He began typing as Ryan put his sights back on Davy. “This was your idea? You could’ve caused serious damage.”
His air of defiance fading, Davy rocked on the balls of his feet. He seemed unwilling or unable to formulate a reliable defense. At the opposite end of the room, the two other band members began collecting the bungee cord and the skateboard with skittish movements. They looked like teenage boys caught skipping school.
Nathan paused in his typing. “Mr. D’Angelo, may I mention Adworks in the blog post?”
“Call me Ryan. Yes, mention my agency. Why don’t you add a sentence about the Wayfair’s plans to host more concerts next year?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and mention the Sunday brunch the inn will host.” He gave the details.
Nathan typed them in. “We’re good. Just need a photo.”
“You’re posting now?”
“On our blog, and then other platforms.”
The soft note of appeasement in the drummer’s voice made Cat reassess her opinion of him.
She asked Ryan, “Will any of this help us?” The inn was booked solid for Saturday night, but they were still taking reservations for the Sunday brunch.
“You bet. Midnight Boyz has a spectacular following on social media. Their older followers have money to spend on weekend getaways.”
With boyish pride, Nathan informed her, “We’re nearing a million followers on Twitter.”
“Incredible. You’re sure doing something right.”
“Thanks.”
Not to be outdone, Davy pulled out his smartphone. “I’ll get the photo.” He offered Cat his most solicitous smile. “Move in closer to Ryan, okay? We’re making you a star in about two minutes.”
“You’re posting a photo of us?” Worried, she gave Ryan a meaningful glance.
He slung his arm across her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. This isn’t USA Today. We won’t reach anyone past the age of thirty.”
Davy positioned the smartphone, clicked. “Yeah, but we’ll get two thousand retweets. Right, Nathan?”
Nathan flipped the laptop shut. “Three thousand.”
In the end, Nathan’s prediction was short of the mark. The tweet he sent from the Midnight Boyz account received 3,240 retweets. The photo of Cat and Ryan, featured above the link to the blog post, reached 771,882 people.
Sophomore Gemma Mills of Kent State University was the 400,212th person to read the tweet.
Chapter 13
On the knoll before Merrill Hall, Gemma rubbed her eyes with a yawn.
Skipping a whole night of sleep wasn’t her style, not even over a tweet from her favorite band. After roaming the campus until dawn, the initial excitement was gone. Her legs burnt from walking all night. At a respectable hour she’d sent the text before crossing the campus to wait outside Merrill Hall.
Even now, the thought of sleeping didn’t appeal. Not until Gemma shared the incredible news.
At nine on a Sunday morning, a serene quiet enveloped the campus. Nothing broke the solitude except the intermittent rumble of cars on East Main and the noise from above. In the yellow birch tree shielding her, black squirrels hopped from limb to limb, their chattering outrage directed at the girl drowsing below.
The scent of Starbucks wafted up the hill. With a groan, Gemma pulled herself upright. Patty Chung, her round face brimming with concern, handed over the vanilla-infused iced coffee. Slender, with a pixie haircut and skin the appealing shade of polished teak, Patty was her all-time best-y.
“What the hell, Gemma?” She dipped her nose into the tendrils of steam rising from her own cup. “Don’t ever pull another disappearing act.”
“I left a note on my bed.”
“You mean the demolition zone on the bunk bed beneath mine? I didn’t find the note until midnight. Why didn’t you text?”
“Needed to sort myself out first.”
“Two words on my cell: I’m safe. That’s all I’m asking.” Patty took a hasty sip of her Starbucks. Then she brought her index finger and thumb to nearly touching. “I was this close to calling your parents and the campus police. What if you’d been abducted?”
“I should’ve told you I was walking around.” As roomies, they’d crafted an agreement to keep each other posted if they went out at night. A college campus offered lots of entertainment—and just as much danger. Before she had stumbled across the tweet by Midnight Boyz, breaking their solemn pact would’ve been unthinkable. “I needed alone time. I was pretty blown away.”
