Her jaw drops in faux shock. “Exploits? I have no idea what you mean.”
“No? Must have been your doppelgänger.” I wink, since I’m not mad at her for meddling. Besides, I took the job in part to see her, since I like to make sure she’s taking care of herself.
But she’s not the main reason I said yes.
We head toward the carousel as she squeezes my shoulder. “It’s good to have you stateside,” she says. “Just think of all the adventures you could have here. Did you know, for instance, that hiking in the Adirondacks is going to be epic this summer?”
Epic. This is my mom’s attempt to be cool. I don’t have the heart to tell her “epic” has gone out of vogue. Partly because I don’t want to hear her say “dope” instead. “Mom, you know I’m slightly past hiking in the Adirondacks?”
She shakes a finger at me. “Don’t get cocky just because you’ve climbed the Seven Summits fifty times. You can’t forget the basics. The Adirondacks are great for that.”
The Adirondacks are great for five-year-olds. But there’s little point arguing with her, so I give her a “Yes, Mom,” then we chat about what she wants to make for dinner as the baggage belt chugs along. When I spot my army-green duffel, I reach for it and hoist it over my shoulder.
Her eyes widen. “Ooh, a whole duffel. Please tell me you’re staying for the summer.”
“I’m staying to shoot the special.”
“But you could stay for the summer,” she says as we head for the exit.
I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Are you going to try every day to convince me to set up camp here? I do come home as often as I can.”
“A few times a year isn’t enough. You should have a condo here instead of Los Angeles.”
“And yet Los Angeles is where the network offices are.”
“I bet they’d be fine with you being here. I can ask them.”
I laugh. “You’ll do anything.”
“Can you blame me for trying to get you to stay, Hunter? I happen to like having you around. And I like you in one piece,” she says, patting my arm this time.
“Aww, I like you too, Ma.”
She rolls her eyes, then turns serious. “And I worry about you. Just like I worried about your father.”
The mention of my father makes my heart ache. It’s always made it ache, even though he’s been gone since I was twenty-one, more than sixteen years ago.
“I was right to worry about him,” she adds, her voice wobbly. “And I’ve been worried even more since that jump.”
“I know, Mom. But it all worked out.”
She sighs wearily. “Vik and I were talking about you. How much you’ve accomplished. How you could so easily retire. After all, Vik has retired from many of his crazier pursuits. You admire Vik. You could be like him.”
There are a million things to unpack in her remarks, most of them starting with I have no plans to retire. Ever. I tackle the simplest. “You still talk to Vik?”
“You introduced me to him at your last book signing. Don’t you remember how his wife and I hit it off?”
“You hit it off with everyone. No surprise, though, about Vik. He’s a good guy.” We’ve stayed in touch, and I consider him a damn good friend. It’d be strange if I’d fallen out of touch with him after what we went through in Antarctica. That kind of ordeal bonds you.
“He is. The four of us double-date. That is, when Jesse and I aren’t busy dating on our own.”
“Dating? Is that what you call it with Jesse? He lives with you, Mom. It’s a little more than dating.”
“And we love to go on dates. So yes, I’m dating the man I live with, and one of my favorite things about dating a professor is he doesn’t even jump down from the last step on the ladder when he’s fixing a light bulb. He—wait for it—steps down.”
“I’m going to be fine, even when I jump from the sky. I promise,” I say with more confidence than such a statement merits, perhaps because I still need some bravado when talking about jumps.
She gives me the sharpest of motherly side-eyes, knowing that’s not a promise anyone can make. “Your father said the same thing. Your brother said the same thing, and thank God he retired from the Army before his fourth deployment.”
“It’s the chance we take as Armstrong men. But I swear I’m careful.”
“Your job is the opposite of careful.”
“But I’m careful.”
We cross toward the parking garage as she points out, “Jumping out of a hot-air balloon to set a world record is the very definition of risky.”
“Then isn’t it a great thing I’ll be playing This Old House for a few weeks, thanks to your crazy engineering efforts? That’s the definition of safety.”
She blows on her fingernails as she guides me toward the level where she parked. “Good. Now, while you’re in town, I thought I could introduce you to my friend Marisa Wallace’s daughter, Hillary. She’s a local teacher, and she’s into white-water rafting and camping. Doesn’t that sound perfect? I bet you two would hit it off.”
I take her car keys. “Please tell me you didn’t lure me here in order to play matchmaker with your friends’ daughters the whole time I’m in town.”
She so did. That’s so her style.
She laughs, shooting me a look like that’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard. “No. I thought the Valentina estate was a great career opportunity. So when I heard the family was looking for someone to go through it, I naturally thought of you. I’m always looking out for your career.”
“How is Marisa Wallace’s daughter a career move for me?”
Her eyes twinkle. “You’ll be here for a little while. Why not have a few dates? I know you like the ladies.”
I blink. “Did you just say that?”
She scoffs. “Oh, please. It’s not a secret. I see pictures of you on the gossip sites. You’re never without a pretty woman on your arm. But what if you had a pretty local woman? Wouldn’t that be something?”
