by Jamie Beck
“Sounds good,” he said, keeping Colt to himself. Seeing him hold Colt that way made Gentry wish he were her son’s father. He cast a quick glance at Gentry, but she couldn’t read his sober expression.
Along the route to Hunter’s office, she passed through a hallway of photographs and memorabilia. A framed finger painting by Ty. Hunter and Sara at their UC Berkeley graduation ceremony. A gorgeous wedding photo from the Sonoma vineyard where they’d been married. Her brother and his wife had a real grown-up life and family, while she straggled behind, trying to catch up after years of misspent youth, an unplanned pregnancy, and little example of how to be a good mom.
She stood in the hall outside Hunter’s office, hand on the wall, drawing deep breaths.
“Gentry, is that you?” he called out, having probably heard her footsteps.
“Yep.” She found her brother seated behind his massive, neat mahogany desk. A manila envelope lay on its edge, close to the leather chair to which he gestured for her to sit. “Would you like me to stay or go?”
She pressed her body deep into the back of the chair, her hands gripping the arms like she’d done whenever she’d been sent to the headmaster’s office. “Just tell me . . . good news or bad?”
He removed his glasses and set them on the desktop and then rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t look. This is your life, Gentry. You should be the first to read this. You can take it home to review privately, or open it now if you want to lean on me.”
Given what had transpired with Ian, it might be more considerate to lean on Hunter.
“Thanks.” She set the paper land mine on her lap, breath held and body still as if that would prevent its detonation. Hunter pushed back from his desk and started to rise, but she gestured for him to sit. “Stay, please.”
“Of course.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, hands clasped together, a study in discipline. Something she should try to learn before too long.
Gentry swallowed the hard lump in her throat as she slid her finger along the envelope’s edge. Inside, she retrieved a one-page, single-spaced fact sheet and two photographs. She squinted at the man in the picture first, noting his glossy black hair and square jaw. A memory of Smith played: him handing her another drink and pushing a room key across the fire pit table. The smell of his cologne—suddenly sharp and vivid—filled her nostrils.
She glanced at the memo, her mouth pasty and sour. Peter Smith.
Peter. A prim name for a man who’d been anything but. And now she could choose to tell him he was a father. She kept her eyes on the photo, partly to avoid her brother’s gaze.
Her heart swelled with fear, pushing against her lungs to the point where it almost hurt to catch her breath. She looked up, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, unable to collect the thoughts that were buzzing around like flies at a picnic. Then she noticed the photograph of Hunter and his son, Ty, on his credenza. Father and son.
Her son deserved that, too, didn’t he? Wasn’t that the whole point of this search?
She forced her eyes back to the memo and tried to concentrate on key bits of information. San Francisco. Master sommelier. Thirty-three. Unmarried. One sister. Two nieces. Widower father. No bankruptcy. No criminal record.
“Gentry?” Hunter’s disembodied voice made her look up. “Well?”
“It’s definitely him.” She studied the photo again. Handsome as she recalled. A Justin Timberlake smile that matched the playful personality she remembered. Smith—Peter—had been like her. Laughed easily. Poked fun. Played. On the surface, she and Smith appeared to be as well matched as Colby and Alec. Then Gentry thought of Ian, and her chest ached.
But Ian was leaving. He’d never pretended, not for one second, that he wouldn’t complete his mission in Haiti. Honestly, McJ didn’t seem to want the kind of life Gentry hoped to create for herself and her son. Although Ian’s influence encouraged Gentry to develop a bigger social conscience, she still wanted to enjoy her lucky accident of birth without constant guilt and disdain.
She pushed the photograph and paper toward her brother. “There aren’t any red flags.”
Hunter scanned the memo. “He might know Alec!”
“What?”
“They attended the same culinary institute in New York. He’s a bit younger, but they might’ve crossed paths.” Hunter’s intense gaze switched to the photographs. “God, he looks like Colt, doesn’t he?”
Gentry nodded. That had not been a surprise.
“Guess we know why he was in Napa.” Hunter continued talking, but Gentry wasn’t listening.
