And this did not better my mood.
I evaded with, “We’re meeting on Wednesday to nail down a message.”
“Are you angry at me?” she asked.
Yes, I’m angry at you.
Yes, yes, I’m angry at you.
I’m SO FUCKING ANGRY AT YOU.
But that was not about Judge.
That was about something she couldn’t change, something she couldn’t help, something that had happened to her, not that she made happen.
Something that was not her fault.
I was pissed all the same.
“Chloe?” she prompted.
I continued with my inspection of the store, stating drily, “I can manage my own love life, Mother.”
“You calling me ‘mother’ is not giving me good vibes,” she mumbled.
“Then perhaps butt out of my romantic liaisons.”
“Are you saying Judge is a romantic liaison?”
God damn it.
When I didn’t answer immediately, and it was not due to the fact a folded sweater was askew and I had to tuck my phone between ear and shoulder to right it, she continued.
“That kiss seemed to lean that way.”
Of course she saw the New Year’s kiss.
As I’d been the one being kissed, I knew there was no way in hell it could lean another way, even to an observer.
I decided to be blunt, which sadly made me repetitive.
“Mom, butt out.”
“I like him, what I know of him. But Duncan likes him very much—”
“Is this butting out?” I snapped.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“We’re both after the same goal,” I retorted. “But since it’s my life, how about you let me bear the brunt of that, yes?”
There was a moment’s hesitation and then, “I was wrong earlier, you don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m doing the walk-through before opening. I’m on until one by myself. I have things on my mind. No shade, Mom, but everything isn’t about you.”
Another hesitation before a quiet, “Ouch.”
She felt the pain, but I flinched.
Even if I knew that was harsh, I couldn’t find it in myself to take it back, smooth it over.
Are you looking after her?
Fuck you, Uncle Corey.
When I didn’t rush into the breach I’d caused, Mom entered it.
“Are you coming up to Prescott soon?”
Yes, next Saturday.
“I don’t know,” I told her.
“Even though you’re in the middle of something, I’d like to put a niggle in your ear to find some time to sit down with me to talk about your sister.”
So she was noticing something was up with Sasha too.
And that was going to be on me to help out with…
Too.
“We’ll plan that,” I replied.
“Starting next month, I’ll be in LA for three weeks of script run-throughs, wardrobe, that kind of stuff,” she reminded me for some reason since I already knew this. “I’m trying to spend as much time with Duncan as possible before I go. He’s going to spend the first week with me there, but he has to get back after that.”
With nothing better to say about information I already knew, I said, “All right.”
“I also have a wedding to plan, and I’d like my girls to be involved in that.”
Instantaneously, I wanted to vomit.
“I’d never speak to you if you didn’t,” I forced out one of those rare lies that hurt to tell.
“Chloe, are you okay?”
I was for a day and a half, I’m not now.
“I’m fine, Maman,” I said, my tone much warmer than it had been, and not only because the walk-through was complete, and outside that sweater, Mi-Young had left things just as they should be.
“All right, darling. I’ll leave you alone now.”
I never wanted my mother to feel like she was bothering me.
But I needed her to leave me alone now.
“Okay, speak soon,” I replied.
“Yes, soon. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
“Impossible,” she whispered.
God, I was such a bitch.
I made a kiss kiss noise and quickly hung up.
I then took a second to pull my shit together.
After that, I walked back to my office, grabbed my laptop from where it was locked in my credenza, the float from the safe, headed back out and set up the checkout desk.
I turned on our sound system, selecting a classy jazz duo playlist (piano and guitar) that I thought went great with the décor (I also allowed piano jazz, meditation classical, Yo-Yo Ma, Nina Simone, Diana Krall, Etta James, Billie Holliday, Harry Connick, Jr., Michael Bublé…and Lizzo).
Before I officially opened, I made certain the back door had caught, was bolted, and the alarm for that door was on, and then I headed up front to unlock that door.
I pulled the string on the neon sign by the window that was white against a gold background and said in a loping script Open. It was next to one of my window displays, these redone every two months. A display that I knew was stunning (they all were, and I did say so myself). I knew this because people often stopped and stared (then came in).
In fact, my front displays were getting to be a thing, with regulars and locals coming just to check them out (the former because I sent the news there was a fresh one in our newsletter).
I then turned to my store, which, after much consideration, and from the aesthetic, to the branding, to the décor, it worked perfectly, so I’d called it Velvet, and all at once, it washed over me.
I’d gone full-on art deco.
The focal point was a quartet of peach velvet, tulip swivel chairs on brass bases in the middle of the space flanking a low glass and brass coffee table.
The back wall was upholstered in tufted squares of the same peach velvet. The other walls were white.
