Mack.
Her mother’s face, her dark hair wound into an elegant topknot affixed with two rhinestone-dotted sticks, her fair complexion, her long, elegant nose, her penchant for iridescent silver jewelry and long filmy scarves all came to mind. Olivia ached for the sight of Miranda. What she would give for one more day with her mother, another hug.
Despite their differences, Olivia missed her mother so much that tears crept up on her constantly. In the middle of the night. When she was brushing her teeth. While she was making her mother’s favorite meal, pasta carbonara with its cream and pancetta, the only thing that could comfort Olivia lately when grief seized her. And guilt. For how Olivia had always dismissed her mother’s surety that Olivia had a gift. Or that Miranda, the most sought-after fortune-teller in town—in the county—had had a gift, either. A crystal ball and some floaty scarves and deep red lipstick and suddenly her mother turned into Madam Miranda behind garnet velvet curtains. People liked the shtick, her mother had insisted. Olivia would say that three quarters of the town’s residents believed that Miranda had been the real deal. A quarter had rolled their eyes. Olivia was mostly in the latter camp with a pinkie toe in the former. How to make sense of all her mother’s predictions coming true?
Like the one about Olivia’s own broken heart. A proposal that would never come from her long-term boyfriend. He’s not the one, Miranda had insisted time and again, shaking her head.
“My mother passed away six weeks ago,” Olivia said, her own blindness, her losses and this man’s criticism all ganging up on her. “I won’t stand for you to disparage her.”
His expression softened. “I did hear about her death. I am very sorry for your loss.”
She could tell that part was sincere, at least.
And she’d been right, she thought as she glanced at him. He was worried about a relative. His father.
He cleared his throat. “My father is expecting me for dinner tonight at his house. If you could come and talk some sense into him, I’d appreciate it.”
What? No. No. No. He was inviting her to dinner at his father’s house? To talk the man out of looking for this second great love? Who, according to Miranda, was very likely Olivia’s aunt.
A woman her mother had been estranged from for five years. Had her mother “known” that this prediction would lead the man’s son, a private investigator, to get huffy and intervene? That it would bring Sarah Mack home? If it brought Aunt Sarah home.
Olivia had never known her mother to do anything for her own gain. Never. If Miranda had told Edmund Ford that his second true love was a hairstylist named Sarah with green eyes, then her mother absolutely believed that to be true. Aunt Sarah or no Aunt Sarah.
“I—I...” She had no idea how to get out of this, or what she could possibly say anything to his father about his fortune. “My mother believed in her gift. Her fortunes came true eighty-five percent of the time.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know all about the power of suggestion.”
So did Olivia. And she also knew how badly her mother wanted Olivia to find Aunt Sarah. On the day of her death, Miranda had told Olivia she’d written a letter to her sister and that it was her dying wish that Olivia give it to Sarah along with a family heirloom, a bracelet passed down from their mother. Over the past six weeks, Olivia had tried to find Sarah by doing internet searches, but all her leads were for the wrong Sarah Mack. She’d even searched for Sarah Macks in hair salons in the surrounding counties and had come up empty, too. No wonder Edmund Ford hadn’t been able to find her. No one could.
Maybe she should tell Carson Ford he didn’t have to worry, that it was doubtful his father would ever find his “second great love.”
“I’m surprised your father hasn’t asked you to find her,” Olivia said, wiping down the window counter. “I mean, there must be hundreds of green-eyed hairstylists named Sarah in the state of Texas. No last name, nothing else to go on?” she asked, fishing. It was possible that Edmund Ford’s second great love wasn’t Sarah Mack. There likely were hundreds of green-eyed hairstylists named Sarah in Texas.
He stepped closer to the window, bracing his hands on the sides of the wooden counter. “First of all, my father did ask me to help. But come on. How would trying to find this woman actually help my father? It’s a wild-goose chase and nonsense. Second of all—” He stopped, as if realizing he was about to disclose personal family business to a stranger. He cleared his throat again. “There was one more thing,” he added. “My father asked your mother how he’d know for sure which green-eyed hairstylist named Sarah was his predicted love. Your mother said he would know her instantly, but that she would have a small tattoo of a hairbrush and blow-dryer on her ankle.”
So much for the possibility that Miranda hadn’t been talking about Sarah Mack. Olivia was twelve when her aunt had gotten that tattoo. The brush was silver and the blow-dryer hot pink, Aunt Sarah’s favorite color.
