Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3)

by Suzanne Halliday

“I’m going to get you a happy ending, bro. Not the wham bam kind. The fairy-tale, happily-ever-after kind. You took a chance and saved me. There’s no way I’d sit this out just because my mother is the bad guy.”

  27

  Right before bedtime, Ari cooed and stretched as Summer administered a baby massage. Communicating through touches, she loved the nightly ritual and was sure the baby did too.

  The soft aroma of lavender hung in the air from the silky baby lotion she used. All the online message boards for moms said something positive about the calming effects of the scent.

  Singing, she massaged the baby’s little feet.

  “This little toe bean went to the farmers' market, and this little toe bean stayed at home. While this cutie toe bean had animal crackers but this poor toe bean had none. Now, this teeny tiniest of toe beans? She danced until dawn.”

  Ari gurgled and smiled. She did this thing with her butt where she stuck it out and stretched her arms. It was so dang cute.

  “Brr, little one. It’s kinda chilly. January is always chilly.”

  Rubbing what was left of the lotion into her hands, she cupped them near her nose and inhaled. Lavender was such a lovely smell.

  “Let’s match, shall we?”

  Summer showed Ari the adorable footed Yankees jammies with a cute faux tutu accent. Santa left quite an assortment of Yankees gear for them under their tree. She wanted Ari to have a connection to her daddy, and what better way than with paraphernalia from his beloved Yankees.

  When the baby was cozy and warm in her jammies, she cradled her and stared into eyes the same shade as Arnie’s.

  There were few things better than a beautiful night in Southern California—something she learned firsthand during four magical days at this time last year.

  Wrapping Ari in a fluffy blanket, Summer slipped on a pair of bunny slippers and shuffled out back to get some fresh air and enjoy the night sky.

  Two sun loungers and a small table sat at one end of the pool—right outside her bedroom window. Potted trees and bushes sat along the cinder block wall to hide it from view. She claimed the spot as her corner and headed there now.

  Climbing onto a lounger, she sat cross-legged with the baby and her cushy blanket wedged in the space between her legs.

  Chanting in a soft voice, she gazed lovingly at her daughter and then at the heavens. “Star light, star bright, first star we see tonight. Let’s make a wish, sweetie.”

  There wasn’t much to think about. They always wished for the same thing—Arnie to come and find them—only this time, she added an extra tweak with a silent plea to hurry.

  Wriggling and scooting until she was comfortable, Summer relaxed against the lounger. Ari was awake and content. They sat quietly beneath the beautiful night sky. Indulging in a bit of moon dreaming, Summer thought about the man she would love until her dying breath even if the love turned out to be hopeless. She had but one heart, and it belonged to a sexy, golden Adonis. Without realizing it at the time, she had given Arnie her whole heart, unreservedly. There were no do-overs, and all she could do now was hope and pray.

  To make herself feel better, she worked up an elaborate fantasy involving a Thanksgiving dinner. She’d do all the cooking and serve the classic meal in a beautiful dining room decorated with a gorgeous fall tablescape and fresh seasonal flowers.

  Ari was in a high chair while her daddy stood at the head of the table, ready to do the ritual turkey carving. Reed was there too. With no one to answer to for her fantasy, she imagined a woman at his side. Someone cute and funny who made her straight-edged brother smile.

  It was a lovely vignette. She sighed and lightly stroked the baby’s head. Not one time in her memory was there a Thanksgiving celebration with a regular mom, dad, and kids. It was always just her, Daddy, and Reed. The food was sometimes thrown together at the last minute, and a couple of times, she recalled frantic searches for cranberry sauce and pies.

  Renewed antipathy for Marie Warren flared inside her. Becoming a mother gave Summer a new perspective—one in which she felt fully justified judging her detached and indifferent parent. What her so-called mother did by running off was unconscionable. Arianne was a treasure, a living, breathing connection to Arnie—and no way in hell would she ever willingly be separated from her child.

  Nuh-uh. No way.