“You walked around all night? Why?”
“I’ve found Ryan.”
The revelation squashed her roommate’s temper. “Your half brother? That Ryan?”
Gemma pulled out her phone, navigated to the photo taken in the Wayfair’s ballroom. “Meet Ryan. Incredible how much we look alike.”
Intently her roommate studied the photo of the couple, the man smiling confidently for the camera, the sexy Latina beneath his arm gazing bashfully at him. Patty returned her attention to the man.
She threw Gemma beneath an equally careful inspection. “Talk about a strong resemblance. Only thing different is the hair. Freaky how much you look alike.”
“We both take after our father.”
“The asshole?” Patty winced. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. At least he didn’t strap me with a crappy genetic profile. What if he’d looked like a warthog? I wouldn’t have landed a boyfriend until I’d clawed my way up the evolutionary scale.”
Solemnly Patty nodded. “Good looks count for something.”
Although Gemma had inherited her mother’s honey-gold mane, her angular features—and her eye color—were a strong match for the short-tempered drifter she remembered from her early childhood. Ryan, with his much-darker hair and strong, masculine face, looked spookily similar to George Hunt.
Patty snatched the phone away. “Who’s the babe with your brother? She’s gorgeous.”
“Cat Mendoza, one of his clients. Also his girlfriend, right?”
“He’s sure holding her tight.”
“She’s in charge of marketing for the Wayfair Inn.”
“In Sweet Lake? I’ve heard of the Wayfair.” Patty looked up with puzzlement. “I thought you said Ryan lives in California.”
The mistaken assumption was based on the birth certificate tucked in with the photographs that were among Gemma’s most cherished possessions. All of the photos were shot in the San Francisco area, leading her to believe Ryan lived in California. It boggled the mind to learn he wasn’t a continent away. She’d grown up believing the odds of meeting were negligible, at least until she put together enough cash for a trip to California. Even then, she hadn’t been hopeful about finding Ryan Hunt in a city the size of San Francisco.
Of course, there was the additional revelation she’d discovered last night. Somewhere along the line, Ryan Hunt had changed his name to Ryan D’Angelo.
Reading the Midnight Boyz tweet—and recognizing the man in the photo—was incredible enough. Learning her brother lived in the same state fell into the category of major miracles.
“He’s right here in Ohio.” Snatching back the phone, Gemma navigated quickly. She still felt woozy from lack of sleep, but the relief of sharing her secret provided a much-needed adrenaline boost. Plus she felt vindicated—Patty had never fully bought into the story about her older half brother. Now she seemed totally convinced. “The drummer for Midnight Boyz also posted on his blog. He mentioned Ryan works in Cincinnati, at a place called Adworks. I searched, and found this article. It came out last month.”
The USA Today feature popped onto the screen. The photos weren’t grainy like the one tweeted by the band. Larger, crisper, they depicted a successful businessman with the familiar raven hair and eyes that Gemma’s mother described as pine-tree green. The deep, jewel-like color was both remarkable and rare. In all her nineteen years, not once had Gemma found anyone with eyes like those she inherited from her deadbeat dad—unti
l she saw Ryan’s photo.
Yet more proof of their undeniable connection.
Patty said, “You have the same mouth.”
“Think so?” Gemma studied the photos closely.
“Same nose too. His skin tone looks a little darker. Might be a tan.” Patty appeared to reflect on the uncanny resemblance as she sipped her Starbucks. “I don’t get the last name. D’Angelo. Why isn’t it Hunt?”
After walking the campus all night in deep contemplation, Gemma had settled on a plausible explanation. “Julia must’ve changed their last name when Ryan was a kid. He was born Ryan Hunt. I’ve got his birth certificate to prove it. She must’ve done the name switch so George couldn’t find them. D’Angelo wasn’t her maiden name. It was Brugnet—I have a really old lease from an apartment she rented before she married.”
“Slow down. Who’s Julia?”