“I’m not sure what I could possibly do or say to
help you, Carson. I’m not a fortune-teller. I don’t know how my mother’s ability worked. If she said that his great love was this green-eyed tattooed hairstylist named Sarah, then she truly believed it. And like I said, her predictions were right most of the time.”
He grimaced. “Oh, please. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe any of it.”
Olivia didn’t want to, either. But evidence was walking around all over town in the form of couples her mother had brought together or people who’d changed their lives because of what Miranda had predicted. “She was responsible for over three hundred marriages. She directed people to their passions, stopped them from making mistakes. Sometimes they listened, sometimes the heart wants what it wants even when a fortune-teller says it won’t happen.”
He scowled, then pulled out a checkbook from an inside pocket. “I’ll pay you for your time. One hour, two tops, for you to talk some sense into my father. Five thousand ought to do it.”
Five thousand dollars. Man, she could use that money. And she felt for Carson, she really did. “It’s not about the money, Carson. It wasn’t for my mother, either. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but it’s true.”
He put away the checkbook. He tilted his head back, frustration and worry etched on his handsome face. She could feel it all over him, swirling in the air between them. “Please,” he said. “My father hasn’t been the same since my mother died five years ago. He’s so...vulnerable. I know he’s terribly lonely. I don’t know what made him seek out your mother—if he sought out your mother—”
“My mom didn’t lure clients to her,” Olivia said gently. “She didn’t need to. She had an excellent reputation. People came to her.”
He scowled. “Edmund Ford would not go walking into some fortune-teller’s little velvet-curtained room. He must have been led by something or fed some lies. Your mother ensnared him and then filled his head with nonsense. I can only imagine how much he paid her. My father, as I’m sure you know, is a very wealthy man. Making fraudulent claims, taking money from vulnerable people—that is against the law.”
Anger boiled in Olivia’s belly. “My mother was not a criminal! How dare you imply—”
“Dada!”
Olivia stuck her head farther out the window at the sound of the little voice. She watched a toddler, no older than two, run to Carson, who kneeled down, his arms wide, a big smile suddenly on the man’s face. All traces of his anger were gone.
He wrapped the child in his arms and scooped him up. The little boy pointed at a picture on the food truck’s menu, probably one of the cannoli.
“I have cookies for you at home,” Carson said, giving him a kiss on his cheek.
A woman in her fifties, who Olivia recognized from around town, approached wheeling a stroller, and Carson smiled at her. “I’ll take him from here,” he told her. “Thanks for taking such good care of him, as always.”
“My pleasure, Carson,” she said. “I’m happy to babysit for as long as you’re in town. See you tomorrow, sweetie,” she added to the little boy, ruffling his hair before turning to walk away.
“Bye!” the boy called and waved.
“Your son?” Olivia asked, noting that Carson wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She smiled at the adorable child. “He looks just like you.”
He nodded. “He’s eighteen months old. Daniel is his name. Danny for short.”
She wondered where Danny’s mother was. Was Carson divorced? Widowed? Never married the little one’s mother? It was possible. Olivia’s mother hadn’t married Olivia’s father or anyone else. Her aunt Sarah had never married. Now Olivia was following in the family tradition.
Danny tilted his head, his big hazel eyes on his father. “Chih-chih tates?”
Carson smiled and pulled an insulated snack bag from the stroller basket. He unzipped it and handed the boy a cheddar cheese stick. “How about some cheese for now and then yes, in just a couple of hours we’ll be going to Granddaddy’s house for your favorite—roast chicken and potatoes with gravy.” He glanced at Olivia. “Chih-chih tates is toddler speak for chicken and potatoes.”
Danny grinned and munched his cheese stick. The boy was so cute that Olivia wanted to sweetly pinch his big cheeks.
Carson put the snack bag away and shifted the toddler in his arm. “One hundred Thornton Lane,” he said to Olivia. “Six thirty. Please come. Please,” he added, his eyes a combination of intensity, pleading, worry and hope.
Yes, please come and talk my father out of finding the woman he’s meant to be with, the very woman Olivia had been searching for six weeks so she could fulfill her promise to her mother.
