by Geneva Lee
“I guess I’m taking a page from your book,” I tell him. Luca prefers to play with his prey. It’s more about slowly torturing someone until they self-destruct than blowing them up.
“Having a lot of money wrapped up in a failing company isn’t my idea of a good time. No matter who I’m fucking with,” he says dryly.
“Not everything is about money.”
“That’s not the Sterling Ford I know.” Luca narrows his eyes before he finally shrugs. “Suum cuique.”
Translation: he’ll respect my wishes. Despite his more sociopathic tendencies, Luca can be democratic as well. I don’t know what fire burns inside him or what fuels Jack. I know enough about my friends to guess what drives them, and I know they have my back. They’ve never questioned why I hate the MacLaines. It’s enough that I do. We each have our own black list of names. We don’t have to explain those lists to one another. Not after what we’ve been through together. Not with the secrets we share.
“When do you want us to move on it?” Jack asks. I know he’s less comfortable with this arrangement despite what he says.
“We wait. I’ll decide what we do with them later.”
“What does Sutton think?” Luca asks.
Jack bites back a grin. He knows Luca is purposefully goading me.
“Sutton has nothing to do with this,” I say, straining to keep my cool. It will only fuel Luca’s enjoyment of his little joke to do anything else.
He doesn’t hide his disappointment nearly as well. “In that case, there were other matters to discuss. I spoke with my uncle regarding the London accounts.”
“That’s my cue.” Jack stands. “I need to get the bar ready to open.”
We still haven’t gotten used to Jack’s desire to stay out of our other business affairs. There was a time we partnered on everything, but we’ve been going our separate ways for a while. I went independent years ago. Luca went back to his family. Jack is trying to be legit. That’s going to be harder while Luca and I are in town.
But as Jack reaches for our dishes, he looks at the tattoo on his forearm. The one he knows is under my shirt sleeve. Luca’s, too.
Nothi in infernum.
We might have made good, but we still have debts to pay.
Luca and I discuss the issues concerning his uncle, Marcus DeAngelo, who I’d only left in London a few weeks ago. “He doesn’t need to worry. There’s no way to trace that account.”
“That’s what I told him,” Luca says.
“He says that MacLaine is reaching out, trying to find out which private investors are holding the shares Angus sold. He wants to invite them to Windfall to discuss options. Apparently, Malcolm MacLaine wants the estate and the company to remain with the family.”
“He’s going to be disappointed,” I say calmly.
“He’s trying to figure out who the largest holder is so that the family can regain a majority of the holdings.”
“He’s going to be disappointed when none of the investors will sell.”
“Rumor is that he isn’t looking to buy.” Luca’s mouth twitches. “He’s apparently old school. He’s offering his family’s reputation in trade.”
The bastard had gotten the idea from me. “I guess he isn’t above selling his sister.”
“Did you ever think he was?” Luca scoffs.
“He seemed to think so.” I hadn’t bought Malcolm’s gallant display of fraternal concern for Adair then. He’s not looking out for her now. He only wants to make certain he’s hooking the biggest catch.
“If he finds out about Jack or me?” Luca asks.
“He’s not going to find you,” I say, fiddling with my cufflinks. I’d carefully run every transaction through back channels. No one can question my discretion when it comes to ensuring client anonymity. I suppose Luca’s concern lies with whether I’m being careful with my own privacy. He doesn’t need to worry. “At least, he’s not going to find anyone I don’t want him to find.”
“He assumes the DeAngelos have some of them. Marcus told me as much. He wants me to deal with it.” Luca’s stormy eyes glitter with possibilities.
“How convenient.” This could be fun. I have plans for Adair MacLaine. Plans that include an altar and a white dress and broken hearts. But there’s plenty of time to play with her until then. “Ready to play a game?”
He doesn’t need to consider. “Always.”
10
Adair
By the third day of the Cold War between me, Malcolm, and Ginny, I’m craving an escape and a friendly face, which is why I agree to a shopping date with Poppy. I need serious best friend time even if it means the mall. How she can still want to shop after being in Paris doing just that a week ago is beyond me. But Poppy is a shopper. I am not. She’s a hugger. I am not. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses and I prefer to keep things a focused twenty-twenty. She’s also exactly what I need to balance my tendency to be a bitch. That means if Poppy Landry wants a hug, mimosas, and three new pairs of shoes, I’m in.
I volunteer to drive, even if it means picking her up at the condo she shares with Cyrus in downtown Nashville and circling back toward the outskirts of the city, because it’s always safer when she’s not behind the wheel. Poppy sweeps out of the building in a yellow chiffon sundress that wraps around her swan-like neck, accentuating her bronze shoulders. She looks like she just stepped off a Parisian runway in nude Louboutin sandals that circle her ankle gracefully. In my black Converse, I’m going to be nearly a foot shorter than her, but I reserve heels of that height for business meetings and charity functions. I’d never survive a trip to the mall in them. She slips into the Roadster, arranging her skirt so that it won’t blow up when we hit the highway.
“Darling.” Despite the slight console separating us, she throws herself across the wide bench seat to hug me. When she pulls back her eyes shine with tears. “How are you?”
