She had aged well and was still a beautiful woman. There were only a few laugh lines around her mouth that didn’t quite gel with the sadness visible in her gaze.
He continued reading. Current residence: Coronado Island, California. Occupation: Artist. In his mind’s eye, he recalled the landscapes on the walls of his family’s beach home. Lively and expert scenes depicting Jersey Shore life with the initials GG painted into one corner. His mother’s work. That prompted another memory of his father ranting and raving about her “Left Coast values” years after she’d gone. Someone like his father could never understand an artist like his mother.
Or like me, he thought as he continued reading.
His parents had met when his mother had come east to study with a famous landscape artist. As her California family had been relatively well-off, that had put Genevieve on the fringes of the social set that included the Sinclair and Pierce families. His father had met her a few short months before Maggie Sinclair’s parents had married. Within a year of meeting Genevieve, his father had proposed, and Owen had followed a scant three years later. Two and change years after that, he’d followed, and from what he could see in the report, the marriage had been stable, but not necessarily happy, for about another four years. Then it had all gone to hell.
The investigator had managed to obtain a copy of the divorce decree but not the settlement itself. After the divorce, Genevieve had moved back to California and her parent’s home in Coronado, where she still lived and worked out of a small studio in the back of the family home. Photos showed a nice-sized, Spanish-style structure across the street from the municipal golf course and just blocks away from the Hotel Coronado, a yacht club, and the beaches.
Pricey real estate, he thought, and although it had been her family home, it would take a lot of money for upkeep and taxes. He wondered if his father was responsible for paying for it. But the next part of the report was filled with long lists detailing Genevieve’s various gallery showings as well as retail locations where her art could be purchased. Clearly, she was a commercially successful artist, although he noted that all of the showings and locations were on the West Coast.
Left Coast values, he remembered again and wondered if his father’s anger and bitterness were responsible for her avoiding the East Coast. Or maybe it was the possibility of running into her former husband and sons that kept her three thousand miles away.
That’s about to change, he thought and was about to close the file when the family tree in the next section caught his eye. He ran a finger across the list of names dating back to the 1700s and a Spanish settler who was his ancestor, something he hadn’t known. But then again, he didn’t know anything about the Gordon side of the family. As he moved farther down the list, he jerked to a stop at the name below Genevieve’s: Thomas Pierce.
A brother? I have a brother? he thought and peered at the date of birth. Thomas had been born seven years after him, during the divorce proceedings. That would make him about nineteen.
He remembered himself at nineteen. He had been trying to find himself after his first year at college. After falling in love with Connie. It had been hard for him, especially when his father had disowned him, but he’d had Owen. He’d always had Owen.
Who had Thomas had? he wondered. What was he like?
He slammed the file shut, experiencing so many emotions. So much hurt and anger, but also hopefulness. Until you drew your last breath, it was still possible to change. If you cared to, that was. Certainly, his father wasn’t open to it, given their last discussion at the Pierce home. But he wasn’t his father.
Grabbing his computer, he went to the website for the Hotel Coronado and was pleased to find that the hotel permitted pets. He smiled and called out, “Looks like you’re going to take your first plane ride, Dudley.”
Chapter 24
Connie perused the faces of the five town council members as they sat next to her at the conference room table. She’d caught several of them nodding as she’d recited some of the facts and figures she had provided during her presentation. The nodding was a good sign, she had learned in law school. A very good sign, but she knew that what swayed people most was emotion, and she had saved that for last.
“Having the Pierce company’s research and development center in Sea Kiss will provide both prestige and a steadier stream of income for the area’s inns and businesses. It will provide opportunities for the area’s children to learn coding and be able to compete for STEM positions, gifting them with greater possibilities for their future.”
More nods came with her words, and two of the members bent their heads close to whisper to each other. Members with young children, she knew from the research she’d done in preparation for the meeting. Pleased, she pressed on.
“But just as you have to consider Sea Kiss’s future, it’s important to remember the town’s rich history, which includes the Chitarra Guitar Company building,” she said, then reached into her briefcase and removed another set of materials. She rose, handed the photos to the council members, and remained standing, intending to weave them a story they couldn’t refuse.
“Imagine a young man in Sicily. An apprentice to a master builder of violins, guitars, and mandolins. A young man with dreams who knew his future was in the United States. He boards a ship with the money he’s saved and makes it to Ellis Island. He finds himself in New York City, but he’s not a city boy. He loves the sea after his long ocean trip and wants to be closer to it. So he works his way down the Jersey Shore until he comes to Sea Kiss.”
She motioned to the first photo of a young man standing next to a building that was little more than a shack right next to the railroad tracks. Right where the guitar company building would later rise.
“That man’s name was Vincenzo Scordato, and in the 1930s and ’40s, Vincenzo was one of the pioneers in advancing the electric guitar. After Les Paul developed the solid body electric guitar, in Mahwah by the way, Vincenzo engineered his own models. In time, those early models became some of the most coveted guitars used by the top names in rhythm and blues and rock and roll. Through Vincenzo and his company, Sea Kiss is a part of that musical history.”