Peter Smith, the sommelier from San Francisco. Her mind went back to that sultry late-summer evening in Napa. Her friend, Erica, had been struck by a migraine and gone back to their room at the Carneros Resort, but Gentry had wanted to enjoy the night and another Lavender Lemonade cocktail at its FARM restaurant.
She’d taken a seat by the large fire pit in the covered outdoor area when she’d locked eyes with one of the most classically handsome men she’d ever seen. Usually she went for guys with a little more artsy flair. More hair. Tattoos. Rebels with odd taste in clothes. But fresh off a brief relationship with a cynical hipster, something about Smith’s tailored clothing and cropped hair had appealed.
“You look like you need some company.” He smiled, standing by the empty chair to her left.
“Only if that company is fun.” She sipped her second cocktail, noting the vodka buzz starting to hum in her legs. “Are you fun?”
He gestured to the empty seat, a question in his bright blue eyes. When she nodded, he sat beside her. “My friends think so.”
“Are they here to vouch for you?”
“Not at the moment, no.” He pushed back the cuffs of his sleeves, revealing toned forearms. “Give me a few minutes to prove myself. I can’t be worse company than none at all.”
“I don’t know. I’m usually fine on my own.”
“Humor me and play along.” He raised his hand to call a waiter. “I’ll have a Smoked Cherry Manhattan, and she’ll have another . . .”
“Lavender Lemonade,” she supplied. The waiter nodded and left them alone.
“You like it sweet.” When he stretched his arms along his chair’s arms, she noticed his elegant hands. Long fingers. Not hairy. One silver ring on his right pinkie finger. A sign of individuality amid an otherwise strictly Brooks Brothers look.
“I like all kinds of things.” A sexual buzz now mingled with the alcohol.
He chuckled. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
Beautiful. Good start. “Let’s play a game. No real names. Call me Artemis.”
“Goddess of the hunt?” He shook her hand, winking. He had really nice hands. “Call me Smith.”
“So, Smith, do you like other games?”
“Depends on what kind you have in mind.”
Gentry leaned closer, like an old friend sharing a secret. “How about the role-playing kind?”
His brows rose, and he glanced around with a nervous chuckle. He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Am I about to be the butt of a joke?”
“Nope.” She raised her right hand. “I swear.”
His gaze roamed her bare legs and low-cut silver shimmer dress. “Who do you want me to be?”
“I’m not sure yet. Any suggestions?”
That night, Gentry had laughed at the absurdity of him picking such a bland nickname, having had no idea it was, in fact, his name—or part of it, anyway.
“Gentry,” Hunter said, his tone making clear it was at least the second time he’d tried to get her attention.
“Sorry, I was just remembering.” Her cheeks warmed.
“Good memories?” He seemed to be holding his breath, and she suspected he didn’t want details.
She couldn’t lie. “Yes, actually.”
“Well, based on this, I don’t see any reason not to contact him.” He pushed the papers aside. “When will you call him?”
The reality set in . . .
“I
don’t know. Maybe I’ll e-mail.” Bile surged up her throat. “God, he’s going to be pretty freaked out. What if he doesn’t remember me?”
Hunter grimaced. “I’m sure he will. Wild one-night stands with strangers and fake names aren’t exactly the kind of thing guys forget.”
“Because you have so much experience,” she replied, knowing Hunter had fallen for Sara at twenty and never once strayed.
“I know a lot of guys and hear my fair share of locker-room talk. Trust me, he’ll remember you.” Censure colored his tone.
She thought about the afternoon and Ian’s kiss. She wished this news about Smith had come tomorrow, or next week, or next month.
“What’s wrong?” Hunter came around his desk and took the chair beside her, holding her hand. He also had rather elegant hands. Maybe Smith would be reliable and strong, like her brother. “I thought you wanted this for Colt.”
