He tapped a button on the intercom. “Thank you, Jocelyn.” He activated the speaker feature as he leaned back in the executive chair and rested his feet on the corner of the antique desk. “What’s up, cousin?”
“I’m calling to let you know Ciara and I have finally set a date for our wedding.”
Brandt “The Viking” Wainwright’s professional football career was cut short when he broke both legs in an automobile accident. Sidelined for the season and confined to his penthouse suite, Brandt had had a revolving door of private duty nurses before no-nonsense Ciara Dennison refused to let him bully her. In the end, Brandt realized he had met his match and his soul mate.
“Finally,” Giles teased. “When is it?”
“We’ve decided on February 21 at the family resort in the Bahamas. It’s after the Super Bowl, and that week the schools are out for winter break. And if adults want to bring their kids, then the more the merrier.”
Giles smiled. “I’m certain you won’t find an argument from the kids who’d rather hang out on a tropical beach than ski upstate.”
Brandt’s deep chuckle came through the speaker. “You’re probably right about that. Ciara’s mailing out the Save the Week notice to everyone. If the family is amenable to spending the week in the tropics, then I’ll make arrangements to reserve several villas to accommodate everyone.”
Giles listened as Brandt talked about their relatives choosing either to fly down on the corporate jet that seated eighteen, or sail down on the Mary Catherine, the Wainwright family yacht. Giles preferred sailing as his mode of transportation, because two to three times a month he flew down to the Bahamas to meet with the broker overseeing the sale of two dozen private islands now owned by Wainwright Developers Group International, or WDG, Inc.
The conversation segued to the news that there would be another addition to the Wainwright clan when Jordan and his wife, Aziza, welcomed their first child in the coming weeks.
Giles lowered his feet and sat straight when Jocelyn Lewis knocked softly on the door and stuck her head through the opening. She held an envelope in one hand.
Giles beckoned her in. “Hold on, Brandt, I need to get something from my assistant.”
“I know you’re busy, Giles, so I’ll talk to you later,” Brandt said.
“Give Ciara my love.”
“I’ll tell her.”
Giles ended the call, stood up and took the letter from Jocelyn’s outstretched hand. He thought of the woman as a priceless diamond after he had gone through a number of assistants in the four years since he’d started up the overseas division. Within minutes of Giles interviewing her, he had known Jocelyn was the one. At forty-six, she had left her position as director of a childcare center because she wanted to experience the corporate world. What prompted Giles to hire her on the spot was her admission that she’d taken several courses to become proficient in different computer programs.
He met the eyes of the woman who only recently had begun wearing makeup after terminating her membership with a church that frowned on women wearing pants and makeup. The subtle shade of her lipstick complemented the yellow undertones in her flawless mahogany complexion. “Who delivered this?” he asked, when he noticed that the stamp and the postmark were missing. Personal and Confidential was stamped below the addressee, while the return address indicated a Wickham Falls, West Virginia, law firm.
Jocelyn’s eyebrows lifted slightly behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “George brought it up. He said it came with this morning’s FedEx delivery.”
Giles nodded. “Thank you.” All mail for the company was left at the front desk. The receptionist signed for documents requiring a signature, and then she alerted the mail room where George logged in and distributed letters and packages to their respective departments.
Jocelyn hesitated and met her boss’s eyes. “I just want to remind you that I’ll be in late tomorrow morning. I have to renew my driver’s license.”
He nodded. Jocelyn had saved his department thousands when she redesigned the website from ordinary to extraordinary with photos of Bahamian-Caribbean-style homes on private islands with breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean and others with incredibly pristine Caribbean beaches.
Waiting until she walked out of the office and closed the door behind her, Giles sat down and slid a letter opener under the flap of the envelope. A slight frown settled into his features when he read and reread the single page of type. He was being summoned to the reading of a will. The letter did not indicate to whom the will belonged, but requested he call to confirm his attendance.
Picking up the telephone receiver, he tapped the area code and then the numbers. “This is Giles Wainwright,” he said, introducing himself when the receptionist identified the name of the law firm. “I have a letter from your firm requesting my presence at the reading of a will this coming Thursday.”
There came a pause. “Please hold on, Mr. Wainwright, while I connect you to Mr. McAvoy’s office.”
Giles drummed his fingers on the top of the mahogany desk with a parquetry inlay.
“Mr. Wainwright, I’m Nicole Campos, Mr. McAvoy’s assistant. Are you calling to confirm your attendance?”
“I can’t confirm until I know who named me in their will.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wainwright, but I cannot disclose that at this time.”
He went completely still. “You expect me to fly from New York to West Virginia on a whim?”