There were round mirrors of varying sizes everywhere and geometric brass and white ceramic accoutrements. Even the brass-framed glass shelves were geometric, with the shelves being straight-sided ovals.
There was plenty of space to mill about. Not a single rack on the floor. All clothing rails and shelves were against the walls.
However, there were some glass-topped round tables with folded sweaters, tees or scarves, display stands containing jewelry, or glossy, milky ceramic counters topped with scented candles, lotions or bath treatments dotting the space. Though not a one of them was tall enough to in any way obstruct the eyeline from that upholstered wall.
All of this gave a feeling of lightness, openness. There was plenty of room to move around. Not a single nook existed where you would have to awkwardly squeeze past anyone.
And there was utterly no clutter.
I had a good deal of stock from numerous up and coming designers, a few established ones, some exceptional basics, and some pieces from artists.
But Velvet did not overwhelm you upon entry or at any moment when you were in it.
It might intimidate you because it was just that stylish.
But the bright, somewhat romantic, somewhat fun interior beckoned.
And hopefully eventually enveloped in warmth and inclusivity.
I made my way to the checkout desk and had just opened my Mac to pull up email and check if any online orders had come through that needed to be dealt with when the slight beep that sounded when the door was opened brought my attention to the front of the shop.
And my head immediately ticked to the side with who I saw stroll in.
He was not what I would expect of my first customer on a Monday.
Or ever.
Tall, maybe not as tall as Judge, but still, very tall.
Broad, definitely broader than Judge.
And ignoring the fact that he was openly alpha, perhaps even toxically so (the hero of that film 365 Days came instantly to mind), he was this wearing an almost crimin
ally well-cut suit.
And he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.
He did not glance at a single item in the store.
He came direct to me.
And the way he did it staring at me, I reached a hand out to my phone sitting on the checkout counter, a tickle of fear trailing down my spine.
This man wasn’t toxic (though he probably also was).
He was dangerous.
His dark eyes tracked my slight movement to the phone, giving indication he didn’t miss a thing.
That didn’t make me feel better.
“May I help you?” I asked when he was a couple of feet from the desk.
“Chloe Pierce,” he stated, his voice accented in a way I couldn’t call it from just his saying my name.
And it wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
He knew who I was.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Yes,” I said carefully.
“Did you get the packet I sent to you?”
What?
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“The packet,” he reiterated, and it hit me his accent was British. I wasn’t exactly sure, but I thought it might be Welsh. “That included the detailed report that I sent to you.”
I went perfectly still.
He read my stillness and thus didn’t wait for an answer to that question.
He asked another one.
“Do you need assistance with that?”
Assistance?
With finding some angle to matchmake my father with the lover he’d taken that had destroyed his marriage?
And maybe my life?
I pulled myself together and inquired, “Did Uncle Corey send you?”
He lifted a veined, long-fingered hand, reached into his inside pocket of his blue suit jacket, and pulled something out.
I saw it was a ribbed, sterling card carrying case. On the spot, I tagged it as vintage.
And Cartier.
He flicked it open with his manicured thumbnail, pulled out a card and set it on the desk in front of me.
“If you ever need me,” he said.
And that was that.
He spoke no more, asked no more, expected no more.
He turned around, and with a predator’s grace, sauntered out.
The door closed and I realized I wasn’t breathing.
I started doing that but could not tear my eyes off the door.
If you ever need me.
Uncle Corey.
I looked down at the card, reached out, picked up the thick, crisp cream stock and read the words in bold, modern, serif small capitals on the front.
It was just a name and a phone number.
The phone number was local.
Phoenix.
And the name was Rhys Vaughan.
R.
He was Uncle Corey’s.
And he’d been left to me.
Chapter 13
The Decision
Chloe
After the mysterious Rhys left, my morning didn’t get better.
It started with a text from Sasha.
Brunch is off and just to say, it’s all off between you and me until you stop being mean to Matt.
Receiving this, I was gripped with fury.
Utter fury.
Because my brother and sister were acting six years old.
Every quarter, I went through dozens of applications from women who had either been born to circumstances it was practically impossible to crawl out of or had been shit on repeatedly since their first coherent thought.
My brother and sister grew up in a beach house in Malibu. We’d all been given cars for our sixteenth birthdays. New ones. High performance ones. Not gently used ones with a hundred thousand miles on them. We went to private schools and our college was paid (or Matt’s was, Sasha, as yet, had elected not to partake, and I didn’t have any patience for the callowness of high school, I couldn’t fathom continuing that journey to college and being confronted with what I considered the dregs of the earth: frat boys). And beyond that, we’d been given trust funds that were enough to set us up in business (case in point, I was standing in mine), hearth and home with a nest egg besides.
And on that dreaded day far, far in the future when we lost Mom and/or Dad, we’d be filthy rich.