“Ryan’s mother—George’s ex-wife.” From her pocket, Gemma retrieved the timeworn envelope her mother had taken from George’s suitcase on the day she and Gemma’s stepdad, Simon, had kicked him to the curb. The envelope represented the earliest years of her brother’s life, as well as snippets from the years before his birth.
She shuffled through the familiar items like a deck of cards. Beneath a postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge, she produced a photo of a woman with brown hair standing before a jewelry store, the establishment’s signage frustratingly out of frame. “Meet Julia. Best guess, she was eight, ten years older than George. I have a photo from their honeymoon—he looks like a young punk, but you can see the tiny lines around her eyes. Julia definitely had some mileage on him.” She handed the photo to her roommate.
Patty studied the image for a long moment before setting it aside. “This is all fascinating, but what about your mom and Simon? You’re really close. Have you told them you’ve found your older brother?”
All night long, she’d struggled with the decision on what to do about her parents. “I can’t tell them yet. Not until I’m one hundred percent sure I have found him.”
“What’s the problem? There’s no missing the genetics. Not when they’re shouting this loud.”
“What if Ryan doesn’t want me in his life?” Uncertainty took a swipe at the confidence she’d spent hours mustering. “His mother went to the trouble of changing their last name, which tells me neither of them want anything to do with George. From Ryan’s viewpoint, I’m a reminder of the father we share. Doubt he has any clue George had another kid eleven years after he was born.”
Patty considered this. “Ryan may hate George, but that doesn’t mean he won’t want you around. I’m sure he will.”
“Then will you go with me to meet my big brother? Hopefully I’ll get up the guts to introduce myself.” On her phone, she brought up the blog post drummer Nathan Dukowski had posted on the band’s website. “Midnight Boyz play the Wayfair next Saturday night. Big concert on the beach. I can buy our tickets online. I’ve already found a room on Airbnb. We should book fast before someone else beats us.”
“We have midterms soon. My GPA comes before hot boy bands and your wish list.”
“We’ll curtail our social life all week. Study nonstop.”
“I’m broke.”
“I’ll pay for the whole trip.”
“With what? Your good looks and charm? If you sell the bulk of your meal plan to one of the guys on the football team, you’re not shadowing me in the food court for the rest of the semester. I’m not trading sushi for burgers just because you’re itching for a road trip.”
Gemma donned the expression her studious friend dubbed the “little orphan Annie” look. For most of her life she’d dreamt of meeting her big brother, but never believed the opportunity would arise. Another chance like this one wouldn’t arrive soon.
“I can’t do this without my best-y. If you don’t come, how will I find the guts to walk up and say hello? The only thing that scares me more than rejection is calculus. Please come with me to Sweet Lake. I won’t even ask you to pitch in on gas.”
“Nice move,” Patty grumbled, “since I’m the one with a set of wheels.”
“You’ll go?”
Eyes flashing, Patty finished off her Starbucks. “You’re a pain, Gemma. In case you didn’t know.”
Children and adults milled around the green spaces of Sweet Lake Circle.
The commotion caught his interest, and George slowed the car to a crawl. A Sunday bake sale was starting. Men were putting tables into place, end to end on the cobblestone walk. Bright-gold linens snapped down on the tables, which the women filled with home-baked treats. The scent of cinnamon drifted through the air, followed by the rich fragrance of freshly baked bread.
Last night’s whiskey still burnt in his belly. George pulled to the curb and got out.
An older woman with thick eyeglasses stood at the last table, the breeze tousling the tufts of white-and-auburn hair around her face. “Are you hungry? Only one dollar a slice. We’re taking additional donations if you’d like to help out the high school sports program.”
He appraised the pecan pie at her elbow. “Wish I could, ma’am.” The scent of the buttery crust made his mouth water. “I’m between jobs.”
“Oh, dear. That must be difficult. I hope you find work soon.”
“Thanks.” He took his time jingling the change in his pocket. “I’m all for good causes, but I’m not sure I should.”
