Chapter 9

Three months later

Chance leaned against the wall of the hospital with his hands pressed deep into the pockets of the dark denim he wore. As hospital personnel moved past him in completion of their duties and he ignored the scent of illness and antiseptic blending in the air, Chance eyed room 317.

On the other side of the closed door was his father.

Jeffrey Castillo.

He’d never seen him. Never met him. Never known anything about him except he was his father.

Over the last ninety days, he had made his life one adventure after another. Helicopter skiing in Alaska. Diving with sharks on the Australian coast off a megayacht. Shopping at the House of Bijan in Beverly Hills. Kayaking in Norway. Watching the grand prix in Monte Carlo. Skydiving in Dubai.

And then he’d received an inbox message on Facebook from a woman introducing herself as his father’s wife and letting him know his father was terminally ill and wanted to finally meet his eldest son. That was the day before, and now here he was. Chance hadn’t even told his mother.

I don’t know why I’m here.

Pushing up off the wall, he walked down the length of the corridor to the window, looking out at the cars lined up in the many parking spots and at the traffic whizzing past on the street.

He froze when he spotted a tall dark-skinned woman climb from a red car and make her way toward the hospital’s main entrance. His gut clenched until the moment he realized she was not Ngozi.

“Chance?”

He turned from the window to find a pretty round-faced woman with a short silvery hairdo paused at the door to his father’s hospital room. It was his father’s wife, Maria. She gave him a warm smile as she walked up to him.

“You came,” she said.

“I haven’t gone in,” he admitted.

Her eyes showed her understanding of his hesitation. “If you decide not to, I won’t tell him,” she said. “The man he is today is not the man he was before. Life has caused him to change, but that will never top how you must have felt growing up without his presence in your life.”

Chance liked her. Empathy was always a bridge to understanding and respect.

“Does he know you reached out to me?” he asked, looking down the length of the hall to the closed door.

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t want to disappoint him if you—or the others—chose not to come.”

Chance went still with a frown. “Others?”

Maria nodded, bending her head to look down as she opened her purse and removed a folded, well-worn envelope with frayed edges. She pressed it into his hands.

Chance allowed his body to lean against the wall as he took in the list of three names in faded ink—his and two more. “And these are?” he asked, looking at the woman.

“Your two brothers,” she said, offering him a gentle smile.

Chance deeply frowned. When he was younger, he was optimistic enough to wonder if he had sisters and brothers. Age and the passing of time with no such knowledge had led to him not caring and then not wondering about it all.

“Jeffrey and I also have a daughter, Chance,” she said gently. “Her name is Camila.”

His father. A stepmother. And three half siblings.

Chance shook his head, not quite sure of anyone’s intention and whether he was ready for a new family. “I need time,” he admitted, folding and shoving the envelope in his back pocket.

“I understand,” Maria said. “Please keep in mind that your fath—that Jeffrey is very ill, and this may be your last opportunity to see him alive.”

He nodded as his emotions whirled around like a tornado.

“Ma?”

He looked down the hall at a tall, slender woman in her midtwenties, with short jet-black hair and a shortbread complexion, standing in the open doorway to room 317. He knew from the lean beauty of her face and the similarities in their look that she was his sister, Camila. Camila Castillo.

“I’m coming,” Maria said, giving him one more smile filled with her desire for him to meet his father before she turned and walked to her daughter.

“Who is that?” Camila asked, swiping her long bangs out of her face as she eyed him in open curiosity.

“Someone who knows your father,” Maria said, offering a hint at the truth but successfully evading it.

Both women gave him one final look before entering the hospital room and closing the door behind them.

Quickly, Chance strode down the middle of the hallway, his height and strength seeming to make the space smaller. He felt pressure filling his chest as he pressed the button for the elevator with far more vigor than necessary. Coming there had become more than he bargained for. Once on the elevator, he pulled the frayed envelope from his back pocket and lightly rubbed the side of his thumb against the faded block lettering that he assumed to be that of his father.

A name on an envelope wasn’t much, but it was more of a thought than he’d ever imagined his father to have spent on him.

Chance stopped the elevator doors from closing and stepped off, making his way back down the hall to room 317. The door opened, and Camila exited. He stepped out of her path, but she stood there looking up at him even as the door closed behind her. “Excuse me,” he said, moving to step past her.

