Chapter
fifteen
The afternoon of Zander’s return to Merryweather, Britt opened the door of her cottage to find him standing on the threshold. He looked tough and proficient in his lightweight hiking pants and Patagonia fleece pullover. The disordered state of his almost-black hair attested to his disdain of primping. His gaze spoke of his constancy.
At the sight of him, she curbed two urges simultaneously. The urge to punch him. And the urge to throw herself into his arms. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Welcome home.” She scooped up her hiking backpack and locked the front door behind her. “Did you have a good visit with Daniel?”
“I did.”
“Excellent.”
They talked about his trip to St. Louis on the way to the mountain to go rock-climbing.
It would be great if she could enjoy their outing by dodging this unceasing troubled tangle of reactions toward Zander. It would be great if she could transition away from the stress of today’s work hours. She’d made another batch of peppermint truffles and failed at mastering the recipe yet again.
He slipped on a pair of classic brown sunglasses that would have looked right at home on Cary Grant. Desire tightened within her. The air inside the car thickened. This was exactly the response she’d wanted to have for Reid.
She contemplated the serious way Zander held his jaw. Noted the play of muscles running up his neck.
She’d known him very well for years upon years! How was it possible to see someone she’d known so long in a whole new light?
The familiar scents of chocolate and coffee greeted Zander when he entered Sweet Art the following afternoon.
Three female customers sat together to one side of the room, talking. Maddie was thanking another customer as she passed over a bag printed with the shop’s logo.
He scanned the display case as he approached. The chocolates within gleamed. Truffles in various flavors, each topped with a unique crown—fondant, sprinkles, sea salt, sugar crystals, and more. Chocolate bark. Chocolate turtles. Hand-dipped chocolates. Molded chocolates. Fanciful chocolates. No-nonsense chocolates. Nutty chocolate. Fruity chocolate. Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate.
When he’d been young, his taste for desserts had run toward Starbursts and Twizzlers. Later, when Britt had first developed a passion for chocolate, he’d done what he’d always done when he’d found himself in a position of ignorance in his life—he’d gone to the library, checked out every book on the subject, and committed them all to memory.
His ability to recall what he read had been the saving grace of his childhood. Books had evened his playing field for as long as he could remember. And so at first he’d studied chocolate the way he’d have studied chemistry. He’d had no personal interest in it. He’d simply been driven to learn what he could for Britt’s sake.
However, during his cooking sessions with Britt, he’d comprehended more about chocolate than books had the power to teach. He’d felt the texture of it against the roof of his mouth. He’d watched Britt’s whisk stirring shiny, dark brown, molten chocolate against the sides of a glass bowl. He’d heard the crunch when she’d ground down vanilla beans and sugar using a mortar and pestle.
Along the way, he’d educated his palate for chocolate the way sommeliers educated their palates for wine. He understood the chocolate-making process. He’d taught himself to differentiate the flavors of the world’s three different types of cacao beans: Criollo, Forastero, Trinitario.
He’d come to love chocolate. And, since the day Britt had opened Sweet Art, he’d felt at home inside these walls. He couldn’t separate Britt from chocolate or from Sweet Art. His feelings for the latter two were knotted up with his feelings for her.
“Zander,” Maddie said warmly in greeting.
“Hi, Maddie.”
“Britt made an emergency run to purchase forty-percent heavy cream but she said to tell you, if you arrived before her, that she’d be right back.”
He and Britt were scheduled to pilot the Bradford family speedboat to Whidbey Island this afternoon to meet and talk with Grant Mayberry.
“Can a shortage of forty-percent heavy cream be considered an emergency?” he asked.
“You know Britt well enough to know the answer to that.” Maddie crossed her arms. Her green eyes sized him up. “So.”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on with Britt lately?”
He grew instantly alert. “What do you mean?”
“She’s been acting really strange for a little over two weeks now.”
“How so?”
“Grumpy. Impatient.”
He’d kissed Britt a little over two weeks ago.
“Do you know what might be causing this?” she asked.
“You don’t? Or you do but you don’t want to tell me?”
“I have a suspicion, but I don’t want to tell you.”
“Zander!”
He shrugged by way of an apology.
“Britt won’t confide in me, either. I tried to get it out of her again this past Saturday, but I couldn’t. And then she went out dancing with Hannah and Mia that night, and they said that Kyle’s friend Reid was falling all over her.”