Of late, I had thought we’d been fortunate in our lives to have had to deal with very little adversity.
I was changing my mind about this thought.
Those two could have used some adversity.
Now they were behaving like spoiled brats.
Though I shouldn’t be surprised Matt called Sash to complain about me. Those two had been thick as thieves since children.
As Dad used to crow, “My son took one look at his baby sister with that peach fuzz and those big blues eyes, and it was all over.”
It was.
I did my own thing all my life, for certain.
But I did it with an eye to them.
I was always the big sister. Looking after them. Close to each in our special ways.
But still left out.
And at times, ganged up on.
Honestly, I’d never really cared.
(Truly, it was what it was.)
But now it hurt.
Especially Matt.
He was protective of Sasha (as was I), and they were very close, but that didn’t mean we weren’t all tight. We were a close family. A loving family. We all had our place, and we all had our relationships as a whole and with each other.
My way with Matt was that he’d always been my confidant. I knew, especially as he grew older, that I could take things to him, and he’d listen, and he was wise for his age (or he had been).
I missed that.
I missed it because I missed it, but I missed it more because now, I needed it.
So, naturally, I texted back, Excellent. I have no interest in dining with a juvenile. Text me when you grow up.
I didn’t need their shit.
I really did not.
It seemed I wasn’t going to get my way on that.
Because Matt finally broke his silence.
He did it to text, When you’re acting like a bitch, leave Sash out of it.
I did not reply.
I also sold nary an item until Madison came in. And the first thing I did when she arrived was rush out to grab a bite to eat and a coffee for both of us just so I could get some time to sort out my head.
I ate lunch at my desk, and I did not sort out my head.
From the drawer where I locked my purse, I unearthed the file a man apparently named Rhys Vaughan (though, who was named that? it was so perfectly kickass, it sounded like something a bunch of romance novel readers would come up with) had amassed for me.
I chewed on my Safeway sushi (which wasn’t half bad) and leafed through the file.
This Susan was really very pretty.
But she hadn’t led that great of a life (serial killer kidnapping her aside, she lost her mom young, and the reason that happened was so impossible to fathom, I blocked it out instantly).
I had to get back to Madison, so I put the file, with Vaughan’s card, back in the drawer, locked up and hustled out.
We fortunately had things pick up around three, so I was pretty sure I covered Madison’s salary that day (at most).
But my phone, which I left in my office for obvious reasons, was awash in notifications when I returned to it.
Sasha: That wasn’t nice.
Matt: You should apologize to Sash. She isn’t in this thing with you and me.
Mom: How about you, Sasha and I do some wedding gown shopping while I’m in LA? Fancy a weekend trip?
Dad: I’m feeling Wagyu. Would you like to join me Thursday for dinner at Capital Grille?
Judge: Do you have greenspace for Zeke, or do I need to come prepared?
Also Judge, though later: You okay?
Last from Judge, and this was what did i
t.
What made me decide.
Duncan told me you and your sister had a thing. Call me if you want to talk.
So somehow (probably because she was up there, living with them, and Duncan worked at home a lot so he could be close to Mom, especially in the mornings), between Sasha being a brat and Judge’s last text, Duncan had learned she was pissed at me, and for some ungodly reason, he’d shared this with Judge.
I did not want this to be my life.
“I do not want this to be my life,” I said out loud.
However, when I said the words out loud, it wasn’t the fight with Sasha and Matt that I was talking about.
As I realized this, I felt them.
They hurt.
I hated them.
I avoided them at all costs.
As such, I had practice in how to keep them at bay.
So when the tears threatened, I steeled myself against them, pulled out my laptop and got to work.
Once I’d read every section of the Kids and Trails program, it wrote itself, really.
I found some images to support the look I was suggesting, penned two strong messages we could send with a signup appeal that hinted at a funding appeal, broke those out into two loose outlines, even provided some scripting.
And then I emailed them to the addy Judge had programmed into my phone when we were at Dad’s for dinner.
This included a note that I dashed off deliberately, like it was the last thing I had to do at the end of a long day.
J-
Sorry, can’t do Wednesday or Saturday but this needs to get going.
I drafted a start.
If we could continue through email for the time being, I’d appreciate it. To that end, just send your notes in a reply.
Hope you enjoyed your Monday,
-Chloe
With that, I shut down my laptop, locked it up, did a walk-through to make sure all was good for the next day, the doors were secure, and I set the alarm before I walked out to my car and drove home.
And with iron will, through all that, I did not think of a thing.
Except what bottle of wine I’d open when I got home.
* * *
Judge
“She seemed high maintenance to me.”
Chloe was the new definition of high maintenance.
Judge took a sip of his beer and smiled at the starry sky.
Chasing Serenity Page 16