“You look just like my father. Are we related?” she asked in Spanish.

Chance froze and then stepped back, causing a nurse to have to swerve to avoid bumping into him. “My bad,” he apologized.

The pretty blonde gave him an appreciative look. “No problem,” she stressed before continuing on her way with a look back at him over her shoulder.

The door opened again, and Chance’s eyes landed on the gray-haired man lying on the hospital bed. He had but a brief glimpse as the door closed. He was surprised his heart pounded with such vigor.

Maria eyed Chance and then her daughter.

“Camila, I thought you went down to the café,” she said, reaching to press a folded bill into the younger woman’s hand. “Bring me something sweet to nibble on.”

“But, Ma—”

“Adios, Camila,” Maria said, gently nudging her daughter on her way.

With one last long look at Chance, she turned and walked down the hall to the elevators.

“You came back,” Maria said, squeezing his hand. “Come, Chance. Come.”

Gently, he withdrew his hand, but he followed her into the room.

“Mi amor, mi amor,” she said gently in a singsong fashion. “Look who is here, mi amor. It is Chance, your son.”

Chance stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the tall and thin man whose gaunt features could not deflect that he looked like a younger, fuller version of his father. Jeffrey opened his eyes. They were slightly tinged with yellow and glassy, but he couldn’t deny when they filled with tears.

Jeffrey reached out his hand to Chance and bent his fingers, beckoning him.

For so long, when he was younger, he wondered about the moment he would meet his father. Never had he imagined it happening on his deathbed with cancer winning in the fight for his life. His hesitation was clear as Maria eyed him and then her husband. His father’s hand dropped some, as if the effort exhausted him.

That evoked compassion from him, and Chance moved to the side of the bed to take his father’s hand in his own. His grip lacked strength. The scent of oncoming death clung to the air around him.

“Forgive me,” Jeffrey said, his Spanish accent present even in the weakened state of his tone.

Chance remained stoic even as he looked down into his father’s face. He didn’t know if his heart could soften to him. His mother had worked double shifts to make up for the help she did not receive from him. Even now, he didn’t know if she would feel betrayed by his coming to his father’s bedside.

“Forgive me?” Jeffrey asked this time.

Chance glanced across the bed to find Maria had quietly left them alone in the room. He shifted his gaze back down to his father. It was amazing that he could look so much like a man he had never met. His imprint was undeniable.

Chance released a breath and looked up at the ceiling as the emotions from his childhood came flooding back to him. He clenched his jaw.

The grip on his hand tightened.

Chance looked down. “Why?” he asked.

Jeffrey squeezed his eyes shut, and tears fell as he shook his head.

Chance hoped to be a father one day. He knew he would do better than his own sire because he would be present, scolding when needed and loving always, but if he made a misstep, he would hope on his deathbed he would be forgiven. He believed you had to give what you hoped to receive for yourself.

“Te perdono,” Chance said, offering this stranger the clemency he requested.

His father pulled his hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it and then made the sign of the cross as he gripped it. “Gracias,” he whispered up to him.

He had learned through the loss of the woman he loved that vengeance was a drawback he refused to let hinder his life again.

Passion Grove was truly home.

Ngozi adjusted the large oil painting she’d hung above her fireplace and then stood back to observe her handiwork. The artwork was alive with the vibrant colors and matched the decor of her new home in the affluent small town. It was a rental, but the Realtor said the owners may be interested in selling the four-bedroom, four-bathroom Colonial early next year.

Regardless, for the last month it was home.

“When did you get so Afrocentric?”

Ngozi sighed at the sound of her mother’s voice behind her. “I don’t know, Ma, maybe my name inspired me,” she said as she turned and eased her hand into the pockets of her oversize coveralls.

Her father chuckled from his spot relaxing on her bright red leather sofa.

Valerie gave him a sharp eye that only made him laugh harder. “With the new hair and all this artwork everywhere, you really are taking us back to the motherland,” she said, touching a large wooden African ceremonial mask that hung on the wall by the door.

