He ate because why the fuck not. Someone else was driving, so he felt no qualms about slugging down two very large Bloody Marys. This was, after all, exactly why he used a car service.
His phone rang, and “Teenage Dream” filled the back seat with memories. Every time he thought about switching his ring tone to something that didn’t rip his heart out, he changed his mind.
Feeling less likely to tear out someone’s throat for no reason, Arnie took the last hefty guzzle of the Bloody Mary and answered.
“Yo, Dad. Whaddup?”
“Please tell me you’re on the way. Reinforcements are needed.”
Arnie’s buzz immediately backed off. He sat straighter and gripped his temple with one hand. “How bad is it?”
“Well, let’s see. Uncle Eddie is pontificating about decorum. Unbelievable, considering he’s doing his secretary.”
Arnie snorted. Edward, yes, that’s a stick up my ass, Wanamaker was three years younger than Arnie’s dad and wore sibling jealousy like a war medal pinned to his chest. The two brothers barely tolerated each other, a dismal way to live and a part of the reason he was so determined to salvage his relationship with Stan. He didn’t want their brother dynamic to be a decades-long battlefield.
“What?”
“Patty Murgen,” his father drawled. “Moved her way up through the secretarial pool in the Philadelphia office. Last year, she stepped in temporarily when Eddie’s regular had surgery. Whispers around the water cooler suggest she fit quite nicely under his reproduced Resolute desk, if you catch my drift.”
“That stupid desk,” Arnie grumbled. “I mean, come on! What kind of pretentious twat drops a shitload of Benjamins to have a replica made of a presidential heirloom, size adjusted to fit his fat ass?”
“My brother, that’s who. He’s a fucking caricature of what bad behavior in the upper class looks like. Office blowjobs are tacky. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg heading for a collision with the S.S. Wanamaker. Senior isn’t fucking around this time. The hammer is dropping, and I can’t handle the fallout alone.”
“Where’s Stan? Why isn’t he on backup duty?”
“Oh, yeah. And then there’s that,” his dad snarled. “Giselle rode in on her venom-powered broomstick and started shit right away.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep. And while Aunt Lou took the opportunity to castigate me yet again for not legally excising Giselle out of Stan’s life—a battle I was never going to win, by the way —she took enormous delight in re-enacting a scene Giselle caused at the bed and breakfast where she’s staying.”
“She’s not at the house?”
His dad snorted. “Oh, god no. My father is a crafty devil. By forcing everyone to Connecticut and then only permitting a few to invade his home, he ensured a free-for-all when it came to nearby accommodations. The Marriott is full—the big one with the on-site spa. Giselle wasn’t happy with being shuffled to the Courtyard Marriott and threw a fit. That was how she ended up at a B&B. Lou said the lawyer Giselle leads around on a leash got ripped a new one. I was wrong about him.”
“How so?”
“I thought she was sleeping with the schmuck. It turns out, he’s got brains and boundaries.”
“Stan thinks he’s going to turn.”
His dad’s hearty chuckle came through the phone loud and clear. “We think a lot alike. Bruce Wells is an ingratiating slimeball whose saving grace is a conscience. If he turns on Giselle, I’m totally down with tossing him a lifeline. Everyone needs a slimy lawyer from time to time.”
Giselle played her cards to maximum advantage from day one. By not cheating on her marriage or straying outside societal norms, she secured a divorce settlement with strings attached. To her, Stan was a bargaining chip. She viewed her role as the mother of a Wanamaker in terms of the long game. No legal team was capable of boxing her in without cause. She simply played the right cards at the right time.
Time didn’t stand still. Age and a son who was no longer co-dependent must be rattling the ice-cold bitch’s cage. Maybe she’d finally make a mistake. If Giselle crashed and burned, he hoped to be there when it happened. The thought of her going down in flames was fiercely satisfying.
“See why I need you?”
“Relax, old man,” Arnie teased. “I’m on my way as we speak. Hired a car service.”