“I do.” Despite the attraction she and Ian shared, she was the last person who’d convince him that a life here in Oregon could be as rewarding as his plans for Haiti. Hell, she hadn’t even convinced him to share her bedroom. Talk about humbling truths. At the end of the day, she had nothing that Ian truly needed to be happy. “This is good news for Colt.”
“It’s still scary, uncharted territory.” He released her hands. “How can I help?”
“You can’t. It’s all on me. I’ll figure it out . . . soon.”
He rubbed her back. “It’ll be okay. You don’t need this guy for anything, so that’s a plus. If he wants a relationship with his son, you’ll be in the driver’s seat. He’s not on the birth certificate, and he lives hundreds of miles away.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” A moment of panic fired off another round of stomach acid. “What if I have to share custody?”
Hunter’s protectiveness surged, lighting his intense hazel eyes. “We can throw this folder in the trash right now, Gentry. I haven’t told Dad or anyone, other than Sara.”
She had an out. If Hunter promised, she knew he’d take the secret to his grave. But this kind of secret would corrode her relationship with Colt over time, even if he never knew why.
“I can’t do that to Colt.” She’d spent a lifetime picking on every one of her mother’s failings, but even Jenna had never lied to her. “I started this. Now I have to see it through.”
“Okay.” He scratched his forehead, looking almost sheepish, which was never something she saw before. “You know, I still worry that some distant family member of Ty’s will show up on our doorstep. But when you do what’s right, you have to trust that love wins the day. Loving Colt—putting his needs over yours—will never steer you wrong.”
“Thanks.” She stood, taking the papers from his desk. “Guess I’d better get home and draft a message.”
“Photos will help.” Hunter stood, too. “Smith won’t have any doubts when he sees Colt’s face.”
“Good point.” She certainly had hundreds to choose from. Ever since the photography classes she’d taken in college, the camera had been her refuge. A way of seeing people from a different vantage point. Of capturing the scraps of joy and contemplation, of sorrow and even anger, which all looked so similar despite everyone’s differences.
Hunter followed her to the family room, where Sara was with the boys: Colt in her arms, Ty on the floor with a wooden toy truck. Through the room’s windows, Gentry saw Ian on his phone, one finger in his ear, face pinched with the strain of hearing the caller.
“So?” Sara asked. “Are we happy with what we’ve learned?”
Hunter put his arm around Gentry’s shoulder. “He seems like a decent guy.”
“Then why does Gentry look like she’s going to be sick?” Sara asked her husband, but kept her eyes locked with Gentry’s.
“It’s a lot to process.” Gentry sneaked another peek at Ian, whose worried frown temporarily distracted her from her own concerns. She sighed, suddenly exhausted from the day’s events. All she wanted to do was snuggle with her son. “Why is doing the right thing always so much harder than being selfish?”
Sara and Hunter both laughed, and her brother hugged her harder while saying, “On the upside, you feel good after doing the right thing, even when it’s hard.”
“We’ll see.” Gentry grimaced. “My old way of life felt pretty good compared with now.”
Sara’s tight smile proved she doubted the truth of that statement. In any case, it seemed that she picked up on a need to change the subject.
“Colt’s colic is still pretty bad. I wonder if he has reflux? Maybe you should ask the doctor.”
Gentry didn’t have the energy to fend off Sara’s advice. Last time, Sara’s concerns had been validated, which also made Gentry a little gun-shy about arguing. But surely Dr. Evans would’ve thought to test for that by now if it were a real possibility. “Maybe.”
Sara kissed Colt’s head and then handed him to Hunter for a goodbye hug. She turned to Gentry, face glowing. “I let Ty hold him for a minute. Don’t worry, though. They were safe on that chair while I knelt in front of them. They’re adorable together. Ian snapped a picture with his phone.”
Gentry crouched beside Ty to give him a hug, grateful that her son would have this bond throughout his life. Love wouldn’t steer her wrong, she told herself again. “You’re such a good big cousin.”
He squirmed until she released him, which made her smile. He might not be of Hunter’s blood, but he was just as stiff. And with all of Sara’s rules, his only chance of freedom would be sleepovers at Aunt Gentry’s house.