“I’m here for work and to see you. Ergo, I’m not interested in dates.” I aim the key fob at her car and pop the trunk, sliding my duffel into the back before I open the passenger door for her.
Once I’m in the driver’s seat, she continues her dating inquisition. “When you say ‘not interested,’ is that because there’s someone on the horizon?”
Laughing at her persistence, I back up the car. “You’re not winning this one. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old former paratrooper with the US Army. My mommy is not allowed to set me up.”
“Fine, I can respect that boundary. Let’s talk about other fun social activities. I’m picturing a barbecue this weekend. Jesse makes a mean grilled chicken. Ooh, what about a night at the bowling alley? My bowling club is kicking butt these days.”
“And I suppose all your friends would come to the barbecue with their daughters? Or the bowling alley?”
“I’d never thought of that. What a great idea,” she says, acting so thoroughly innocent it’s a wonder she never became a thespian. “I’ll put it in motion.”
I roll my eyes as I drive down a lane toward the exit. “How are the horses, Mom? Are the stables keeping you busy?”
Her lifelong dream was to ride. When she was a little girl, she longed for a horse, but her parents couldn’t afford one. They couldn’t afford much, nor could mine while I grew up. When I finally started earning good money from the show and the books, I bought her a farmhouse with a barn attached to it. She learned to ride a few years ago and is damn good at it.
“I took Cinnamon out this morning. We went for a five-mile ride, and it was glorious.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You should take her for a ride. Did you know Hillary is an equestrian too?”
I slide the ticket through the gate, chuckling to myself as I drive out of the garage. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, she’s a fantastic horsewoman, and she loves to snowboard too.”
I let my mom chatter on as we drive,
since it makes her happy, the idea that she might set me up, even though I’ve made my feelings clear.
As I turn onto the highway, she shifts gears. “Tell me more about what my friend Daniel has in mind for the project.”
“I presume he’s hoping we’ll find the buried treasure,” I say with a laugh.
“That’s just a rumor,” she says, chuckling too.
“And the last thing I expect is to find buried treasure here in New York State.” But still, the rumor itself was definitely another reason I said yes. Supposedly, Edward Valentina found treasure when he discovered the Lost City of the Sun, as he’d called it. Is it true? Stranger things have happened. And there’s a part of me that believes the rumor. Or really wants to believe it.
“And buried in the shed of his New York estate,” she says with a wink. “I bet you’ll play that up for the cameras.”
“Of course. I’m a good entertainer. How else could I keep you in your horses?”
“Entertain away, then. When will the crew join you? Will Trevor be here?”
“He’s leading in Chile right now, but Webflix hired a local crew.” Webflix is the online giant that produces my show, and what Webflix says goes. “But I’ll also do some solo shooting, selfie-style and all that.”
I give her more details about the project, and when I get to who I’m working with, I nearly mention Presley.
I almost say, Yeah, there’s this woman. I used to be wildly in love with her. I’d write her love notes so she’d have something to remember me by when I left. Then I did something foolish. I thought I could make it work. I thought we could find a way. Instead, I broke her heart, and mine too. Now, for some damn reason, I see this woman’s face at the most inopportune times.
But my mother has no idea Presley and I were once involved. It wasn’t a secret. It just never came up. Mom was working in California at the time and never had the opportunity to meet Presley.
No need to divulge the story now. She’d have a field day with that intel, and rightly so.
I stuff all those private details into a Ziploc bag, seal it, and toss it into the back of the freezer in my brain. Besides, I didn’t take the job to win Presley back. Hell, I don’t even know her situation. She could be married with three kids. If I’d wanted to see her again after all these years, I’d have sought her out.
Except I can’t deny she’s a big part of the reason I said yes to the project.
I flash back to the call with Daniel, to the details he shared about his esteemed associate.
“Thrilled that Barbara put me in touch with you,” he’d said, referring to my mother. “And on the Highsmith side, I’ll be asking my right-hand woman to lead the project. She’s brilliant, sharp as a tack and knows American history better than anyone.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“Her name is Presley Turner.”
That was what I’d been hoping he’d say. Talk about luck. “What’s she like?” I’d asked.
“She gets along with everyone, and she’s a natural on camera. When I tell her she’s going to be on your special, I bet she’ll be tickled pink.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but it wasn’t my place to correct him. Besides, I needed information. “She doesn’t know yet that I’m involved?”
“I’ll tell her this week. I needed to line you up first, and boy, oh boy, am I sure glad I did.”
“Me too, sir.”
I try to picture Presley’s face when she hears we’ll be seeing each other again.
But the image won’t come together. I have no clue how she’ll react. I have no clue what Presley’s life is like. When I looked her up online for the first time in years, I only uncovered work details.
But tonight I’ll see her and have the chance to figure out why she occupies my mind in those dire moments. I said yes to this job for a lot of reasons, but once I know why she’s in my head lately, I can get her out of it.
Later that afternoon when I’m changing for the gym, I toss my wallet onto the dresser, contemplate it a moment, and then retrieve it to fish out the creased paper that has traveled the world with me. I read it again, a reminder of why I always chase my dreams so damn hard.