“It’s not a whim, Mr. Wainwright. Someone from your past indicated your name in a codicil to their will. If you choose not to come, then we’ll consider the matter settled.”
Giles searched his memory for someone he’d met who had come from West Virginia. The only person that came to mind was a soldier under his command when they were deployed to Afghanistan.
Corporal John Foley had lost an eye when the Humvee in which he was riding was hit by shrapnel from a rocket-propelled grenade. The young marine was airlifted to a base hospital, awarded a purple heart and eventually medically discharged. Giles prayed that John, who had exhibited signs of PTSD, hadn’t taken his life like too many combat veterans.
He stared at the framed pen and ink and charcoal drawings of iconic buildings in major US cities lining the opposite wall. A beat passed as he contemplated whether he owed it to John or his family to reconnect with their past.
“Okay, Ms. Campos. I’ll be there.”
He could almost imagine the woman smiling when she said, “Thank you, Mr. Wainwright.”
Giles hung up and slumped down in the chair. He had just come back from the Bahamas two days ago, and he was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed for more than a week and hopefully catch up on what was going on with his parents and siblings.
Most days found him working in his office hours after other employees had gone home. It was when he spent time on the phone with his Bahamas-based broker negotiating the purchase of several more uninhabited islands. Other days were spent in weekly meetings with department heads and dinner meetings in the company’s private dining room with the officers and managers—all of whom were Wainwrights by bloodline or had married into the family.
Wainwright Developers Group was the second largest real estate company in the northeast, and everyone associated with the company was committed to maintaining that position or bringing them to number one.
Swiveling on his chair, he sent Jocelyn an email, outlining his travel plans for the following Thursday. Giles had no idea where Wickham Falls, West Virginia, was, but in another week he would find out.
* * *
Giles deplaned after the jet touched down at the Charleston, West Virginia, airport. A town car awaited his arrival. Jocelyn had arranged for a driver to take him to Wickham Falls. She had also called a hotel to reserve a suite because he did not have a timetable as to when he would return to New York.
The trunk to the sedan opened, and seconds later the driver got out and approached him.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
Giles nodded. “Yes.” He handed the man his suitcase and a leather case with his laptop.
When he’d boarded the jet, Giles had experienced a slight uneasiness because he still could not fathom what he would encounter once he arrived. He had racked his brain about possible scenarios and still couldn’t dismiss the notion that something had happened to John Foley.
He removed his suit jacket, slipped into the rear of the car, stretched out his legs and willed his mind blank. When Jocelyn confirmed his travel plans, she informed him that Wickham Falls was an hour’s drive from the state capital. Ten minutes into the ride, he closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until the driver announced they were in Wickham Falls. Reaching for his jacket, he got out and slipped his arms into the sleeves.
“I’m not certain how long the meeting is going to take,” he said to the lanky driver wearing a black suit that appeared to be a size too big.
“Not a problem, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll wait here.”
Giles took a quick glance at his watch. He was thirty minutes early. His gaze took in Wickham Falls’s business district, and he smiled.
It was the epitome of small-town Americana. The streets were lined with mom-and-pop shops all sporting black-and-white awnings and flying American flags. Cars were parked diagonally in order to maximize space. It was as if Wickham Falls was arrested in time and that modernization had left it behind more than fifty years before. There was no fast-food restaurant or major drug store chain. To say the town was quaint was an understatement.
He noted a large red, white and blue wreath suspended from a stanchion in front of a granite monument at the end of the street. A large American flag was flanked by flags representing the armed forces. Giles knew it was a monument for military veterans.
He strolled along the sidewalk to see if John Foley’s name was on the monument. There were names of servicemen who’d served in every war beginning with the Spanish–American War to the present. There was one star next to the names of those who were missing in action, and two stars for those who’d died in combat. Although he was relieved not to find the corporal’s name on the marker, it did little to assuage his curiosity as to why he had been summoned to Wickham Falls.
As he retraced his steps, Giles wasn’t certain whether he would be able to live in a small town. He was born, grew up and still lived in the Big Apple, and if he wanted or needed something within reason, all he had to do was pick up the telephone.
He opened the solid oak door to the law firm and walked into the reception area of the one-story, salmon-colored stucco building. He met the eyes of the middle-aged woman sporting a ’60s beehive hairstyle, sitting at a desk behind a closed glass partition. She slid it open with his approach. His first impression was correct: the town and its inhabitants were stuck in time.
“May I help you, sir?”
Giles flashed a friendly smile. “I’m Giles Wainwright, and I have an appointment at eleven to meet with Mr. McAvoy.”