Ngozi touched her faux locks, which were twisted up into a topknot. “My house, my way, Ma,” she said, coming close to kiss her cheek before moving past her to close the French doors and unfortunately cut off the breeze of April air drifting in from outside.

“You know, this new and improved Ngozi is a lot chattier,” Valerie said.

“Well, I like it,” Horace said, rising from the sofa.

“Me, too, Dad,” Ngozi agreed, looking around at the spacious family room, which had been the last of the areas she decorated.

For the first time in a long time, longer than she could remember, Ngozi had the same confidence and tenacity that made her a conqueror in the courtroom in her personal life. She enjoyed living her life by her gut instincts and not just by what she thought others wanted her to do or to be. Not living to please others was freeing.

Her parents, particularly her mother, were adjusting to discovering just who their daughter truly was.

Valerie winked at Ngozi. “If you like it, I love it,” she said.

Ngozi had discovered over the last ninety days that her parents weren’t as strict and judgmental as she’d thought growing up. She’d never felt so close to them.

The night she’d opened up about Haaziq, they’d discussed the impact of his death on their lives. She’d discovered that they tiptoed around her just as much as she placated them. In the end, they were a family trying to cope with a death and just didn’t know how to do it.

Now if a memory of Haaziq rose, no one shied away from the thought, and instead they would share a laugh or just reminisce on the time they did get to have him in their lives. And if they were moved to a few tears, that was fine. They grieved him and got through the moment.

“Horace, you ready?” Valerie asked, reaching for her designer tote bag sitting on one of the round end tables flanking the leather sofa. “The town council is cutting the ribbon on the Spring Bazaar, and I do not want to be late.”

He eyed his wife as she smoothed her white-gloved hands over the skirt of the pale apricot floral lace dress she wore. It was beautiful and fit her frame well, but it was completely over the top for a local bazaar being held on the grounds of the middle school that offered the works of artists and crafters with plenty of vendors, good food, rides and live music.

“Has she always been so extra?” Ngozi whispered to her dad as her mother reapplied her sheer coral lip gloss.

“Yes, and I love every bit of it,” he said with warm appreciation in his tone.

Ngozi looked at him, clearly a man still enthralled by his wife.

I want someone to look at me that way.

Not someone. Chance.

Ngozi pushed thoughts of him away.

“I never wanted to marry until I met and eventually fell in love with your mother,” Horace said, walking over to wrap his arm around his wife’s waist and pull her close. They began to sway together as they looked into each other’s eyes.

“Right,” Valerie agreed. “And I was so career driven that at thirty-nine I began to assume I would never find love and have a family of my own...until your daddy put on the full-court press for my attention. I never assumed this man I competed with in the courtroom for so many years would turn into the love of my life.”

“Same here,” he agreed, doing a little shimmy and leading them into a spin.

“I tamed that dog,” she teased.

“The dog tamed himself,” he countered.

“So I guess your always loving that Vincent and Associates Law also spells out VAL isn’t proof enough that you’re sprung?” Valerie stroked his nape.

“And you’re not?” he asked, with a little jerk that pulled her body closer.

They shared an intimate, knowing laugh.

“Respect your elders, Horace,” she said. “You’re lucky I don’t make you call me Mrs. Vincent.”

“Two whole years older than me. Big deal,” he said.

Ngozi looked at them with pleasure at their happiness and a bit of melancholy that she didn’t have that, as well.

Her parents were in their early seventies but lived life—and looked—as if they were far younger.

“You’re going to wrinkle my dress, Horace,” Valerie said, not truly sounding as if she cared.

“Wait until you see what I do to it when I get you home,” he said low in his throat before nuzzling his face against her neck.

Ngozi rolled her eyed. “Helllllooo, I’m still here. Daughter in the room,” she said.

“And? How you think you got here, little girl?” Valerie asked, ending their dance with a kiss that cleared her lips of the gloss she’d just applied. “Your conception was not immaculate.”

“But it was spectacular,” Horace said.

“Don’t you make us late,” she said in playful warning.

Ngozi walked across the spacious family room. “Okay, let me help mosey y’all along,” she said over her shoulder as she left the room and crossed the foyer to open the front door.

They followed behind her.

“Any chance you’re going to change?” Valerie asked, eying the overalls.