4
Presley
Turn it off! I want to shout at my boss.
Because as I take a seat across from Daniel, the photo of Hunter on the computer screen is laughing at me.
Today of all days, when I’ve learned my publisher is remaindering me, when my agent thinks I have little hope without staging a con, and when I have to dig down deep to promote D-list celeb love letters instead of antiques and artifacts from the turn of the twentieth century, seeing Hunter “I’m rich, charismatic, and charitable” Armstrong staring back at me in my place of work makes me feel like I’m the butt of a joke.
Why must the owner of the most chiseled jaw in the history of chiseled jaws be on Daniel’s screen? And looking so rugged with that three-day stubble, that daring glint in his eyes, and that crooked grin that melts panties?
Ugh, why can’t you be hideous?
I tear my gaze away, focusing solely on Daniel.
“I have good news. Fantastic news. Are you ready?” My boss gives me a jowly grin. He’s quite skilled at jowly grins. He clasps his palms together, and a smile lights him up, painting his face with absolute glee. That’s . . . interesting. I haven’t seen that look since he nabbed two dozen prints of nineteenth-century government survey records at auction. The records of early expeditions to the American West went for more than one hundred thousand dollars all combined.
That made him happy.
That made me happy.
That made the buyers happy.
It was our last big coup.
“You’re reinstating Pizza Friday?” I offer, since I can’t let myself want more than that. I’ve learned that hope is a Chippendale dancer. It sashays to the front of the stage, ripping off clothes, revealing carved muscles, making you salivate, then it struts away, leaving you with only a wagging tongue.
Daniel laughs. “That’s a damn fine idea. Maybe I will start that up again. Even add in a pick-your-own-topping contest.”
“Go for cheese. People think pizza needs to be covered in mushrooms or artichokes or, ugh, figs. Real aficionados know nothing beats the simplicity of cheese.”
He points at me like a proud papa. “Pizza and American antiquities. Your expertise is boundless.”
I nod playfully, hoping I can indeed walk out of here with the promise of a cheese pie. Pizza makes bad days better.
He takes a breath, a signal that he’s shifting gears. “I just got a phone call from a new client. A very good client. It might help us gain some ground we lost.”
Competition has been breathing down our neck. Online auctions are gaining steam, and we don’t have the same cachet as we did when Daniel’s father started this place, growing it into a worthy option next to Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Trouble is, as the auction business has contracted, so has ours, more than others. We desperately need exciting opportunities, ones that give us a chance to prove our worth.
“Is it those Strads found in the basement of an opera singer’s home?” I ask, because the big rumor these days is that a soprano with the voice of an angel plans to auction a collection of violins.
“No. This is better.”
I sit up ramrod straight, my interest dialed up to one thousand. “Better than Pizza Friday and a collection of Strads? What, are there Honus Wagner baseball cards nestled inside the instruments?”
“Ha, that would be a good one.” He clears the laughter from his throat and picks up his tablet, opening it and angling it to show me a grainy shot taken years ago of a gorgeous, stately home. When he slides over contemporary photos of the same house, I recognize it.
“That’s the—”
“The Valentina estate,” he finishes reverently.
Chills run down my spine. “Valentina as in Edward Valentina?”
He nods with glee. “One of the gr
eatest adventurers the world has ever known. These modern-day fools can’t hold a candle to him.”
“They can’t. Not at all. Not one bit.” I’m bursting with possibility, because any good American historian knows of Edward Valentina, one of those wealthy, well-regarded early twentieth-century businessmen of the Gatsby era. Or at least we know of Valentina’s accomplishments after the age of thirty, when he ran a number of successful businesses, mostly banking and finance.
His early years are a mystery.
“When he founded the Exploration Society, it changed the game for explorers.”
“Yes, with his wife, Greta, and—what was that chap’s name? The circus guy who was also an explorer.”
“Jack Caribaldi,” I replied, not surprised by his memory lapse, since Jack’s more well-known for his family business, Caribaldi’s Extravaganza, a traveling circus more like Cirque du Soleil than Ringling Bros. Supposedly, his circus earnings funded his share of the expeditions he undertook. Then the Caribaldis and Valentinas together invested in about a half dozen theaters on Broadway.
“Exactly. That’s why I thought of you. You know Valentina’s background, and his house is your specialty. The family hired us specifically to catalog the remaining contents of the home. Much of it has been sorted already, but there should still be some valuable things we can auction for them.”
That’s a dream assignment, and I can barely grasp that he’s offering it to me. “Does anyone live there anymore?” I say, asking the most rudimentary of questions as my brain says Holy hell, oh my God, this could be fantastic.
“The grandchildren moved out a while ago. Joseph and Corinne. But they’ve given us the go-ahead to start. The home is empty, and a caretaker can let you in. I’m estimating it’s a two- to three-day project.”
“Do we know what sort of valuables are left in the house?”
“Supposedly a few items from the Exploration Society, possibly some maps, perhaps artifacts he uncovered on his expeditions, as well as paintings, photographs, prints, and a desk with secret compartments.” His eyes twinkle with delight.
PS It's Always Been You Page 4