Everything inside him turned to ice. When Britt had sent him a text Saturday night saying she was at a club, he’d known what effect she’d have on the men there. He’d worried that she’d meet someone, but it hadn’t occurred to him to worry about Reid in particular. “And?” he asked tightly.
“And Hannah told me that Britt had too much champagne. Apparently, she was acting like she was determined to have a great time even if it killed her. Then Britt and Reid left the club together to go have late-night pancakes at a diner. Hannah and Mia tried to talk her into sharing an Uber home with them, like they’d planned, but Britt went to the diner instead.”
He kept his face impassive. “In Reid’s car?”
Maddie dipped her chin in assent.
“I’ll talk to her about it.”
Her look turned compassionate. “Want a chocolate?”
“No. Thank you.” He was amazed that his voice sounded smooth and calm because inside him, a tornado raged.
An elderly gentleman entered the shop, and Maddie went to assist him.
Zander had gone to St. Louis to spend time with his brother because now that Frank was gone, only Daniel, Carolyn, Britt, and Britt’s family knew him well and cared about him deeply. Daniel’s presence grounded him and gave him a sense of belonging. He only wished he could have enjoyed his weekend with his brother more than he had.
On the flight to Missouri to see Daniel, he’d hoped that the distance from Britt might offer him perspective on their relationship. In actuality, the distance from Britt had done nothing but make him miserable. He’d spent large sections of the weekend wondering what he was doing halfway across the country from Britt.
If Britt decided to date Reid, the misery he’d endured in St. Louis would seem like a trip to Disney World in comparison.
The door to the kitchen rushed open, and Britt crossed to him. She had on a plaid shirt, jeans, boots. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.”
They climbed into his Jeep, and he pointed them toward Bradfordwood, where’d they unmoor the family boat from the family dock, then begin their trip to Whidbey.
Less than two minutes and zero words passed before Britt said, “You’re angry.”
He frowned. He was angry. At the same time, he wasn’t sure he had a right to be.
“Why’re you angry?” she asked.
“I heard what happened Saturday night.” He hated to experience fear or fury or possessiveness individually. The thought of her with Reid caused all three to crush down on him at once.
“Saturday night? When Hannah and Mia and I went out?”
He held his tongue.
“Who told you about that?” She paused. “Maddie?”
The best defense was a good offense. “Maddie’s concerned about you. She says that you’ve been acting strangely lately, but that you won’t talk to her about what’s bothering you. Why won’t you?” He cut a glance across the car.
She set her lips together and directed her attention out the side window. His question had shut her up, and he knew why.
She’d been acting strange because of their kiss or his reaction to it or her reaction to it or both. She hadn’t told Maddie about the kiss because she wanted to keep it private. No doubt Britt anticipated that news of their kiss would drop like a bomb on Maddie, Hannah, Mia, and her sisters. He was willing to bet they’d all be happy. Still. They’d respond with lots of questions and opinions. Britt likely didn’t have the patience to deal with that sort of fallout.
They traveled the rest of the way to Bradfordwood in silence. Britt tapped a button on her phone app to open the enormous ironwork entrance gates. Once they’d parked beside the garage, they skirted around the side of the brick mansion and began walking down the long lawn that led from the terrace to the Hood Canal far below.
“I went to dinner with Hannah and Mia on Saturday night.” Britt’s attention remained trained on the water as she spoke. Irritation lined her forehead. “Then we went to a club, just like I told you. Reid was there, and he and I went out for food afterward. I don’t see why any of that should upset you, Zander.”
“You know why I’m upset.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because you got into a car with a guy you hardly know.”
“I know Reid way better than some of the guys my friends have set me up with on blind dates.”
“And that’s supposed to put my mind at ease?”
“He’s my friend’s boyfriend’s friend!”
“And you should always trust a friend’s boyfriend’s friend? How long has Kyle known Reid?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Long enough.”
“How much did Reid have to drink at the club?”
“One beer.”
He gave a grunt of disbelief.
“He had one beer, Zander. He had baseball practice the next morning, so he was taking it easy.”
“Reid threw back shot after shot at your birthday party.”
“He didn’t have any shots on Saturday night.”
“Not that you saw, anyway.” He hated that Britt was taking Reid’s side against him. “You told your friends he was taking you to a diner for pancakes. Is that where he took you?”