  Gazing at the inky sky glittering with a thousand dots of light lifted her spirits. She searched for the constellation Orion and smiled. Way back in her high school days, she had written a bullshit paper for science class about Orion. The teacher, having seen through her cut and paste report, challenged her to point it out in the night sky.

  She had a hard time lying. Kidding around for fun was different, but intentional, deliberate, conscious fibbing was simply not how she rolled. When put to the screws, she folded like a cheap suit, blubbering nonsense and hoping the teacher showed mercy.

  He didn’t. She barely passed the class, but she goddamn well knew where Orion was from then on.

  Before long, she was humming. Ari wiggled her tiny hands free from the blanket and waved them. She often wondered if her daughter would be athletic and in near constant motion like her mama.

  “Shall we dance, hmm?”

  Reaching into the front pouch of her Yankees hoodie, she took hold of her phone and went to her curated playlists.

  “How about this one? Soft dance. Not quite lullaby music but close enough.”

  Keeping the volume low, she started the playlist, stood, and put Ari on her shoulder. Rocking and swaying to the first track, “Good Night” by the Beatles, she hummed softly and felt her emotions surge.

  Love was a good thing—in any form.

  Kissing the baby’s head, she inhaled Ari’s sweet baby scent spiked with lavender and gave herself to the moment.

  Stan was out picking up food supplies, leaving Arnie alone to amuse himself. They decided to forego staying overnight in the empty house, but they still needed drinks and sandwich makings.

  He noticed a pad of paper covered with drawings and measurements and picked it up. His eyes moved around the space, visualizing Stan’s ideas. Say what you wanted about Aloha Designs being just a cover, but it didn’t change his brother’s eye for design and impressive handy-guy talents.

  Dropping the pad, he continued puttering. Fanning a collection of paint samples, he held them up against the living room wall and decided he was the last person to have an opinion about the five different shades of white, which all looked the same to him.

  Noticing a forgotten duffel bag shoved in the corner, he fished around in his stuff and located a zip case holding a container of pain medicine, assorted antacids, a tube of antibiotic ointment for his bruised knuckles, and some over-the-counter allergy tablets.

  Dumping two painkillers into his hand, he searched for something to wash them down with only to realize his options consisted of three mini bottles of alcohol. Souvenirs of airplane flights left inside a bag he rarely emptied.

  “Jägermeister, Canadian Club, and Bacardi Limon. Hope I have an iron stomach,” he complained in a flat voice.

  He needed the painkillers for the ache in his back from the weighted body suit, and the water from the faucets tasted awful, so he didn’t have another choice.

  “Add a water cooler to the supply list.”

  Downing the tablets with Canadian Club was less than pleasant. He gagged and shuddered, “Blech, ugh,” and gave a full-body shake.

  “I know what this situation needs,” Arnie mumbled to an audience of no one.

  Returning to the duffel, he pulled out a very cool leather cigar case—a Christmas gift from Darnell Senior. The old guy gave him and Stan identical monogrammed cases plus a box of Padron Coronas to share.

  Arnie and his brother learned the cigar ritual growing up. His father and grandfather were avid cigar aficionados. Stan wasn’t a fan, but that was then, and a lot had changed. Now they relaxed together with a cigar from time to time.

  Stuffing the Jä
germeister and Bacardi Limon into a pocket, he headed for the backyard where a couple of old-school folding lawn chairs sat next to a propane fire bowl.

  Not wanting to set himself on fire, he hesitated to use a lighter until checking the compartment under the bowl to make sure there wasn’t an old propane cylinder attached. He was relieved to find the compartment empty.

  Remembering at the last second to take the liquor bottles out of his pocket, he set them on a small folding table. Opening the cigar case, he quickly chose and cut one of the Nicaraguan-made coronas. Flipping open the lighter, he lit the flame and held it near the end of the cigar without touching the leaves. Rotating until it was evenly lit, he put it to his lips and gently blew the smoke out rather than draw it in. There were a ton of technical reasons he did this, but the only one that mattered was he’d been taught to blow first and suck second.