She returned his smile. “Well, good morning, Mr. Wainwright. Please have a seat and I’ll have someone escort you to the conference room.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
Giles did not bother to sit on the leather sofa, but stood with both hands clasped behind his back. He had sat enough that morning. First it was in the car heading for the airport, then all through the flight and again during the drive from the airport to Wickham Falls. He had altered his normal morning routine of taking the elevator in his high-rise apartment building to the lower level to swim laps in the Olympic-size pool.
Swimming and working out helped him to relax, while maintaining peak physical conditioning from his time in the military. Going from active duty to spending most of his day sitting behind a desk had been akin to culture shock for Giles, and it had taken him more than a year to fully adjust to life as a civilian.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
He turned when he recognized the voice of the woman who’d called him. “Ms. Campos.”
The petite, dark-haired woman with a short, pixie hairstyle extended her hand. “Yes.”
Giles took her hand and was slightly taken aback when he noticed a small tattoo with USMC on the underside of her wrist. He successfully concealed a smile. It was apparent she had been in the Marine Corps. “Semper fi,” he said sotto voce.
Nicole Campos smiled. “Are you in the Corps?”
He shook his head. “I proudly served for ten years.”
“I was active duty for fifteen years, and once I got out I decided to go to law school. I’d love to chat with you, Mr. Wainwright, but you’re needed in the conference room.”
Giles always looked forward to swapping stories with fellow marines, yet that was not a priority this morning. He followed her down a carpeted hallway to a room at the end of the hall.
His gaze was drawn to a woman holding a raven-haired baby girl. Light from wall sconces reflected off the tiny diamond studs in the infant’s ears. The fretful child squirmed, whined and twisted backward as she struggled to escape her mother’s arms.
He smiled, and much to his surprise, the baby went completely still and stared directly at him with a pair of large round blue eyes. She yawned and he was able to see the hint of two tiny rice-like teeth poking up through her gums. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the baby girl. There was something about her eyes that reminded him of someone.
His attention shifted from the baby to the man seated at the head of the conference table. His premature white hair was totally incongruent to his smooth, youthful-looking face.
Giles smiled and nodded. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. I’m Preston McAvoy. Please excuse me for not getting up, Mr. Wainwright, but I’m still recovering from dislocating my knee playing football with my sons.” He motioned to a chair opposite the woman with the baby. “Please sit down.”
Giles complied, his eyes meeting those of the woman staring at him with a pair of incredibly beautiful hazel eyes in a tawny-gold complexion. He wondered if she knew she looked like a regal lioness with the mane of flowing brown curls with gold highlights framing her face and ending inches above her shoulders. A slight frown appeared between her eyes as she continued to stare at him. He wondered if she had seen him during his travels in the Bahamas, while Giles knew for certain he had never met her because she was someone he would never forget; she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Preston cleared his throat and opened the file folder on the table. He looked at Giles and then the baby’s mother. “I’m sorry when my assistant called to ask you to come in that she was bound by law not to tell you why you’d been summoned.” He removed an envelope from the folder and withdrew a single sheet of paper. His dark eyes studied each person at the table. “This is a codicil to Samantha Madison Lawson’s last will and testament.”
Giles went completely still. The name conjured up the image of a woman from his past who had disappeared without a trace. Now it was obvious he had not come to West Virginia for an update about a fellow soldier, but for a woman with whom he’d had an off-and-on liaison that went on for more than a year.
“Ms. Lawson, before she passed away,” Preston continued, “made provisions for her unborn child, hence named Lily Hope Lawson, to become the legal ward of her sister, Mya Gabrielle Lawson. Ms. Lawson, being of sound mind and body, instructed me not to reveal the contents of her codicil until a month following her death.” He paused and then continued to read from the single page of type.
Giles, a former marine captain who had led men under his command into battles where they faced the possibility of serious injury or even death, could not still his momentary panic. A tense silence swelled inside the room when Preston finished reading.
He was a father! The woman sitting across the table w
as holding his daughter. He had no legal claim to the child, but his daughter’s mother sought fit to grant him visitation. That he could see Lily for school and holiday weekends, Thanksgiving, Christmas and one month during the summer, while all visitations would have to be approved by Mya Gabrielle Lawson.
Giles slowly shook his head. “That’s not happening.” The three words were dripping with venom.
“What’s not happening?” Preston questioned.
“No one is going to tell me when and where I can see my daughter.”
“You’ve just been told.” The woman holding the child had spoken for the first time.
Copyright © 2017 by Rochelle Alers
ISBN-13: 9781488093357
Just What the Cowboy Needed
Copyright © 2017 by Teresa Southwick
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