The ploy sent pity trembling across her double chins. She took a hasty glance over her shoulder. Assured no one was nearby, she cut a big slice and handed over the paper plate. “My treat. Good luck with the job hunt.”
Thanking her, he ambled back to the Mustang. If he’d stuck around for another ten minutes, filling her head with a woeful tale invented on the fly, she would’ve handed over the whole pie.
Finishing the treat, he drove off toward Highland Avenue. The street where Sweet Lake’s wealthiest families lived immediately dulled his mood. It reminded him of how the long, humiliating slide in his life began when Julia up and left with his boy. Her leaving was a foul heap of bad luck he’d never scraped off.
They’d both worked good jobs in San Francisco, his at a Mercedes dealership and hers at Lux Jewels. Julia’s apartment was nothing like the roach-infested dives that came after. Back then, he got stoned too much and drank until his temper blazed. She should’ve been more patient, should’ve made allowances for the difference in their ages. Every time he beat her, he banged her good afterward, streaming sweat while he pleasured her, holding off his greedy spasm until she finished hers.
He was a man, after all, and knew how to gain forgiveness.
At first, Julia did forgive easily. Not so during their last year together, after he found her holed up in an apartment in Salt Lake City.
The memory of her response still ate at him, the way she’d lain there clawing the sheets. That last year, when their boy was a sullen kid in elementary school, she’d treated George like a stranger. Like he was taking advantage, and not her husband.
Flinging off the memory, George eased his foot from the gas. Three houses down, the white colonial stood like a king’s castle on a golf-course green. He brought the Mustang to a stop in leafy shade. Once more he went over the speech, a surefire winner to get Julia’s sister to open her purse.
A sharp burst of conversation brought his head up. Silvia Mendoza came out the front door of Frances’s house running her mouth. George spit out a curse. Dressed in old slacks and a work shirt, she looked like a woman heading to an afternoon of deep cleaning. Frances came next, her fancy dress making him wonder if she planned to take in her second church service of the day.
Climbing into Frances’s Audi, they drove off in the opposite direction.
Burning with frustration, he watched them go.
In the vestibule of Blessed Sacrament Church, Father Thomas chatted with the members of his flock. Ryan, ushering his mother through the stream of parishioners exiting the church, waved in greeting.
T
he priest’s silver brows lifted with mock astonishment. “Speak of the devil,” he quipped. “I’ve been wondering if you’d run away.”
“No talk of devils, padre.” Ryan chuckled. “We’re in a holy place.”
“Yes, and one you should visit more often. Say, every Sunday?”
“I’ll do better.”
“I’m holding you to that promise.”
Softening the rebuke, the middle-aged priest gave him a hearty clap on the back. Ryan had always been grateful for his friendship. The pastor of Blessed Sacrament had graced his life since adolescence, when the memory of Twin Falls rendered a traumatized sixteen-year-old nearly incapable of speech. It was Father Thomas who had suggested the angelic surname for the badly abused Julia Hunt and her son. On the day she appeared in court to receive her new name, he’d been there to support their small family.
Father Thomas regarded Julia affectionately. “The Life Teen ministry is looking for volunteers, Julia. You did a fine job raising this one. Would you consider helping at their meetings? They need an expert hand.”
“Oh, I’m no expert at parenting.” Flustered, she rubbed her thumb across the crystal beads of her rosary. “Easy enough to succeed when God sends you a boy with goodness through and through.”
“Will you give it some thought?”
“Not this month. I’m sewing Halloween costumes for some of the children on my street. I help their mothers every year.” Slipping her rosary into her purse, she deftly stepped from the spotlight. “Ryan, why don’t you look into helping the ministry?”
“A splendid idea!” Father Thomas agreed.
“Sorry, Father. Too busy this year.” Ryan splayed his palms in apology. “My boss is having her first child soon, and I’ve taken on new clients.”
“Any news on the personal front?”
At some point today, he’d planned to tell his mother about Cat’s offer. The pastor’s question, not entirely unexpected, gave Ryan the perfect opening.
The Comfort of Secrets Page 15