“You’re really well informed,” she said dryly, voice brittle. “Yes. That’s where he took me.”
“And how did you get home from there?”
“Reid drove me.”
“Swerving all the way?”
“No. One beer!”
“How much did you have to drink?”
“No comment.”
They reached the dock, and she turned to him. When riled, she looked more like a warrior princess than at any other time. Fearfully beautiful. Spoiling for a fight.
He stared her down from his greater height, tension contracting every tendon in his frame. “Are you going to try to tell me that it’s reasonable to drink too much champagne, then decide to go home with someone—”
“I didn’t go home with him. I went to a diner with him for pancakes. Then he drove me home.”
“So it’s reasonable to drink too much, then let someone you don’t know well drive you home?”
“Ordinarily, no. Ordinarily, it’s better to stick to the plan you made with your girlfriends when you were sober. It wasn’t smart of me to change my plans after I’d been drinking, I’ll give you that. But this time everything worked out just fine. Reid is Kyle’s friend. He had one beer. And he brought me home safely.”
“And when he brought you home? Did you invite him in?” Even as the words left his mouth, Zander knew he shouldn’t be speaking them.
She gave him a look of surprise, then her brows knitted thunderously.
He’d offended her with his question.
“No, Zander.” She spoke with steely control. “Of course I didn’t invite him in. Not that that’s any of your business.”
“It is my business because I don’t want any harm to come to you,” he said.
She held her chin at a mutinous angle. “I’m twenty-seven. No one’s responsible for ensuring that no harm comes to me, except me.”
“Good,” she said in a tone that broadcasted NOT GOOD in neon letters.
She bent and began jerking free the line securing the speedboat’s bow. He unwound the one at its aft.
Her carelessness with her safety made him crazy. He couldn’t stand the risks she took—
Really? His conscience pricked him. Was that what this was about? The risks she took? Or was he angry because of a far less honorable reason?
Jealousy.
He tried to think like a rational, not-jealous person. Would a rational, not-jealous person have flown off the handle in this same situation?
To his shame, he suspected not.
She’d already admitted that it hadn’t been smart to change her plans after she’d been drinking. Which was true. It hadn’t been smart. But if her safety really was his motivator, then their discussion would have been far more effective at inspiring her to take more care with herself if he hadn’t delivered it with so much righteous indignation. If he hadn’t made her mad in the process.
The thought of her with Reid had rattled him so much that he’d lost his cool and his logic. He’d cast himself in the role of Britt’s boring, holier-than-thou friend who was determined to point out her mistakes to her.
If this were a movie, she’d be the daring, fun-loving, adventurous character.
He’d be the wet blanket character nobody liked.
She jumped on board the boat, and he followed. Usually when they went out together in a car or on one of the Bradford family’s boats, he drove. She preferred to ride shotgun so that she could check her phone or her trail map or her guidebook. This time, though, she lowered into the driver’s seat.
Clearly, she was so irritated with him that she didn’t want to give him any control.
Grinding his teeth, he took the seat beside hers. She fished the keys from their compartment and tugged on a baseball cap. Within minutes, they were speeding along the surface of the canal on their course north to Whidbey Island.
She was driving faster than necessary and people were liable to report her. He didn’t say anything to her about it because he didn’t want to be a wet blanket.
It would take them over an hour to reach the town of Clinton on the island’s southeastern tip, which was for the best. Even though he knew he’d overreacted and might not have a right to feel animosity toward her, animosity continued to churn within him anyway. He needed time to calm down and adjust to the thought of Reid “falling all over her” at a club, Reid taking her to a diner, Reid driving her home. And Britt, letting him.
What, exactly, did she feel for Reid? She hadn’t said.
Had the trip to the diner been a romantic one? Were she and Reid going to start dating now?
Betrayal burned up his esophagus like acid because, just a few days ago, she’d kissed him on a beach.
Then she’d said they were friends who wouldn’t kiss again. And he’d let his silence become agreement.
Zander grimaced and resisted the urge to look in Britt’s direction.
If he looked at her, he’d be powerless to stop himself from wanting her.
Even if she’d been swooning over Reid and even if she’d imbibed twice as much champagne, Britt would not have invited Reid into her house at one fifteen a.m.
Zander should know that. Zander did know that. So what was his excuse for insulting her with such a stupid question?