I blow a stream of air from my lips and shrug. “I don’t really know.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she says.
I’ve heard a lot of apologies in the last few weeks. Everyone it seems is sorry for my loss. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not entirely certain I share this feeling. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so much time to process it due to the length of daddy’s illness. Or maybe it’s that I’ve gone completely numb—my heart an anesthetized organ in my chest, functional but deadened. But I’m tired of hearing them. It’s too much to process—Sterling, my father, the will.
“Don’t be sorry for living your life,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.
“I wasn’t here when you needed me.”
“You’re here now.” And that’s enough. “I just need a friend.”
“You always have a friend,” she promises. “And you don’t have to go shopping for me to be here.”
“I want to.” Strangely, I mean it. I can’t help being in a good mood when she’s happy.
“Does that mean I get to pick things out for you?” she asks mischievously eyeing my gray t-shirt.
That could be dangerous, given the uncertainty of my bank account and the fact that my daily wardrobe is mostly jeans, t-shirts, and the occasional sundress. “I don’t need anything.”
“Shopping isn’t about needs. It’s about relaxation.” She studies me with a critical eye. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Yes,” I say defensively.
“What about a dress for the auction?” she suggests.
I cringe. I’ve been trying to get out of going to the fundraiser for months. It’s bad enough to go alone, but I know my brother plans to attend. “I don’t know if—”
“You are not getting out of this one,” she informs me. “You volunteer with the shelter!”
“That doesn’t mean I have to go.” But I know that it does. Poppy might have hatched the plan to host a charity gala to benefit adoptions for the Valmont Animal Rescue but she did it because she knew I was worried about loss of funding. Putting on a dress is the lea
st I can do, even if I’d rather hang out at the shelter with the puppies. “You can pick out my dress, okay?”
She lights up like neon at nightfall, immediately launching into the current drama surrounding the gala she’s been planning for the last three months, yelling over the rushing wind. I’m mostly caught up when we arrive at Valmont Gallery, which isn’t a shopping center, but an experience. The mall sprawls over five acres of land, housing dozens of luxury brands, restaurants, and department stores.
A valet greets us at the parking station near the West entrance, and I hesitate in the driver’s seat.
“Park her in a big spot away from other cars,” I advise, knowing the classic car is a lot wider than most modern vehicles.
He nods, tearing off a ticket, and I can’t help wondering how many times a day he puts up with this request.
“Please,” Poppy interjects. She’s already out of the car, giving me a look that reminds me of my mother. “She meant to say please.”
“Please,” I add, feeling properly chastised. Another reason I need her around.
We head straight for Bottega Veneta. Poppy is giggles and rainbows as she gives me the play-by-play on her trip to Paris. It takes effort to leave my worry behind with the car, but I do my best. The truth is I’m not sure I should be shopping even if I need something for the fundraiser. Yes, Daddy left me an inheritance, but I can’t help wondering if it’s made of fool’s gold. Malcolm’s reaction led me to believe that everything is on the line. I can’t tell Poppy this, though. I can’t tell anyone. If we do lose Windfall, if we do lose MacLaine Media, what happens to my family?
I’ve had a perpetual stomach ache since our meeting with Harding. I can’t think about it.
Meanwhile Poppy gushes over a dainty, racing green colored purse with the sales associate. “It’s beautiful,” she says like she’s taking in a masterpiece. “But I just bought a spring bag in Paris.”
He immediately launches into all the reasons one spring bag isn’t enough. “This is an exceptional shopping tote.” He opens the flap as if to prove this. “It will fit all your necessities but not be too heavy. That bag is better for lunch dates.”
They banter about this for twenty minutes before she gives in.
“And you?” He studies me for a moment, no doubt trying to determine if I’m a lost cause.
I consider it for a split second, wondering if I can buy a few minutes of happiness. In the end, I decide for him, patting my small cross-body Louis Vuitton that I’ve had for years. “I’m good.”
We leave the bag to be properly wrapped for pick-up later. I lose track of Poppy’s purchases by the third store. I can’t seem to mindlessly fall into the rhythm I usually enjoy in her presence.
“Okay, spill. What’s wrong with you?” Poppy demands.
I study a display of silk scarves intensely, trying to look like I’m enjoying myself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You can talk to me,” she says, “unless…”
“Unless?” I murmur absently. Did Cyrus tell her that Sterling is back? Does she remember what it was like four years ago when he left? Has she forgiven me yet?
“Unless you’re upset that I missed the funeral.” She chews on her lower lip. “I feel awful. I should’ve come home.”
I shake my head quickly. The trouble with being in a bad mood is that good people always think they put you there. “You didn’t need to be there.”
“I know that’s what you said. But a best friend should be there even when they’re not needed.” She’s quoting me and the conversation we had when I called to tell her it was over. Trust Poppy to know that what I say and what I actually want are often two very different things. We’ve been friends long enough for her to see through me like that.
The truth is that I wish she’d been there, but not for the reasons she thinks. I hadn’t needed her until Sterling showed up. “It’s really not about the funeral.”