“Well, aren’t you all fancy. What’s the matter, Arnie? An hour behind the wheel is too much?”
“I’m coming in hot.” He sniggered. “Locked and loaded.”
“And when are you arriving? Spit it out.”
He looked out the window and immediately recognized his location. “Ten minutes. It better be okay for me to stay at the house.”
Something in his father’s reply made tingles dance on all his nerves.
“My boy, you’re going to be doing a lot more than just staying.”
Arnie didn’t know what he meant, but he didn’t ask for clarification. There were powerful forces in motion—in every area of his life—so the best he could do was strap in and hold on.
Sipping a very dirty martini hours later, he sat in the large formal living room of the Wanamaker homestead in Stamford, Connecticut, and eyed those also gathered with a dispassionate gaze.
Was it his imagination, or was everyone openly scowling at him? What the hell had he done? Nothing as far as he knew.
Out of the damn blue, his dad pinned him with an intense look. “He’s giving you this house,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The whole property. Now. He isn’t going to wait. He told me this morning over breakfast. Judging by our reception, I’m guessing everyone knows.”
Arnie’s eyes swept the room where most of the Wanamaker clan huddled in groups for Senior’s mandatory cocktail hour. Of the thirty or so people present, not one would support him inheriting Darnell Senior’s Connecticut estate. No one except his dad, of course. Definitely Aunt Lou. And Stan. Stan was turning out to be a rock-solid wingman.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with thirty-two acres, a pond, formal gardens, a pool, and a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion?”
“Don’t forget the babbling brook, tennis court, three-thousand-square-foot guest cottage, wine cellar, and the six-car climate-controlled garage.”
Oh, Jesus. His swimming head began to pound, and his left eye twitched. He’d spent the better part of his adult life turning his back on the Wanamaker lifestyle. He despised the shallow mindset of the generationally wealthy classes. Money passing through families was dirty business. Financial bottom lines obscured emotion and damaged family roots. It was easy to hate what the money represented.
“I guess I could list it with Airbnb,” he mumbled.
His dad grew serious. “Arnie, my boy,” he said. “Someday, you’re going to stop running away from who you are. I hope you’ll find someone special like your mother and settle down. Start a family.” He gestured around. “Admit it, son. Rose Hill isn’t hell or even the waiting room. Once upon a time, this grand estate was filled with love and laughter. If your mom hadn’t died, this is where we planned to live. It’s only as pretentious as the inhabitants, Arnie. Lianne had big plans to make Rose Hill Manor and Cottage a real family home.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before.” Thinking about his mom caused Arnie’s throat to tighten with emotion. “She liked this mausoleum? Really?”
“Finish your drink and follow me.” His dad shot back the end of his Manhattan, fished the cherry out of the ice, and bit into it. “Ah.” He chuckled. “Nothing like an explosion of sweetness soaked with Michter’s Kentucky Straight Rye.”
His father’s signature drink wasn’t new or adventurous. He preferred a classic Manhattan made with his favorite rye whiskey, the best Italian vermouth available, and a Luxardo maraschino cherry.
Chuckling, Arnie tossed back the last of a deliciously dirty martini and tracked after his dad. They ended up in the long sunroom running along the back of a first-floor wing. Large windows
with beautiful transoms made up three of the walls. A door led to a small flagstone patio overlooking the gardens. It was the only area of the house not overflowing with furniture and art.
“This room was Lianne’s special spot. She loved the high ceiling and breathtaking view. When she was pregnant with you, she and Senior hung out in here. They read books to each other and plotted the future.”
The throb of emotion in his dad’s voice brought Arnie to the brink of tears.
“The reason this room stays blank is because of her. It’s my father’s tribute to the daughter-in-law he adored.” He paused to take a deep breath. “You and I weren’t the only ones who lost someone they loved.”
Well, shit. Arnie put a hand over his heart and struggled to contain the emotions threatening to put him on the floor.