Oh, heck, she thought. What was she supposed to do? She wasn’t about to tell the Fords that the woman in question was her aunt. But how could she not? And she certainly did understand Carson’s concern for his dad. But what if her mother was right about Edmund and Sarah?
What if, what if, what if. The story of Olivia’s life.
Not that Carson was waiting for an answer. He was already heading down the street, holding the toddler in one arm, pushing the stroller with the other. The boy’s own little arms were wrapped around Carson’s neck. His son sure loved him. That feeling swirled inside Olivia so strongly it obliterated all other thought.
Six thirty. One hundred Thornton Lane. She knew the house. A mansion on a hill you could see from anywhere on Blue Gulch Street. At night the majestic house was lit up and occasionally you could catch the thoroughbreds galloping or grazing in their acres of pasture. Sometimes over the past few weeks, when Olivia felt at her lowest, missing her mother so much her heart clenched, she’d look up at the lights of One Hundred Thornton and feel comforted somehow, as though it was a beacon, the permanence of the grand house high on the hill soothing her.
She didn’t know what she could possibly say to Edmund Ford that his tightly wound, handsome son would approve of. But at least Olivia knew what she was doing for dinner tonight.
Chapter Two
Carson stood by the open window in his father’s family room, watching his dad and Danny in the backyard. Fifty-four-year-old Edmund Ford held the toddler in his arms and was pointing out two squirrels chasing each other up and down the huge oak. Carson smiled at the sight of his son laughing so hard.
“Let’s pretend we’re squirrels and chase each other around the yard,” Edmund said, setting Danny down. “You can’t catch me!” he added, running ahead at a toddler’s pace, which couldn’t be easy for the six-two man.
“Catch!” Danny yelled, giggling.
Edmund let his back leg linger for a moment until Danny latched on. “You got me! You’re the fastest squirrel in his yard.”
“Me!” Danny shouted, racing around with his hands up.
Edmund scooped him up and put him on his shoulders, and they headed over to the oak again. Danny pointed at the squirrels sitting on a branch and nibbling acorns. Carson could hear his dad telling Danny that the squirrels were a grandpa and grandson, just like them.
Who was this man and what had he done with Carson’s father? Carson’s earliest memories involved watching his father leave the house, his father’s empty chair and place setting at the dinner table, his father not making it to birthday parties or graduations or special events. He’d been a workaholic banker and nothing had been more important than “the office.” Not Carson, not his mother, not even his mother’s terminal diagnosis of cancer five years ago, leaving them just four months with her. But then came the moment she’d drawn her last breath, and Edmund Ford had been shaken.
I didn’t tell her I loved her this morning, his father had said that day they’d lost her, his face contorted with grief and regret. I always thought there was later, another day. I didn’t tell her I loved her today.
Tears had stung Carson’s eyes and he gripped his father in a hug. She knew anyway, Dad, he’d
said. She always knew.
Which was true. Every time Edmund Ford disappointed them, his mother would say, Your father loves us very much. We’re his world. Never doubt that, no matter what.
Carson had grown up doubting that. But since his mother died, his father had changed into someone Carson barely recognized. Edmund Ford had started calling to check in a few times a week. He’d drop by Carson’s office for an impromptu lunch. He’d get tickets to the Rangers or the rodeo. But instead of Carson’s old longing for his dad to be present in his life, Carson had felt...uncomfortable. He barely knew his father, and this new guy was someone Carson didn’t know at all. Suddenly it was Carson putting up the wall, putting up the boundaries.
Then Danny was born, and Edmund had become grandfather of the year. The man insisted on weekly family dinners with Carson and Danny, making a fuss over every baby tooth that sprouted up, new words, a quarter inch of height marked on the wall. And yes, Carson was glad his son had a loving grandfather in his life. But Carson couldn’t seem to reconcile it with the man he’d known his entire life.
The first week of Danny’s life, when his now ex-wife, Jodie, had still been around, they’d both been shocked when Edmund Ford had come to the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit every single day, to sit beside his bassinet and read Dr. Seuss to him, sing an old ranch tune, demand information from the doctors in his imperious tone.
“Grandparenting is different from being a parent,” Jodie would say with a shrug when Carson expressed his shock over his dad’s suddenly interest in family.
She must have been right because by the end of Danny’s first week, she was gone, with apologies and “you knew I was like this when you married me,” and his father was there. And everything that seemed normal about the world had shifted.