In the past, Ngozi would have found a pretty spring dress to wear to please her mother, complete with pearls and a cardigan. “No, ma’am.”

“Leave her be, Val,” Horace said before leaving the house and taking the stairs down to his silver two-door Rolls Royce Wraith sitting on the paved drive.

Valerie quietly made prayer hands in supplication as she left.

“See you later at the bazaar, Ma,” Ngozi said, closing the door.

She turned and leaned against it, looking at her home. She was proud she had taken a large space and infused it with warmth and color. Not even the apartment she’d shared with her husband had her personal touch. She had chosen what she thought he would like.

No, this is all me.

Ngozi closed her eyes and just enjoyed being in her own place and her own space for the first time in her life.

Ding-dong.

The doorbell startled her. Ngozi’s heartbeat was racing as she turned to open the door. She smiled at Josh, one of the high school kids who served as deliverymen for The Gourmet Way, the grocery store on Main Street that specialized in delicacies.

“Hello, Ms. Johns, I have your weekly delivery,” the tall freckle-faced blond said with a smile that showed off his Invisalign braces.

“Come on in,” she said, closing the door when he obeyed and then leading him with the heavy black basket he carried through the family room, which opened into the gourmet kitchen.

Josh set the basket on top of the marble island.

“Are you going to the Spring Bazaar?” Ngozi asked as she removed a twenty-dollar bill from the billfold sitting with files and her laptop on the large kitchen table before the open French doors.

“As soon as my shift is over,” he said, accepting the tip with a polite nod.

“See you there,” she offered as he turned to leave.

“Bye, Ms. Johns.”

Ngozi opened the basket and removed the perishables to place in her fridge or freezer, deciding to leave the little things like chutneys, a canister of caviar, bottles of cordials and black garlic. She did allow herself a treat of thinly sliced soppressata, broke a small piece off the ball of fresh mozzarella and wrapped both around a garlic-stuffed olive.

“Vegan who?” she said before taking a bite.

Mmm.

After popping the last bite into her mouth, she cleaned her moist fingertips on a napkin before reclaiming her seat at the table. She had an office upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, but the light was the brightest and the breeze from outside the best at the kitchen table. It was Saturday, but she had a court case to prepare for in defense of an heir charged with murdering his parents.

The Skype incoming-call tone sounded from her tablet.

Ngozi eyed it, reaching over the open files with pen in hand to tap the screen and accept the video, then propping the tablet up by its case. She laughed as her goddaughter’s face filled the screen and she released a spit bubble that exploded. “Hello, Aliyah,” she cooed.

“Hewwoo, Godmommy!”

Ngozi arched a brow. “Really, Alessandra, I thought you were a co-CEO of a billion-dollar corporation, not offering voice characterizations for the cutest baby in the world,” she drawled.

Alessandra sat Aliyah on her lap in her office and smiled into the screen over the top of her reading glasses. “I do both. I’m complex,” she said with a one-shoulder shrug.

“A woman’s worth,” Ngozi said.

“Right...although Alek is pretty hands-on with her. I can’t really complain. In the boardroom, bedroom and nursery, we are getting the job done together.”

“Why can’t we all be that lucky?” Ngozi said wistfully.

“We all could,” Alessandra said with a pointed look.

Chance.

Her friend had thankfully agreed not to mention him, but it was clear from the way Alessandra stopped that his name almost tumbled from her lips.

Ngozi looked out the window at the trees neatly surrounding the backyard without really seeing them. At a different time in their lives, what they shared could have blossomed into that lifetime of love her parents had. She smiled at the thought of Chance—older, wiser and more handsome—lovingly teasing her as they danced to their music no one else heard.

“I thought we could ride to the bazaar together,” Alessandra offered.

“I’ll probably walk. The school isn’t that far from here,” she said.

“Alek and Naim, his brother, are in London on business...so you won’t be third-wheeling, as you call it.”

Ngozi smiled.

“I’m on the way.”

She ended the Skype call and rose to close the French doors before she grabbed her wallet and billfold. She dropped those items into the bright orange designer tote bag sitting on the half-moon table by the door. She used the half bath off the foyer to freshen up before sliding her feet into leather wedges and applying bright red lip gloss.