  Sucking gently, he filled his mouth with the tasty smoke. He let the mouthful linger before slowly blowing it away. Smoking a cigar was an act of relaxation and not something to be rushed. Taking his time, he puffed slowly and let the calming ritual permeate his senses. Blowing smoke rings at the moon and watching the ash tip lengthen were exactly what he needed.

  The quiet and smoke went a long way to managing his tension. Knowing Summer was so close did things to every part of him. He was operating at maximum and wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up without cracking.

  He wanted her so bad it caused his whole body to ache with longing. Sex was only a part of it. His need to have her close, to hear her outrageous giggle and watch her stick every landing, was rearranging how he viewed the world.

  And then there was the baby. His daughter. A daughter unwittingly named after his mother. There was no possible way Summer knew his mother’s name, so the unusual choice of Arianne Leigh was another sign from the universe.

  Filling his mouth with smoke, Arnie found his thoughts growing heavy. Not only was Summer his to protect but there was also a three-month-old to consider. He was only okay with them as bait to lure Giselle into the open if he was absolutely certain he could manage the situation if it got ugly.

  Was he certain?

  Glancing at the night sky through a cloud of smoke, he checked in with his conscience and asked the big questions. What was he capable of and how far would he go to protect his family?

  There was no internal debate. His priorities were in order.

  A wisp of air blew past his face. He inhaled the sweet scents from the night-blooming landscaping. The soft notes of a song also hung on the night breeze. Mesmerized by the beauty of the starry sky, he didn’t narrow his focus at first, but the song called to him, and before long, he was listening intently.

  His mind fluttered like pages in a book as he searched for a point of reference. Who was singing? Puffing the cigar, he closed his eyes, absorbed the pungent smoke, and caught the lyrics a second before it dawned on him.

  Bruno Mars. “Talking to the Moon.” Izzy requested it at Jon and Lorelai’s wedding reception. He remembered wondering if the ongoing, messy saga of Felicity Toy and Neal Barber was going through a rough patch—hence the song request.

  Taking another puff, he set the cigar on the edge of the table and stood. Where exactly was the music coming from? The way the neighborhoods in this part of the Valley were laid out, the block walls surrounding the yards made it tough to pinpoint.

  The house on the right was dark and quiet. The house behind had a yappy dog earlier but all was quiet now.

  He walked to the wall separating where he stood from Summer’s backyard. The closer he got, the more his body vibrated. Outdoor floodlights were visible but nothing more.

  Was Summer in her yard? Listening to music?

  His eyes darted everywhere. If he wanted to see over the wall, he needed something to stand on.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. The crappy lawn chairs and rickety table were accidents waiting to happen.

  The Bruno Mars song ended. Holding his breath, Arnie strained to hear what played next. Summer’s love of classic rock got him grinning when an oldie but goodie filled the air. This time, it was the apropos, “Dancing in the Moonlight.” He knew the song but couldn’t remember the artist.

  A soft giggle stole his breath, his ability to think, and his heart.

  Fuck! He had to see over the damn wall.

  Dashing inside, he ran from room to room. Nothing looked tall enough or sturdy enough to hold him. Then his eyes landed on the huge rolling tool chest, and he knew he’d found the solution.

  Kicking shit out of the way, he wheeled the heavy cabinet through the house, out the backyard sliders, and across the patio. Shoving the weighty box into the corner between the house and the block wall, he counted on a vine-covered trellis and a large busy hedge to shield him from discovery.

  His usual silent ninja grace was somewhat hindered by the bulky bodysuit, but he managed to climb onto the cabinet, crouch, and then slowly rise until the next-door backyard came into view.

  The first thing he saw was the pool because it took up so much real estate. In the far corner were large planters and a table plus chairs beneath a modest pergola. Colorful outdoor chairs were scattered around the patio. He could also see most of the guest apartment’s large window.

  If Summer was outside, she was against the wall separating them. From where he hid, she was directly under him.

  The next song was another soft rock classic. This time, he knew the artist. Neil Young singing “Harvest Moon.”

  His emotions surged, and he smiled. She had a playlist of moon songs.