She didn’t invite men into her home the first time she went out with them. Or even the second or the third time. Not even when she really wanted to. She hadn’t wanted to invite Reid in. After he’d dropped her off, she’d spent no time daydreaming about him or hoping he’d contact her. None.
However, Murphy’s Law dictated that the men you weren’t interested in were always the most interested in you. This principle had held true with Reid, who’d been communicating with her steadily since Saturday night.
Reid was into her. And if only she felt the same way about him, things would be so much nicer and simpler. Instead, she was hung up on the man sitting next to her, who was staring at the shoreline as if his life depended on it.
She steered the boat, willing the wind to flush away her annoyance. The wheel beneath her hands held the warmth of the sun. Strands of her hair escaped her cap and whisked against her neck and cheeks.
She’d never been good at receiving criticism.
Once, when she’d been in the third grade, Mom had asked Nora to check Britt’s math homework. When Britt had seen that Nora had marked the majority of the problems wrong, Britt had torn the math worksheet into ribbons, stormed from the house, and ridden her bike up and down Bradfordwood’s drive at a blistering pace until she’d exhausted herself. To this day, when she was having a bad day, one of her family members was liable to joke, What’s the matter? Did someone make you multiply two-digit numbers?
When Zander had told her that he knew what had happened Saturday night, the same defiance that had possessed her in response to her third-grade math homework had sparked within her. Her defenses all jumped to their feet, armor on, swords drawn. How dare he judge her? What right did he have to give her that condemning, disappointed look?
These days, when someone or something prodded the Irish temper she’d inherited from her mother, Britt typically responded well. She stayed silent and thought through the issue until she could reply civilly.
Back in third grade, she’d been wrong. Her solutions to the math problems had literally been wrong, and no amount of bike riding and offended passion had changed that fact.
She strove for objectivity as she performed a mental postmortem on the argument she’d just had with Zander.
In her opinion, it really was okay to get pancakes with a friend’s boyfriend’s friend. She’d known Hannah’s boyfriend, Kyle, for six months. She’d spent a good deal of time with Reid at her birthday party and more time with him at the club. Zander’s hyper-concern about Reid’s trustworthiness? Unfair. The implication that she’d gone home with Reid after pancakes? Unfair. They were just going to have to agree to disagree on those points.
Zander’s concern over the decisions she’d made at the club? Fair. Maddening, but fair.
Very few people in her life had the nerve to call her out when she blew it. Zander had the nerve.
She didn’t want to be the type of person who went through life insisting that her multiplication problems and her drunken choices were right, when they weren’t.
It’s just that . . . she loathed being called out. It was embarrassing. And when Zander was the one to call her out, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d let him down. Which, in turn, made her fear that he’d think less of her.
No doubt, when she stopped being miffed at him, she’d be grateful to him for his forthrightness.
But she wasn’t there yet. Not by a long shot.
As of right now, she was still miffed.
Once they secured the boat in Clinton’s harbor, Britt sent Grant Mayberry a text to let him know they’d arrived. During her recent conversation with Grant to finalize the details of their visit, he’d insisted—it’s no trouble!—that he’d pick them up in his car.
She tossed her ball cap into the boat, then finger-combed her hair as she and Zander walked side by side past historic buildings painted a crisp nautical white.
The Bradford family often took day trips to Orcas, Vashon, Blakely, and the rest of the nearby islands. She knew that Whidbey’s one hundred and sixty-eight square miles hosted a population of more than fifty thousand spread across a smattering of towns.
Luxury homes had been tucked into the hills near Clinton to take advantage of the quieter pace of life, the separation from the mainland, and the unflagging views of Possession Sound to the west.
It made sense that Ricardo and Emerson would have tried to rob someone who lived in this sleepy place. Whidbey’s police department didn’t have the numbers or the ferocity of a big city force.
Britt shaded her eyes and catalogued the details of the land swelling upward from the parking lot where they waited. Clinton reminded her of a folk art painting depicting a town planted into a wooded hillside.
A royal blue convertible Mini Cooper, top down, came to an adroit stop before them. “Ms. Bradford?” the driver asked. He looked to be in his mid-seventies. His sun-reddened cheeks were set into a friendly, rectangular face topped by gray-brown hair. He’d clothed his husky body in a sweat shirt proclaiming USC across the front.
“Mr. Mayberry?”
“One and the same. Jump in!”