On the security screen, she saw the black 1954 Jaguar MK VII sedan that had belonged to Alessandra’s father. Ngozi slid her tote onto the crook of her arm and left the house. Roje, Alessandra’s driver, climbed from the car. The middle-aged man with a smooth bald head and silvery goatee looked smart and fit in his black button-up shirt and slacks as he left the car to open the rear door for her.

The scent of his cologne was nice, and Ngozi bit back a smile as she remembered the private moments he had shared with Alessandra’s mother-in-law. She could easily see how the man was hard for LuLu to resist.

“Thank you,” Ngozi said to him before climbing in the rear of the car beside Aliyah’s car seat.

“Soo...does Alek know about his mother and your driver?” Ngozi asked as she allowed six-month-old Aliyah to grip her index finger.

Alessandra gasped in surprise.

Ngozi gave her friend a look that said deny it.

“I plead the fifth.”

“You can plead whatever. I know what I saw,” Ngozi said, eyeing Roje coming around the front of the vintage car through the windshield mirror.

“What?” Alessandra asked.

Aliyah cooed as if she, too, was curious.

“You tell what you know, and I’ll tell what I know. Then we’ll keep their secret,” she said.

Roje climbed into the driver’s seat and eyed the women in the rearview mirror before starting the car. “Ready?” he asked, his voice deep and rich.

They both nodded and gave him a smile.

Roje eyed them oddly before pulling off down the driveway.

They rode in silence until they reached Passion Grove Middle, a stately brick building with beautiful ivy topiaries and a large playground surrounded by wrought iron finish with scrollwork. Like most community events in the small town, attendance was high, with those from neighboring cities attending the annual affair, as well.

“The elusive Lance Millner is doing a book signing?” Ngozi asked after reading the large sign as Roje pulled the car to a stop before the open gate.

“That’s a first around here,” Alessandra said.

“Hell, I have never seen him without that damn hat on,” Ngozi said. “I have got to see this.”

“Ladies, you go in and I’ll search for some parking on the street,” Roje said, climbing from the driver’s seat to open the rear door and then retrieve the folded stroller.

“Good idea. Thanks,” Alessandra said, unsnapping Aliyah from her car seat.

Ngozi climbed from the car and looked at the crowd milling around the artwork and crafts on display, the vendors selling their wares, food trucks offering tasty treats, live music offering entertainment, and a few carnival rides on the athletic fields for the children.

“Roje, I’m sure you don’t want to hang around for this, so you can go and come back for us in a few,” Alessandra said.

Ngozi turned just as Roje smiled and inclined his head in agreement.

“I would like to run a quick errand,” he admitted.

“To Manhattan?” Alessandra asked.

LuLu Ansah lived in a beautiful penthouse apartment on the upper east side.

Roje’s expression was curious as he pulled mirror shades from the front pocket of his shirt and slid them on his face. “Would you like me to pick up something for you in the city?” he asked, sidestepping her question.

“A little happiness for yourself,” Alessandra said.

“I wish,” he admitted. “Sometimes life gets in the way.”

Ngozi thought of Chance. Her love had not been enough to stop life from getting in their way.

Chance sat on his private plane, looking out the window at the clouds seeming to fade as darkness descended. In the two weeks since he’d met his father, he hadn’t returned to see him again. Instead, he had continued his tour around the world. Paris. London. China. And now he was headed to his estate in Cabrera.

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to remove the well-worn envelope.

More than anything, it was his siblings he was avoiding. He wasn’t ready. Chance was well aware that he was a man of considerable means, and he had no idea what Pandora’s box of problems he was setting himself up for with the inclusion of so many new people in his life. Suddenly. And perhaps suspiciously.

Was his father’s sudden need for reconciliation more about his guilt as death neared, or his discovery of his sudden billionaire status?

I’d be a fool not to consider that.

He was just as aware he was in a position to help people who were his family by default. By blood.

I’d be an asshole not to consider that.

Chance put the envelope back in its safe spot inside his wallet before rising from his ergonomic reclining chair to walk to his bedroom suite. He was exhausted from his quests and ready to settle down in one spot to rest and relax. Nothing spoke more of relaxation to him than being on his estate in Cabrera.

Except making love to Ngozi.

