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Byron went another route, a sincere one. “Hey, Ma? I love ya.”
Vera sighed. “I love you, too. You’re my only son.”
“I know,” Byron replied. “And I mean it—happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Call me later.”
“Will do. Bye.” Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a frown, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. “Hey, Kath,” he called. “Can you bring me another cup of coffee, please?”
No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. “No need, darlin’. I got what our boy needs right here.”
“Jiminy Christmas,” Byron muttered, exasperated.
“Christmas was a month and a half ago,” Constantine stated as he folded his tall, skinny frame into one of the guest chairs on the other side of the desk. With his too-long legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch, the effect was very praying mantis. “Wake up, son. It’s nearly Mardi Gras.”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.
“Oh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.” Constantine grinned, a reminiscent gleam in his eye that took Byron back to his childhood obsession with the final frontier.
He eyed the cup. Great. Now they were going after his weakness for controlled substances. This put last year’s cheese basket to shame. “I’m fine, damn it.”
The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There weren’t too many lines in Constantine’s face, although his long hair, pulled back into his typical man bun, had gone gray a decade before. He sported snug mustard-hued pants, a red shirt and a navy blue peacoat, and had a silver loop on his left lobe, where a black shark’s tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at ease—one with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. “Go on,” he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. “You know you want it.”
Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... “Only if we play a round of ‘Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner.’”
Constantine’s face fell. “How did you know?”
“Your offerings are well-placed but transparent,” Byron told him.
“Your mother called.” Constantine checked his wristwatch. “Should’ve known. She starts earlier than Christ and she’s always twelve steps ahead of me.”
“You both should really start texting,” Byron suggested as he logged in to the office system. “It’ll save time and confusion. Plus, you two would tear up some sexting. Not that you’re hearing it from me.” He took a sip from the go cup and his brows came together as he swallowed. He eyed the logo on the front. “What the—”
“Ah.” Constantine quickly lifted the cup from his knee and switched it for Byron’s. “I believe that’s mine.”
“Sprinkles and whipped cream?” Byron asked. “You’re approaching sixty.”
“What do I always say to you kids about aging?” Constantine asked, his eyes sage behind wire frames. “‘We don’t grow older, we grow riper.’”
“That was Picasso, not you, pappou. And if by riper you mean the charred remains of those chickens you were going to roast me and Ma tonight, for once I’ll agree with you.”
Constantine barked a laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward, his natural geniality flowing warmly into the room. It sieved its merry way through the defensive pall Byron had donned automatically that morning. A true smile spread across Byron’s face. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another. Byron heard the silent message his father transmuted with a softened grin—you’re okay. Gratitude filled Byron until he nearly swelled at the seams. He lifted the coffee and took a long sip. The dark roast slid down his throat, enlivening. “That’s the stuff,” he muttered appreciatively.
“Told you,” Constantine said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Now he looked like a dandied-up cricket ready to break into a toe-tapping reel. “I’ve always got what my boy needs. And speaking of...” He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it Byron’s way.
Byron swiped the key ring out of the air. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the two silver keys dangling from the hoop. He frowned at the address written on both in permanent ink.
77 Serendipity.
His heart skipped a beat and hit the next hard. “Pop. What is this?”
“I ran by the retirement village yesterday morning to see our girl,” Constantine informed him.
Byron beamed at the mention of his great-aunt, Athena. “How’s she doing?”
“Yapped my ear off for three hours straight, so I’d say she’s doing pretty fine,” Constantine considered. “Had lots to say about you. And the house.”
“The house,” Byron breathed, tightening his grip on the keys.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Constantine asked with a knowing smile. “At least it seems that’s what you told her not too long ago. She’s got it set in her head that the place is yours. She even says there’s no use waiting for the will...what with the rest of your life ahead of you. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind...”
Changed his mind? Was his father crazy? Byron had been in love a few times in his life. But his first love had been and always would be his great-aunt Athena’s old Victorian house. The secret cupboards. The creaky walnut floors. The odd pitch of the upper-floor ceilings. The gingerbread trim. The old-timey wood-burning stove that had been replaced by a newer model fifteen years ago, but still retained the original stone surround. One of Byron’s first memories was of lying on the second-floor landing, watching the light wash through the stained-glass window his great-uncle Ari had bought in Greece to remind his wife of the homeland she’d left behind for him.
Byron and his sisters had chased ghosts and dreams in that house. He’d pushed Priscilla out of the Japanese magnolia in the backyard, resulting in a broken arm for her and a month at the mercy of Ari’s hard-labor tutelage for him. He’d replaced the treads on the stairs, put up crown molding, and helped Ari build a detached two-car garage with a comfortable space above it where Athena could host her sewing circle.