Zander held the door for her, and Britt slid into the back row. Before she could attempt to fasten her seatbelt, they were zooming along the road and Grant was asking cheerful questions.
She and Zander had prepared for today’s meeting by researching Grant Mayberry. They’d learned that he’d founded a renewable energy company when he was young. Right from the start, his company had scaled a staircase of greater and greater success.
Grant certainly didn’t appear to have been jaded by his wealth. He seemed like an extrovert who genuinely liked people.
In less than ten minutes, they reached their destination. Grant kept up a steady stream of conversation as he led them through his extremely impressive contemporary residence. The faces captured in his extensive collection of art watched them pass.
In the kitchen, he pressed glasses of lemonade into their hands. Then he ushered them to the deck. They settled onto spotless outdoor furniture positioned next to urns bursting with succulents. From this spot, Britt couldn’t glimpse a single neighbor. Trees flanked them on both sides. Before them, azure water gave way to islands, which gave way to distant, snow-capped mountains.
“Thank you very much for seeing us, Mr. Mayberry,” Britt said.
“Please, call me Grant.”
“It was amazingly kind of you to invite us into your home, Grant,” Britt said.
“Of course! It really is my pleasure.” He crossed a foot over the opposing knee. “You told me a little over the phone, but why don’t you start at the beginning so I know how to help you?”
“Sure,” Britt answered. On the verge of pouring out all the details, she caught herself and motioned for Zander to explain. She’d come to feel very proprietary over the mystery surrounding Frank, but this mystery did not, technically, belong to her.
Zander told Grant how they’d learned of Frank’s connection to Ricardo. “When we couldn’t find any more information on Frank, we began collecting information on Ricardo. We found out on our own that he had been arrested here on Whidbey Island along with someone named Emerson Kelly for stealing two of your paintings by Modigliani.”
“I see.”
“We’re hoping that researching Ricardo might lead us to a clue about Frank,” Zander said.
“I’m glad to share what I know about the robbery with you.” Grant flicked a few fingers in the direction of Seattle. “My wife is spending the day with our daughter and grandsons. She doesn’t like to be reminded of the robbery. It’s a frustrating topic for her because the paintings were never found. She’d acquired those Modigliani pieces herself, you see, at an auction. She’s the art lover.” A fond smile flashed across his mouth. “I’ve never developed an eye for it, even after all these years. As far as I’m concerned, one painting is about as good as another and none of them are irreplaceable. There’s always more art in the world to purchase.”
Sea gulls rode by on the breeze.
“What happened the night your paintings were stolen?” Zander asked.
“Callista and I were at a function in the city. It had been publicized that we’d be there because we were donating something to . . .” He ran his hand down his chin. “Someone.” A good-natured chuckle tumbled from him. “Isn’t that funny? I can’t even remember who we were donating to now.”
“No problem,” Britt said. “It was a long time ago.”
“I do know that it occurred to me later that the thieves almost certainly knew we were going to be away from home that night. They broke in by cutting the lines to the security system and picking the lock on the back door. They would have gotten away cleanly except that the neighbor who used to live down the road had a habit of taking his dog out for late-night walks. He saw what looked like flashlight beams inside our house and called the police.”
Grant took a swig of lemonade. “By the time the police arrived, the robbers had left the house. One of the police officers turned on the floodlights outside and spotted two figures running in the direction of the water. The officers pursued them and were able to overtake them before they could get away in the boat they had waiting. The officers arrested them and took them to the station.”
“Why were the charges eventually dropped?” Zander asked.
Grant extended one of his arms along the back of the settee. “They were dropped because the police couldn’t find the paintings. Or Ricardo or Emerson’s fingerprints inside the house, even. They figured that the robbers must have stashed the art outdoors, so they searched the boat, the land, everything. Even Callista and I hunted and hunted for those Modiglianis. We tramped around here for some time like Indiana Jones. But no luck.” His wide shoulders lifted.
“What did Ricardo and Emerson tell the police they’d been doing on your property?” Zander asked.
“They said they’d been trying to find a public park, and they’d simply gotten turned around.”
“I’m sorry that you lost those paintings,” Britt told him honestly.
“Aw, it’s all right. Like I said, they were replaceable. Callista would probably disagree with me on that, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk, right? I have plenty to be thankful for.” He levered himself up. “I kept everything about the robbery in a file. Earlier today, I went and found it for you. Let me grab it.”