“Pumpkin, go color for a minute.” Sara pointed Ty toward a coloring book left open on the coffee table. When he wandered off, she resumed her conversation with Gentry. “Ian was telling me about your day. Sounds helpful and . . . inventive.”
Gentry failed to catch Ian’s attention. He’d stopped pacing but remained on the phone.
“It was a great day until Hunter called,” Gentry admitted.
“Ian said something along those lines, too.” Sara bumped shoulders with Gentry. “Maybe my matchmaking wasn’t so far off base after all.”
Gentry had risked as much vulnerability as she could stomach in one day. She couldn’t let anyone think she’d be pining for Ian once he left, either. “He’s moving to Haiti soon. Not exactly an ideal boyfriend.”
“You never know what might happen in the future. He won’t live there forever.”
Given how difficult it had been for Ian to share the story of his father’s death, Gentry didn’t think she should tell Sara about the guilt Ian felt, however absurd. That left her unable to explain why Ian could be there for quite some time. Even if he didn’t spend his life in Haiti, there’d always be another crisis somewhere in the world.
“I won’t pin my hopes on a maybe. Besides, Smith might come to town, and who knows what that’ll mean for all of us.” She felt a frown form; then Ian came inside. He nodded at Hunter and stood by the sofa, hands restlessly tapping against its back, gaze darting around as if searching for an answer he couldn’t find.
Gentry reached for Colt, who’d been surprisingly calm in her brother’s arms. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”
“Okay.” Hunter handed him over like he was made of fine porcelain. He gave her a kiss. “Call me if you need anything.”
He then shook Ian’s hand, and the two of them exchanged pleasantries for a moment while Sara retrieved Colt’s diaper bag.
Outside, Ian helped Gentry reload the car. She waited for him to ask her questions, but he didn’t. Whatever his call had been about consumed him. She decided not to push for information, but his lack of interest in Smith simmered. They drove the mile to her condo in silence, and unpacked the car without a word, too.
Inside, she dropped the diaper bag on the floor and laid Colt in his playpen.
“I’ll leave you alone for a while,” Ian said, starting up the stairs, barely looking at her.
Gentry called out, “Are you mad at me, or is there some
other reason for the silent treatment?”
He stopped on the third tread and glanced at the photos on the wall. Reminders of the direction Gentry’s life was taking, which in no way fit in with his plans. Plans that foundered while he lived here in luxury. The fact he’d so quickly succumbed to comfort clawed at him, especially after speaking with Archer. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “You’ve got a lot to sort through. I don’t want to pry.”
“A lot has happened today.” She nodded to the sofa, where they’d made love not long ago. “I know we both suck at this, but maybe we should talk about how we feel.”
Weeks ago the idea of suburban life had seemed ill-suited to him, but his feelings had softened. He might’ve dragged out his return to Haiti for a few more weeks absent the discovery of Smith or the phone call he’d just received.
Caring for Colt had given him a special purpose and, together with Gentry, lulled him into a sense of belonging. A glimpse at the kind of family life he’d never known.
But this wasn’t his family. Another man fathered the beautiful boy staring at Ian from the photo gallery. One who’d be arriving all too soon.
“Gentry . . . ,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood right now.”
“What was that call you got at my brother’s?” Gentry’s hands were now on her hips.
“Nothing that involves you.”
“Fine.” She marched across the entry to the bottom of the stairwell, her cheeks as red as if he’d slapped her. “Don’t you want to know anything about Smith . . . Peter?”
Peter Smith. Gentry and Peter. Colton Cabot Smith. Each iteration turned his stomach. “Not particularly.”
“I thought you cared about Colt and me.” Her words came at him like darts.
“I do.” Hadn’t he made that rather obvious this afternoon? He’d never look at her or the sofa the same way. “That’s why I don’t want to think about Peter Smith.” They stared at each other. “You’ll do what’s best for Colt. My opinions about his father are irrelevant.”
“They’re relevant to me. And I could use someone to talk to right now. I’ve got a lot to process, you know.”