“Your grandfather would rather shit grapefruits than let anyone but you get their hands on this property.”
He didn’t know how to react or what to say. Talking about his mom wasn’t something they did.
His eyes scanned the room, and he imagined a long, comfortable sofa set against the back wall. A large, overstuffed chair, something you’d find in a Spencer Tracy movie, would fit perfectly in the far corner. Maybe there’d be a dog curled up nearby. He bet his sunshine girl would love the light-infused room. With that thought, he heard the soft whimper of a crying baby in his head and careened at a dangerous speed back to the present.
What the holy fuck was that?
Shaking off his confusing reaction, Arnie felt his father’s eyes studying him and wondered what the man was thinking.
“We better get back before my father sends a search party. Senior looked about ready to bitch slap Aunt Vi earlier. She knows which of his buttons to push.”
Arnie witnessed the building confrontation between the octogenarian siblings. “The woman is eighty-three and is not here for the last will and testament shuffleboard game this family plays. She made a valid point earlier about the entitlement issues the youngers display.” Arnie huffed. “I’m all for a tiered system with points earned for going to school and earning a degree. Getting a job. Community service.”
This progressive concept of redistributing the family’s share of riches was a long time coming and something he welcomed. Having literal buckets of money plus unimaginable privilege and access to power players around the globe produced generations of weaklings with no initiative or drive and an inflated sense of importance. His cousins, most of them, were astonishingly vapid. Arnie stood out like a toaster pastry at a cupcake party. Wealth and name value meant squat when it came time for him to decide who he was as a person and what he stood for. Government service was not what people expected from him.
He nudged his dad and sniggered. “I got shot in the balls. How many points do I get?”
“You did not get shot in the balls, although it does make for a great conversation starter.”
“Shot, shrapnel, same concept.”
“Where were you when this shrapnel event happened?”
Arnie chuckled. He enjoyed this back and forth game with his dad. “Can’t say,” he replied.
“Who were you with?”
“Can’t say that either.”
“How do we know you aren’t making it up?”
“My go-to response is usually a suggestion that you suck my balls and tell me.”
“I raised you well,” his dad guffawed and thumped him on the back.
They left the sunroom and ambled through the massive house back to the formal living room for an evening of forced family togetherness. Along the way, they exchanged guy talk and commented on the frigid January weather.
The moment they stepped back into the big room full of people, Arnie sensed something in the air. It wasn’t obvious, and nobody seemed to be acting strange, but he felt it nonetheless.
Vaguely paying attention when his father murmured something before wandering off to join a huddle at the hors d’oeuvres table, Arnie scanned the room for energy patterns. He didn’t sense anything obvious.
And then from the corner of his eye, he saw Stan, and Arnie’s body went on high alert.
Outwardly, his brother gave off nothing worth a second glance. He was staring into the flames as he leaned against a wall next to the fireplace with his hand braced on the molding of a decorative wood mantel.
But Arnie saw something more. Stan’s unique wavelength was unsettled. Something was most definitely wrong.
Striding casually, he let the strength of Stan’s energy draw him in and was impressed by his brother’s control. Whatever had him riled up was intense, but he wasn’t giving anything away.
Swiping two drinks off a conveniently placed tray, he made it to Stan’s side without being waylaid. Handing the solemn man a glass, he smirked, and in a casual, congenial tone, he said, “I won the Coke versus Pepsi war this year.” He grinned and offered a toast. Stan smirked and rolled his eyes but raised his glass and waited for Arnie to speak.
“Here’s to a bigger wedge of lemon next year. And brotherhood.”
Something arced between them. An electric conduit opened, joining them for a flash second. He picked up a lot in that second.
“To brotherhood and more lemons,” Stan parroted. His tone was light, but Arnie detected a dark edge.
He didn’t have to wait long for more.
A strange pallor changed Stan’s whole appearance. He shrank inside his dark suit. When a person suddenly diminished, it generally indicated a psychic hit. Something unexpected and deeply troubling. What in the world would bring on the change he was seeing?