He vanished inside his house.
The silence between Britt and Zander twisted into convoluted knots in Grant’s absence. Zander was sitting a foot and a half away from her on the same piece of furniture, but the distance felt like a football field.
Grief lifted within her, and she swallowed against it. She missed what they’d had.
Grant returned and set the file on the coffee table before them. “Help yourselves.” He relaxed into the position he’d vacated.
Zander opened the file. Britt scooted in and leaned forward, taking care not to move so close that she’d inadvertently touch him. The page on top contained a mug shot of Ricardo and information about the arrest. The face in the photograph clearly belonged to the man they’d met, minus thirty years of wear and tear.
“Done?” Zander asked, when he’d finished reading the sheet. His brain had just recorded a mental photo of the page, and he’d still completed his reading faster.
“Done.”
He flipped to the next sheet.
Britt inhaled sharply.
The mug shot revealed a young and beautiful woman with piercing, deep-set eyes. She wore her platinum hair in a short, layered pixie cut. She had flawless skin. A long and graceful neck.
Beneath the image was her name.
Britt glanced at Grant. “Emerson’s a woman?”
“Oh yes. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
She shook her head, her thoughts careening like bingo circles in a tumbler cage. Had any of the data on Emerson informed them that she was male?
She thought back. No.
She must have simply jumped to the conclusion that Ricardo’s accomplice was male. Why? Because Emerson sounded like a man’s name? Because she’d subconsciously reached the conclusion that a man was more likely to pull off a heist than a woman? Britt! Those were dumb assumptions.
“I know her,” Zander said.
Britt swung her chin toward him.
He kept his focus on the page. “She’s Carolyn’s friend.”
“She is?”
“She came into The Giftery a few weeks back when I was there. Carolyn introduced her as . . . Sunny, I think. She was wearing her hair the same way.”
Britt’s heartbeat thrummed. “How can we explain the fact that Emerson—the woman who was arrested here alongside Ricardo long ago—is now Carolyn’s friend? What logical explanation could there be?”
“Frank had ties to Ricardo. Ricardo had ties to Emerson. And now we know that Emerson has ties to Carolyn, which means that Emerson likely had ties to Frank. Three thieves, connected.”
“Three thieves pulled off the Triple Play,” Britt said. The Pascal’s security guard had never said he believed all three robbers to be male. He’d been too far away to see any of the three clearly, and they’d been wearing masks. “We’ve speculated in the past that Frank and Ricardo could have been two of the Triple Play robbers,” she said. “But now it’s possible that we’ve found all three.”
“If Emerson met Frank and Ricardo in Washington in the spring or summer of 1984, then she may have been friends with Frank and Carolyn ever since,” Zander said. “That would explain Emerson’s current presence in Carolyn’s life.”
Too energized to sit still, Britt edged to the front of her seat cushion. “But Carolyn said she’d never heard of or met Ricardo. Is it plausible to think that Frank would have cut Ricardo out of his family life but included Emerson in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you ever remember meeting Emerson in the years when you lived at Frank and Carolyn’s house?” she asked.
“No.”
“Which seems to suggest that Sunny and Carolyn became friends recently.”
“If the two women became friends recently, then their friendship can’t be a coincidence.”
“No,” Britt said at once. “There’s no way that the woman who stole Grant’s paintings alongside Frank’s friend Ricardo could coincidentally appear in Frank’s wife’s life years later.”
“Which means that Sunny had a reason for befriending Carolyn. She inserted herself into Carolyn’s life on purpose.”
“Because of the Triple Play, I’d guess.”
“And potentially,” Zander said, “Frank’s death.”
“My!” Grant said heartily.
Britt started. She’d forgotten he was there.
“This is all very exciting,” the older man said.
Was it too late to swap out Grandma for Grant? She’d love to have him for a grandparent.
“I need to call Carolyn and warn her about Sunny.” Zander reached for his cell phone.
“And tomorrow we need to have a talk with Emerson.”
“Go get ’em!” Grant clapped. “And be sure to let me know if you happen to cross paths with Callista’s Modiglianis.”
Zander’s journal entry, one year ago:
I’ve traveled all over the world searching for things. Freedom. Experiences I can collect like shells from a beach. Culture. History. Learning. Writing inspiration.
The more I search the world, the more certain I am that the person I love the most is right where I began. Everything I truly want can be found in my own hometown.