She paused to let that sink in, especially as the members thumbed through the photos she had included of some of music’s most famous musicians playing Chitarra electric guitars. As they began to chatter among themselves, she took a few breaths and launched into her finale the same way she might a closing argument before a jury.
“Pioneer. Inventor. Dreamer. Those words describe Vincenzo, but they also apply to Jonathan Pierce. Jon is a man who appreciates the past but thinks toward the future. If he’s allowed to, Jon will not only preserve Vincenzo’s legacy, but also safeguard the future of Sea Kiss by providing jobs and opportunities that condos for summer folk won’t ever do.”
She waited, letting them consider her words, and as her gaze connected with that of the councilman who had arranged the meeting, it was obvious he saw that future. With a nod, he seemed to be giving her permission to finish. She dipped her head in understanding and said, “I want to thank you for taking the time to listen to me and now, if you have any questions…”
A hand went up and then another. For nearly an hour, she patiently answered their questions and clarified any doubts that the members had about the facts and figures she had presented and also with regard to the plans that Jonathan had for providing coding classes and internships for local students and adults. When she was done, several of the members exchanged glances before her contact on the council rose and gestured her toward the door.
She gathered her things and exited with the councilman following. As they strolled down the hall, the older man said, “That was quite a presentation, Counselor. Jonathan Pierce is a lucky man in more ways than one.”
His words brought her up short. She looked at him, puzzled, until he said, “I’ve seen the two of you together around town
. Am I wrong to assume there’s more to it than the purchase of the guitar company building?”
She shook her head and said, “It’s complicated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was rather hoping that you’d be spending more time here in Sea Kiss. In fact, after that presentation you made, I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone in thinking you might be a good candidate to replace the township attorney who’s retiring in a few months.”
“The township attorney?” she asked, surprised.
“I know that position is probably nothing like your big, fancy job in New York, but I know you care about the people in Sea Kiss. That was obvious not only from that speech, but also from the way you helped so many of our citizens after the hurricane. Not to mention the countless hours you spent on the rebuilding committee with Ms. Sinclair and Owen Pierce.”
“I like helping people, and there were too many good people who needed my help,” she said and started walking again toward the exit.
The councilman matched his pace to hers, strolling beside her. “Did I mention it’s a part-time job? That would leave you time for your own clients.”
Her own clients. Ones like those that she’d had to battle Goodwyn to take on. People like those she’d helped after Hurricane Sandy.
“I appreciate your confidence in me—”
“Such a polite way of saying you’re not interested,” the older man said.
She stopped again and examined him. “I think it’s another case of it being complicated, but I will keep it in mind.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “In case you sort out all those complications and decide some fresh sea air is just what you need.”
Hesitating, she glanced at it for the space of a few heartbeats and then reached out and took it. “Thank you, Mr. Eaton. I promise that I will keep the position in mind.”
With a nod and a smile, he said, “Good. I suspect we’ll be giving you a call soon to tell you we’ve tabled the rezoning discussion.”
She laid a hand on his suit sleeve. “If you do table it, I’d appreciate it if you’d contact Mr. Pierce directly. I’m sure he’d love to hear the news first.”
Eaton narrowed his eyes and looked at her. “And it would make things less complicated for you, I suppose.”
She smiled. “You suppose right.”
* * *
Jonathan had sauntered past the home two or three times. If he’d done that in New York City, it would have brought unwarranted attention from passersby. On this stretch of sun-drenched street in Coronado, he hadn’t seen a person pass by in the fifteen minutes he’d been walking back and forth. Maybe when you had gorgeous weather virtually every day, there was no reason to step out and enjoy another glorious day, he thought.
He wished he smoked. It would have given him something to do as he paced past the home another time, building the courage to walk up to the door. In his mind, he imagined knocking on the ornate, hand-carved wooden door and seeing it open.
Will she look like she did in the headshot that the investigator snagged from her website? He’d pored over the website and the report for hours before he’d boarded the flight to San Diego and after he’d checked into the hotel. The words on the internet and in the file had done little to tell him anything about the woman who was his mother.
But the pictures…her paintings and sketches had told him so much more. They were vibrant, and while realistic, there was a dreaminess in them that called to him on some level. Maybe we are alike in some ways, he thought and stopped dead at the foot of the walk leading to the front door. And maybe they were nothing alike, because he couldn’t ever imagine leaving behind his brother and never seeing him again. His father? That was a whole ’nother case, since he couldn’t care less if he ever saw the old bastard again. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
He should have brought Dudley with him, only the pooch was busy being pampered by groomers at the hotel. He’d felt not so alone with the little terrier, especially since Connie had said goodbye again. Or did she? he thought, recalling her last words to him. “This isn’t goodbye,” she’d said, but she’d still walked away, just like his mother had walked away nearly twenty years earlier.