“I fucking hate money.”
Arnie’s brows went up, and he thought, Yeah? Well, join the club. Swirling ice in his soda, he kept silent and let Stan have the floor.
“It’s always the money.” Stan turned a shaded eye on Arnie, and murmured, “I’m here because of money. Because using sex to trap a grieving widower and getting pregnant came with a payday.”
Oh, fuck. Giselle. Of course. What had the evil succubus done now?
“You know the saying—follow the money?” Stan growled. “It’s a full-time job with mommy dear. The fact she’s even still here, with her claws in the pot, is all about the money. Her money, Dad’s money, my money …” Stan paused and gave Arnie a very strange look. “Your money.” He shrugged.
He nodded but didn’t stop the roll his brother was on.
A fierceness from out of nowhere shot into Stan. It made Arnie’s brows go up.
“But don’t you worry, bro. I got this.”
He did? Arnie’s heart began to pound. What the fuck was going on?
“She showed me her hand, and the best part was she doesn’t even realize it. I’m gonna take care of this,” Stan muttered with a threatening tone.
“What do you need me to do?” he eventually asked in a quiet, confidential murmur.
Stan looked at him. The pallor was still there, but something fierce burned in his eyes.
“Oh, don’t worry, Arnie. This one’s on me.”
He’d think about those words a hundred times through the night, wondering what they meant and where this was leading.
It was late, and everybody was long asleep. But not Arnie.
Feeling restless and unsettled, he left the privacy of his guest room and moved silently through the house drawn to the empty sunroom. His dad’s earlier revelations about the room’s significance to Arnie’s mother made the space special. A connection to her spirit and unfulfilled dreams.
Through the large windows, he marveled at how the vibrant moon lent a glow to the snow-covered ground. The glow bounced back and illuminated the empty sunroom. Arnie’s senses drank in the serene beauty. A slow smile curled his lips. Sunroom. Moonroom.
He pulled the louvered doors closed. His senses flooded, and he caught his breath. Feeling a link with his mom, he did what felt natural, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room. Sitting gave him a different perspective and made the long, narrow
room seem enormous. It would take the energy of someone special to fill the space. Someone like the mother he never knew.
Or the lover he did know but incredibly lost.
Summer.
He swallowed hard and shut his eyes when a collection of memories exploded in his mind.
She glowed like a star twinkles, captivating him from the second their eyes met and she cracked a joke about his shoes. Had it really been a year since the pretty blonde giggled her way into his heart, turned his entire existence upside down, and made him question what the fuck he was doing with his life?
Her voice swept him along on the lazy river of memory. His mind opened, and a tug pulled him into the past. For the better part of an hour, he let the memories wash over him. At first, there was no rhyme or reason, but then it hit when a specific moment replayed over and over.
Summer warning him about danger. He’d blown off her concern because, at the time, he was waiting to be activated on assignment and figured she was picking up on his tension.
Was it possible he missed something important?
Shit. Of course it was possible. Despite a starring role as a supernatural hero, he was human and made mistakes all the damn time.
Why was he remembering her anxious concern now?
What was it about now, today, that resurrected this specific moment in the past?
Who was in danger? Summer? Him?
He went completely still. Danger had a unique vibration. It also hid in the shadows and had a habit of not making its presence known until it was too late.
The concept of too late pissed him off. He was a tolerant and happy-go-lucky guy until shit got real. Getting stuck at the back of the line or being the last guy to know simply did not work for him.
Summer’s tension and her focus on danger lingered inside him. It was, in a weird way, a form of communication.
A whoosh of visuals flew past with supersonic speed. Some he recognized. Others—not so much.
He rose slowly. The room pulsed with moon spirit. Pressing a hand to his chest, Arnie felt the beating of his heart. There were forces at play. Things were in motion, but he still wasn’t any closer to understanding.
Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3) Page 45