  Hiding in the bushy foliage, he leaned against the top of the wall and tried to see. She was dancing back and forth, moving in and out of his field of vision. Her soft, joyful laughter came as a relief. It helped his aching heart to know she was happy.

  Proving how unbelievably dumb he could be, it took him several moments to realize she was whirling about with the baby in her arms. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the child. She was wrapped in a big blanket.

  Oh, my god. They were both so close. He leaned farther, desperate to get as near as possible. Her joy sucked him in. If he reached his arm out, he was sure he’d be able to touch her.

  She was luminous in the moonlight even though all he saw was the top of her head.

  He heard her voice, and his heart went nuts.

  “Whee!”

  He was almost over the wall when sense stopped him. Jerking back, he miscalculated his center of balance and wobbled.

  Damn weighted bodysuit.

  The next thing he knew, his feet were near his face as he tumbled backward off the tool chest. Landing with a hard thud, he caught the edge of the patio slab with his hip and rolled to the side as pain lanced through him.

  Grimacing in silence, he couldn’t believe how close he came to blowing it.

  He lay still for a few moments. Satisfied he wasn’t seriously hurt and aware he should be thanking his lucky stars, Arnie muzzled a grunt and carefully got on his feet. Stabbing pain where he took the brunt of impact brought him up short. Limping painfully, he made his way into the house and found Stan loading groceries into the old fridge.

  “Did you get ice?” he snarled.

  “Yep,” Stan replied with his face in the freezer. “Hang on a sec. Screwing in a new a light bulb.”

  Hobbling like the old man he was pretending to be, Arnie commanded his feet to keep moving until he could sit on a window seat across the room.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Stan barked.

  A thousand sarcastic, snappy comebacks stalled on his tongue. Him being a doofus wasn’t his brother’s fault.

  “I, uh, took a tumble.”

  “You took a tumble?” The disbelief in Stan’s tone said it all. “You mean like walking into a door to explain a black eye?”

  Ugh, Jesus. Whatever.

  Exasperated with himself, he spit out an answer. “I fell, okay?”

  “Uh-huh, got it.” Stan turned away,
and Arnie heard rustling in the kitchen. “Here.” He returned with something in his hand. “Ice for whatever hurts.”

  Accepting the cold compress cleverly concocted out of plastic bags, he pressed it against his side and grimaced. “Thanks.”

  Two or three minutes ticked by while Stan studied him like a bug under a magnifying glass. Once or twice, he also glanced at the sliders leading to the backyard.

  He had to give his brother credit. He put two and two together pretty damn quick.

  “What did you do?” Sounding aggravated, Stan crossed his arms and scowled.

  “Nothing,” he replied way too quickly. Though he mentally cringed like a guilty kid, pride made him stand his ground.

  With a theatrical eyebrow arch and a very sarcastic tone, Stan sniped, “I thought you were supposed to babysit me.”

  Stomping to the sliders, Stan pushed them open and marched into the backyard.

  “Fuck.” He hadn’t covered his tracks by moving the tool chest away from the wall.

  It didn’t take his brother long before he came stomping back, wearing an astonished frown.

  “How stupid are you? I’m serious, bro. How? Stupid?”

  What was he supposed to say? “Shut up. I learned my lesson.” He gestured to the makeshift ice pack. “Isn’t this enough?”

  “You tell me.” Stan threw his hands up. “If you go off script, I’m all sorts of screwed. What am I supposed to do? Is there a 1-800 number to report fuckups?”

  “It wasn’t a fuckup, and I did not go off script. Stop acting like Dad.”

  “Pfft. I’ll take Dad over Mom as a role model any day.”

  Digging his hole deeper wouldn’t accomplish anything, plus he was beat.

  “Look, can we be finished here for tonight? I can’t fucking think straight with her so close. I vote we close up shop and head to the hotel. Getting out of this damn getup will go a long way to improving my mood.”

  “No problem,” Stan answered. He sounded and looked indifferent.

  “We have work to do,” Arnie muttered. “Tomorrow will be here soon enough. I’m expecting an update from King on your mother’s whereabouts. Things will move quickly once we know where she is.”