Kyle was the youngest of the trio by several months, having recently celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday. He was tall, and what women referred to as “fine milk chocolate.” Duncan detected a change in Kyle over the past few months. Now he knew it had something to do with Ava Warrick.
Rising from his seat, he came around the desk to embrace Kyle, who’d also come to his feet. Duncan pounded his back. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”
“Not until next year. In fact, Ava wants a winter wedding.”
“She wants to get married in New York in the winter?” Duncan asked, a note of incredulity creeping into the question. He sat on the edge of his desk facing Kyle who had sat down again.
A hint of a smile played at the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “It wouldn’t pose a problem if the wedding were held in Puerto Rico.”
“Damn, Kyle! Now you’re talking.”
Kyle sobered. “I want you to be my best man.”
An expression of sadness flitted over Duncan’s handsome face before he managed to mask it with a plastic grin. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
He didn’t want to relive the time when he’d asked Kyle to become his best man. Kalinda used to e-mail him every morning, counting the days before she became Mrs. Duncan Gilmore. The morning of September 11, the anticipated e-mail never came. Duncan didn’t know what was worse—the weeks of waiting or the telephone call from Kalinda’s parents that their daughter’s body had been recovered in the rubble.
“No, I am not, Duncan.”
It wasn’t often Kyle called Duncan by his given name because there had been another boy named Duncan who lived in their building, and to differentiate between the two he’d always called Duncan Gilmore DG.
“I thought you would’ve asked Micah.”
Kyle had met Micah Sanborn when he’d become the NYPD officer’s law-school mentor. Micah, now a Kings County assistant district attorney, had been promoted to lieutenant when he enrolled in Brooklyn Law School. It’d taken him six years, attending part-time, instead of the normal three to complete his degree. During that time, Kyle had mentored Micah, who had juggled his law-enforcement responsibilities with law school. During his down time Micah would occasionally join Ivan and Duncan at sporting events when Kyle invited him along to unwind.
“Micah’s my friend, but you and Ivan are closer to me than my own brother. If you don’t want to—”
“Hold up, Kyle,” Duncan said, cutting him off. “Did I say I didn’t want to be your best man?”
“You didn’t say you would,” Kyle countered.
He’d asked Duncan to become his best man because he felt closer to him than to Ivan, despite Duncan having moved from Harlem to Brooklyn as a teen. It was Duncan who had always called to see how he was doing, and the routine continued to this day with Duncan stopping by his office several times a week to see how Kyle was doing. Kyle suspected his friend’s concern about his well-being had something to do with him losing his mother. Although Duncan said he had noticed signs of distress in his mother, he hadn’t called for a doctor or an ambulance until it was too late. He’d come home from school to find Melanie Gilmore on the kitchen floor. The medical examiner had put her time of death at approximately ten that morning.
Now the lifelong friends stared at each other until Duncan inclined his head, breaking the silence. “I’m honored you’ve asked, and I accept.”
Kyle blew out a breath. “Thank you, DG. You don’t know what this means to me, because I know it’s not going to be easy for you to relive what happened—”
“I’m good, buddy. I’ll never forget Kalinda, but each year it gets a little easier. It was the same when I lost my mother.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Duncan stared at the pattern on the rug under his shoes. “I have a confession to make.” His head came up. “I’ve had a few sessions with Ivan.”
Duncan had been staunchly resistant to seeing a therapist to deal with the grief he felt with the loss of his fiancée. Dr. Ivan Campbell had told Duncan that anytime he wanted to talk—about anything—his door was always open to him. And it had taken Duncan a long time to work up enough nerve to admit that he needed therapy in order to begin dealing with the demons that wouldn’t let him get past the tragedies in his life. He wasn’t completely free of them yet, but he was getting there.
He’d begun dating again, but none of the relationships had lasted more than a few months. Last weekend he’d asked a woman who was a former college classmate to go out with him. She wasn’t his late fiancée, wasn’t even remotely close to her. But he did enjoy her company and had told her that, but he hadn’t promised he would call her again.
“I’d like to throw a little something at my place to celebrate your engagement. It will be a way for your friends and family and hers to get together and become acquainted with one another.”
Leaning forward, Kyle patted Duncan’s arm. “I’m going to speak for Ava when I say we’d really appreciate that.” In the past, there hadn’t been a month when Duncan and Kalinda hadn’t hosted a gathering at his Chelsea loft. The soirées were always elegant and well-attended. “What’s up with all the financials?” Kyle asked, smoothly changing the topic of conversation.
“You’ve got to stay on top of the market, especially with clients who are counting on me for their financial security.”
Kyle whistled softly. “Damn, maybe I need to have you take another look at my investments.”
“Anytime Kyle. Remember, now’s the time to make sure your investment strategy is sound.” Of his many clients, only Kyle, Ivan Campbell, his aunt Viola Gilmore and a select few got free financial advice.
“On that note,” Kyle said, pushing to his feet, “I’ll leave you to your spread sheets.”
“Congratulations again, buddy.”
“Thanks, DG.”
Duncan waited until Kyle left before he went back to his computer, estimating it would take the rest of the morning to complete his work. His client, Mrs. Henderson, had neglected to reinvest insurance proceeds after her husband passed away. Unfortunately, she’d ignored the mounting pile of letters from the insurance company until her daughter had discovered them in a drawer with a number of unpaid bills.
Pressing a button on the telephone console, he called his secretary. “Mia, please refer my calls to Auggie.”
Augustin Russell, a third-year finance student, worked twenty hours a week when classes were in session and full-time during the summer months. Duncan was seriously considering hiring him after he graduated. Not only was he bright, but he was also very ambitious, reminding Duncan of himself when he’d begun his MBA studies. Not only had Duncan earned an MBA, but earlier that spring he’d applied and been accepted into a joint JD/MBA degree program.
His graduate-studies concentration was venture capital financing and asset management. It was as if he had a sixth sense when it came to buying and selling stocks and bonds. He knew intuitively when to sell stocks before they declined, and he knew the MBA coursework with a focus on investment strategies had been crucial to his success in monitoring his own and his clients’ investment portfolios.
Like Kyle, Duncan had tired of working sixteen-hour days to make money for an investment company. Following the advice he’d given his clients, he invested heavily in the tech market, then sold his shares before they bottomed out. The return on his investments was staggering and gave him the impetus to set up his own financial-planning company.
He purchased loft space, renovated it and moved from the apartment in his aunt’s downtown Brooklyn brownstone to a four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath condo giving him more than