Clara’s mouth dropped open. She’d spent almost a month with Hank’s father four summers ago, when she was working the counter of Bread & Buttercream. Brent had been charming, funny and sweet, with the eyes of a poet, the mouth of a god and a body that could have been roped off in an Italian museum. He’d lived in a tent, played the guitar and read aloud to her by firelight. Then, one morning, he was gone, moving on to whatever came next in his life.
Clara hadn’t really minded that much. She hadn’t loved him, and she’d had plans for her future that didn’t include him. They deliberately hadn’t exchanged last names, so certain had both been that whatever they had was temporary. They’d had fun for a few weeks, but like all good things, it had come to an end.
Except it didn’t quite come to an end. When Clara discovered she was pregnant, she felt obliged to contact Brent and let him know—she’d still had his number in her phone. But her texts to him about her condition went unanswered, as did her messages when she tried to call. Then the number was disconnected. It hadn’t been easy raising a child alone. It still wasn’t. But Clara managed. It was her and Hank against the world. And that was just fine with her.
“I didn’t realize Brent came from money,” she said. “He wasn’t... We weren’t... That summer was...” She gave up trying to describe what defied description. “I’m surprised he even told his mother about Hank. I’m sorry Mrs. Dunbarton passed away without meeting her grandson.”
At this, August Fiver’s expression sobered. “Mrs. Dunbarton is alive and well. I’m afraid it’s Brent who’s passed away.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Clara was struck dumb. She tried to identify how she felt about the news of Brent’s death and was distressed to discover she had no idea how to feel. It had just been so long since she’d seen him.
“As your son is Brent Dunbarton’s sole heir, everything that belonged to him now belongs to Henry. A not insignificant sum.”
Not insignificant, Clara echoed to herself. What did that mean?
“One hundred and forty-two million,” August Fiver said.
Her stomach dropped. Surely she heard that wrong. He must mean one hundred and forty-two million Legos. Or action figures. Or Thomas the Tank Engines. Those things did seem to multiply quickly. Surely he didn’t mean one hundred and forty-two million—
“Dollars,” he said, clearing that up. “Mr. Dunbarton’s estate—your son’s inheritance—is worth in excess of one hundred and forty-two million dollars. And your son’s grandmother is looking forward to meeting you both. So is Brent’s brother, Grant. I’ve been charged by them with bringing you and Henry to New York as soon as possible. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”
Clara had never traveled north of Knoxville, Tennessee. Everything she knew about New York City she’d learned from television and movies, none of which had prepared her for the reality of buildings dissolving into the sky and streets crammed with people and taxis. Even so, as the big town car carrying her, Hank and Gus—as August Fiver had instructed her to call him—turned onto Park Avenue, Clara was beginning to get an inkling about why New York was a town so nice they named it twice.
Ultimately, it had taken four days to leave Tybee Island. Packing for a toddler took a day in itself, and Clara had orders that weekend for a birthday party, a baby shower, a bunco night and a wedding cake. Then there were all the arrangements she needed to make with Hank’s preschool and covering shifts at Bread & Buttercream. Thank goodness the week after Thanksgiving was slow enough, barely, to manage that before the Christmas season lurched into gear.
Looking out the window now, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The city was just...awesome. She hated to use such a trite word for such a spectacular place, but she couldn’t think of anything more fitting.
“Mama, this is awesome!”
Clara smiled at her son. Okay, maybe that was why she couldn’t think of another word for it. Because awesome was about the only adjective you heard when you had a three-year-old.
Hank strained against the belt of the car seat fastened between her and Gus, struggling to get a glimpse at the passing urban landscape, his fascination as rabid as Clara’s. That was where much of their alikeness ended, however. Although he had her black curls and green eyes, too, his face was a copy of Brent’s. His disposition was also like his father’s. He was easygoing and quick to laugh, endlessly curious about everything and rarely serious.
But Clara was glad Hank was different from her in that respect. She’d been a serious little girl. Things like fun and play had been largely absent from her childhood, and she’d learned early on to never ask questions, because it would only annoy the grown-ups. Such was life for a ward of the state of Georgia, who was shuttled from foster home to children’s home to group home and back again. It was why she was determined that her son’s life would be as free from turbulence as she could make it, and why he would be well-rooted in one place. She just hoped this inheritance from Brent didn’t mess with either of those things.
The car rolled to a halt before a building of a dozen stories whose stone exterior was festooned with gold wreaths for the holidays. Topiaries sparkling with white lights dotted the front walkway leading to beveled lattice windows and French doors, and a red-liveried doorman stood sentry at the front door. It was exactly the kind of place where people would live when they were the owners of an industrial empire that had been in their family for two centuries. The Dunbartons could trace their roots all the way back to England, Gus had told her, where they were distantly related to a duke. Meaning that Hank could potentially become king, if the Black Death returned and took out the several thousand people standing between him and the throne.
The building’s lobby was as sumptuous as its exterior, all polished marble and gleaming mahogany bedecked with evergreen boughs and swaths of red velvet ribbon. And when they took the elevator to the top floor, the doors unfolded on more of the same, since the penthouse foyer was decorated with enough poinsettias to germinate a banana republic. Clara curled her arm around Hank’s shoulders to hug him close, and Gus seemed to sense her anxiety. He smiled reassuringly as he rang the bell. She glanced at Hank to make sure he was presentable, and, inescapably, had to stoop to tie his sneaker.
“Mr. Fiver,” she heard someone greet Gus in a crisp, formal voice.
Butler, she decided as she looped Hank’s laces into a serviceable bow. And wow, was the man good at butlering. He totally sounded like someone who was being paid good money to be cool and detached.
“Mr. Dunbarton,” Gus replied.
Oh. Okay. Not the butler. Brent’s brother. She couldn’t remember what Brent’s voice had sounded like, but she was sure it hadn’t been anywhere near as solemn.
Laces tied, Clara stood to greet their host, and... And took a small step backward, her breath catching in her chest. Because Hank’s father had risen from the grave, looking as somber as death itself.
Or maybe not. On closer consideration, Clara saw little of Brent in his brother’s blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair. Brent’s eyes had laughed with merriment, and his hair had been long enough to dance in the ocean breeze. The salient cheekbones, trenchant jaw and elegant nose were the same, but none were burnished by the caress of salt and sun. And the mouth... Oh, the mouth. Brent’s mouth had been perpetually curled into an irreverent smile, full and beautiful, the kind of mouth that incited a woman to commit mayhem. This version was flat and uncompromising, clearly not prone to smiles. And where Brent had worn nothing but T-shirts and baggy shorts, this man was dressed in charcoal trousers, a crisp white Oxford shirt, maroon necktie and black vest.