He thought of her. Moments they had shared in fun or in sex. Her smile. Her scent. Her touch.

Damn. When will I get over her?

He flopped over onto his back and unlocked his iPhone to pull up a picture of her in his bed, her body covered by a sheet as she playfully stuck her tongue out at him.

When will my love go away?

He deleted the picture and dropped his phone onto the bed, wishing like hell it was that easy to erase her from his thoughts and his heart.

“Congratulations on another win, Ngozi.”

“Do you even know what an L is?”

“Congrats.”

“Ngozi, good win.”

“District attorneys hate to see you coming, Counselor.”

Ngozi kept her facade cool, like it was just another day at work, accepting each bit of praise as she made her way through the offices of Vincent and Associates Law. She smiled, thinking of her parents’ inside joke about the acronym. This was the house Horace Vincent had built, and his love for his wife was in the name.

And now I’m making my mark.

Instead of heading to her office, Ngozi turned and rode the elevator up one story to the executive offices of the senior partners. “Good afternoon, Ms. Johns,” the receptionist for the senior partners greeted her.

“Good afternoon, Evelyn,” she said, always making sure in her years at the firm to know the name of each staff member.

To her, that was one of the true signs of leadership.

“Can I get anything for you?” Evelyn asked.

“Not a thing but thank you. I just want to hang out in my dad’s office for a little bit,” she said softly, moving past the reception desk.

“Actually, he’s in today.”

Ngozi paused and looked back at her in surprise. “Really?” she said, unsure why she suddenly felt nervous.

Evelyn nodded before turning her attention to the ringing phone.

Large executive offices were arranged in a horseshoe pattern around the reception area, but it was the office dominating the rear wall of the floor toward which she walked. Her briefcase lightly slapped against the side of her leg in the silk oxblood suit she wore with matching heels. Reaching the white double doors, she knocked twice before opening the door.

“Getting my office ready for me, Pops?” she quipped, but the rest of her words faded as all five managing partners of Vincent and Associates Law turned to eye her.

Ngozi dropped her head abashedly. “My apologies, I thought my father was here alone,” she said, moving forward to offer her hand to each partner.

“It will be yours one day, Ngozi,” her father said as she came to stand beside his desk. “Just as soon as you’re ready.”

She nodded in agreement. Her father offered her no shortcuts to success, and she never expected any. She would become the principal partner of the firm her father started by consistent wins and proven leadership, bringing in high-level clients with strong billable hours. She was just thirty, and although she was making good headway, she had a long journey ahead of her.

Ngozi didn’t want it any other way.

“More wins like today definitely doesn’t hurt,” Angela Brinks, a sharp and decisive blonde in her early sixties, offered.

“Thank you,” Ngozi said, holding her briefcase in front of her. “It was a tough acquittal, but my staff pulled it out and the client is heavily considering moving some other corporate business our direction.”

“I understand you played a role in Chance Castillo putting VAL on retainer to oversee his corporate and business matters,” Greg Landon said.

Chance.

Her heart seemed to pound against her chest.

She hadn’t known that. She made it her business to avoid even discovering the outcome of his case.

“Everything okay?” her father asked.

Get it together, Ngozi.

“Yes,” she said. “Actually, I’m going to leave you all to the meeting I interrupted. I actually have another case to prep.”

“Federal, right?” Monique Reeves asked. She was the newest managing partner—and the youngest, at forty-five.

Ngozi found the woman smart, formidable and tenacious—her role model, particularly as an African American woman.

“I would offer you my expertise in that arena...but I don’t think you need it. Still, the offer is on the table,” Monique said.

“Thank you, Monique, that’s good to know,” she said before moving toward the door. “Have a good day, everyone.”

As soon as she exited and closed the door, Ngozi dropped onto the long leather bench against the wall, letting her briefcase land on the floor as she pressed one hand to the side of her face and the other against her racing heart.

Chance. Chance. Chance.

Just when she had a nearly complete day without his invading her thoughts and creating a craving... BOOM! Nearly four months since their breakup and she was not over him.

Not yet.

Ngozi cleared her throat and stood with her briefcase in hand as she stiffened her back and notched her chin a bit higher, then made her way down the long length of the hall.

But I will be...one day.

I hope.