He wasn’t done with Connie by a long shot, but it was time to put an end to the questions he’d had for so long about his mother. And now about a brother he hadn’t even known he had.
He propelled himself up the walk and to the door. Wondered if he should have called ahead to see if she was home, but he hadn’t wanted her to know he was coming. He hadn’t wanted her to be able to avoid him.
The sounds of some kind of classical music wafted out from behind the impressive wooden door. Soothing sounds at odds with the bold colors and life in her paintings.
He looked for a doorbell, but there was none. Just the big wrought-iron knocker on the door. He grabbed it. The metal was slightly rough against his fingertips. He raised the heavy metal ring and then knocked on the door three times. Waited.
He thought he heard someone say, “Coming.” A soft, very feminine voice.
A second later, the door swung open, and he was staring into blue eyes just like in the photo. His eyes. His mother’s eyes.
There was a hint of puzzlement in her gaze for a moment, but then her eyes opened wide and a surprised “oh” escaped her before she laid a trembling hand on her mouth. There were hints of paint on her fingers, and she wore a smock smeared with a kaleidoscope of colors. He had interrupted her work.
“Genevieve? Or should I say Mother? Do you mind if I come in?”
She hesitated, but with a shaky hand, she drew the door open wider and stepped aside to let him enter. As she did so, she grabbed a small towel she had tucked into her smock waistband and wiped her hands clean. “I’m not quite sure what to say,” she said.
“‘Hello, Jonathan’ might be a good start.”
They had walked into a spacious area that was a living room at one end and a kitchen on the other. There was a door at the end of the kitchen, and through it, he could see the spill of light and the hint of an easel leg. Her studio, he thought.
“Do you mind?” he said and gestured in the direction of that door.
“No. I’ll make us some coffee,” she said as he strolled away from her and walked through the door into her space.
The clank of glass and metal followed him into the studio that was a conservatory added to the home. A half-finished canvas sat on the easel. A seascape, but not anything like the others he’d seen. This one was dark, the ocean turbulent and rough. No calm sea to welcome sailors but one to drag them down into deadly depths.
The smell of coffee hit him a second before she came in through the door carrying a tray with a carafe, cups, a little white cow, and sweeteners. She walked to the far end of the room and a wrought-iron table painted in white. She set the tray on the surface of the table and then sat on one of the chairs. As she waited for him, she folded her hands primly in her lap like an obedient child waiting for instruction.
So proper. The home so traditional. Nothing at all like the spirit in the paintings.
He sauntered over and sat, the metal hard beneath his ass. It kind of fit the mood he was in at his mother’s too-calm reaction. “So is this how it happens? We sit down like civilized folk and have some coffee? Chat about old times? Maybe you get around to telling me why you left me and Owen and never looked back? What about Thomas? Is he here? When do I get to meet my long-lost brother?”
She reacted to that finally. Tears shimmered in her eyes a second before she looked away, hiding her gaze from him.
Pity and anger warred inside him. Pity won out. He cupped her cheek tenderly and urged her to face him. “Momma,” he said, sounding like the scared little child who had cried for his mother for days after she’d left.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I never wanted f
or it to be like this. I never wanted to leave my boys,” she said as the tears finally escaped and ran down her cheeks.
My boys. How he remembered her calling them that when they were children. Laughing with them as they played on the beach in Sea Kiss. Memories lashed at him of those good times. Of building sand castles and even of her helping him finger paint. Making chocolate chip cookies and sitting at the kitchen table together, having warm cookies with ice-cold milk.
“Do you still bake?” he asked, not sure of how to continue their discussion.
She nodded and dashed the tears away from her face. “I do. I wasn’t sure you’d remember. You were so young…”
“I remember a lot, Momma. I remember,” he said, but then charged on. “Why did you leave?”
She took hold of his hand at her cheek and tucked it into hers. Looked away as she said, “It’s complicated, Jonathan.”
“Please, Momma. I need to know,” he said and silently added, So I can get on with my life.
Head still shaking, she said, “I knew when I married your father that I would never truly have his heart. He loved someone else, but I was a dreamer, and I thought that I could change him.”
She sucked in a deep inhale, held it, and then more words rushed out of her mouth. “It wasn’t bad at first. You might even say it was good. I never lacked for anything, and he was as loving as he could be. When you boys came…” A bright smile came to her eyes and more tears. “You were the light of my life. It made everything else tolerable, especially after Elizabeth Sinclair died.”
He didn’t remember that. He’d been way too young, although he had vague memories of Maggie’s mom and his father smiling on the beach. “He was in love with her?” he asked.
His mother shrugged. “I had suspected as much… The way he got after she died confirmed it for me. He was angry and so, so sad. Impossible to live with, but I dealt with it because of you and Owen, until he started in on my boys. That’s when I decided to divorce him.”
What Happens in Summer Page 20