I can’t decide where to start. In the end, my recollection of the day tumbles out of me. I tell her about Sterling. Poppy’s expression grows from interested to horrified as my story continues. When I get to the part where my ex is talking with her boyfriend, she gasps.
“Did he say anything?” I ask.
“No! Good lord, Adair, do you think I would have spent all morning worrying about buying a purse if I’d known Sterling Ford was in town?” She grabs my arm and yanks me toward a small, indoor café. We take seats and I don’t protest when she orders two white wines before noon.
“Tell me every detail,” she demands when the waiter leaves to get our drinks.
“That’s all.” Frustration bubbles inside me. How many times have I relived seeing him at the gravesite? Seeing him in Windfall? “I never thought I would see his face inside my house again. Honestly, I never thought I’d seen his face again period. It’s been years and he walked through the door like it was yesterday. I don’t know why he was there.”
Poppy groans, rolling her brown eyes dramatically, before turning a playful but withering glare on me. “You don’t know why he was there?”
“He didn’t talk to me!”
“Please! He came to see you.” She says it like it’s a settled matter.
I can’t admit that I want that to be the truth. That after all these years convinced that I hate him, seeing him once makes me doubt that I do. But it can’t be that simple. Nothing with Sterling is ever simple. “If he wanted to see me, he would’ve come back four years ago, right?”
Poppy hesitates, a battle playing out across her face.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” She shakes her head.
Poppy is a great friend, but a terrible liar. When she tries to lie, I half-expect her nose to grow like the old fairytale. She’s that bad at it. “Spill.”
“He did come back.” The confession bursts out of her.
The waiter arrives with our wine to find us sitting in stunned silence. Well, to find me sitting in stunned silence. Poppy looks like she’s about to throw up.
“What do you mean he came back?” I ask softly after a minute.
“After you left for Cambridge,” she confesses. “He was only here for a few days. I didn’t see him.”
“How do you know he came back?”
“Cyrus told me.”
I close my eyes and let myself ask the one question that I’ve tortured myself with for the last four years. “Did he say why?”
“He said he came to get his things before he shipped out. Cyrus said he gave him your letter.”
That didn’t explain anything. It only hurt more. Sterling had returned to Valmont. He had the letter. Cyrus told me he gave it to him, but he failed to mention it was in person. I thought it had been years since Sterling set foot in Tennessee. I was wrong.
“Well, then he didn’t come back for me.” It’s the harsh truth. Because even if I hadn’t been gone, even if he had known where I was—if he read that letter, he should have come after me.
“I promised Cyrus I wouldn’t tell you,” Poppy says, still looking queasy. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You’d moved on—left for London…”
“I did move on,” I lie. It’s so easy to lie about London now that even I’m starting to believe I was happy there.
It isn’t her fault that Sterling came back then—or now. It’s no one’s fault.
“What are you going to do?” Poppy asks.
“Live my life?” I shrug, wishing that idea rolled off my shoulders instead of landing like a lead yoke around them. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Hunt him down,” she says, “and demand he tells you why he ignored your letter.”
“He ignored my letter because he didn’t care.” I need to come to grips with that. I’ve had four years to let go of him. Seeing him successful and indifferent is the final blow.
Poppy clearly doesn’t share this revelation, because she slams a fist on the table. “Okay, hunt him down and cut off his balls.”
The group of older
women next to us falls silent at her explosion, casting disapproving looks in our direction before getting up and moving across the café.
“Sorry,” Poppy calls, her British half getting the best of her. Under her breath, she adds, “Nosy old birds.”
“At least, they’ll have something to talk about,” I say dryly.
Some things don’t change. Sterling Ford and I have always been something to talk about.
11
Sterling
Windfall has shed its mourning garb, welcoming life and spring back to its tree-lined drive and manicured gardens. The guard is back on duty at the gate. He steps from the security booth, hitching up his belt with his hands as he scans my car. He can’t be more than a year or two out of high school. He has that wet behind his overly-prominent ears quality. No one’s told him that, though. Maybe it’s the gun in his holster boosting his confidence, but he leans down to the window and waves his hand.
“Can I see your identification?”
I’ve no doubt Malcolm informed the guards of my invitation, but this kid isn’t going to let me go without checking off his entire list. He takes my driver’s license and studies it carefully. “New York, huh?”
“Yes.” Thank God, he can read.
“Old picture. You musta been what? Eighteen?” He says this like there’s a huge gap between my eighteen and his nineteen.
I tilt my Ray-Bans to stare at him. Am I on Magnolia Lane or Memory fucking Lane? “Does that matter?”
“It’s about to expire is all. Have a nice evening.” He waves me through the wrought iron gates and closes them behind my car.
The sky ebbs into dusky purple as I near the house. There are still a handful of gardeners out, using up the last few moments of twilight to finish their work for the day. Adair once told me it took dozens of staff to keep the property looking like a private resort. It’s ironic, really. Angus MacLaine nearly lost everything before he died, but he’d managed to cling to appearances until the very end—a tradition his children have chosen to keep alive, by the looks of it.