When Ari passed, Byron had nixed plans for summer courses in order to help Athena adjust, living in the garage apartment for a time. When he decided to live on the Eastern Shore for good, Athena—by that point in assisted living—offered him the use of the loft again, since the house was under long-term lease to an elderly couple, the Goodchilds. The Goodchilds seemed to like having a built-in handyman and yard boy. They let him keep his Camaro in the garage next to their El Camino and invited him to use the basement as a place for his exercise equipment.
Byron knew the Goodchilds hadn’t renewed their lease on the Victorian. Mrs. Goodchild could no longer manage the stairs. However, he had assumed that interest in the house would be sky-high. It was a prize. Sure, it had its quirks. All old houses did. However, the Victorian had historic, architectural and—for Byron—extreme sentimental value. Who wouldn’t bribe the Almighty Himself to live there?
He closed his fist around the keys. “When?” he asked.
Constantine lifted his shoulders. “Why not tomorrow?”
Byron’s brows drew together. “Didn’t Ma crack down on you for verbal contracts?”
“This is different,” Constantine said. He was serious. Byron rarely saw his father so serious. He had to swallow a few times to digest it. “It’s family. Athena. You. The house. It’s all in the family. I’m sure Athena would gift it to you outright—”
“No, I’m buying it outright,” Byron argued.
“Even if the loan goes toward your inheritance anyway?” Constantine asked.
“I want my name on it. I also want the appraisal estimate. Nothing lowball.”
Constantine knew better than to argue the point. As the family real estate business was shared between him and Vera, he usually found houses to renovate and flip into lease homes, while Vera handled the actual leasing and brokerage part of the equation.
Constantine did have a point, however. With its claim to family heritage and Byron’s long-held interest, the Victorian perhaps called for a more casual approach.
“Take some of your things over tonight and see how you adjust,” Constantine was saying. “If you don’t have any second thoughts over the next forty-eight hours, I’ll bring the papers Wednesday.” He lifted the go cup to punctuate the question.
Byron felt another smile, big and true, on his lips, and he liked it there. He raised his own cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
A knock on the door prevented him from raising the coffee to his mouth. Kath peered inside the office, her silver hair gathered on top of her head in a twist that pulled the corners of her eyes into a slant. “Good. You’re already in.” She spotted Constantine, stopped midspeech and smiled. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Strong. I didn’t see you arrive.”
“I snuck in,” Constantine said with a wink. “How’re you, Kathleen?”
Byron sipped his coffee as his father worked the charm on the older woman, bringing a pretty blush to her cheeks. Both his parents were compulsive flirts. They were also two of the happiest compulsive flirts he’d ever seen.
Strongs are like Magellanic, gentoo and royal penguins all wrapped up in one very Greek, very reformed package, Constantine had told his three children all their lives. We’re crazy enough to mate once, for life, and the male and female are equals.
You know way too much about penguins, Dad, a surly teenage Byron had once remarked. At the time he’d thought it was a strikingly conventional belief for a man who was in no way conventional.
Yet the belief held weight not even the staunchest cynic could deny. Byron’s parents had been married for thirty-five years and were still madly in love—so much so that open affection refused to die off between them. Byron had seen enough parental PDA over the years to make a Friday-night dinner with his mother and father go from gag-worthy to blasé.
The belief had held for Priscilla, as well. She’d married Grim right out of college. The two had been married for a decade and were impatiently awaiting the birth of their first child. In addition, Vivienne’s wedding to her boyfriend of four years, Sidney, was only a few short weeks away.
That “mate once for life” business was all too real. And that was the trouble.
Byron lifted his chin, catching Kath’s gaze. “What can we do for you?”
The twinkle Constantine had brought to the woman’s eyes faded out. “The Xerox machine is on the fritz.”
Byron pushed up from his chair. “Again?”
She held up her hands. “I’ve tried the manual. I’ve tried customer service. I even channeled Pelé and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, I’ll have to run to the library to see if they’ll let me use theirs.”
Byron shook his head. “It’s too cold out. You stay in. I’ll go to the library.”
“But you have a meeting,” she reminded him.
“I’ll have plenty of time to get back and prep.” Pointing at the manila folder she’d folded against her chest, he asked, “Is this what we need copied?”
Kath relinquished the papers. “They’re for today and tomorrow’s appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Byron said.
Kath eyed Constantine over Byron’s shoulder. “You and the missus sure raised this one right.”
“Ah, I’m a bad influence,” Constantine said with a smirk. “This one’s the work of his mother.”
“Whatever the case, he’s gentleman to the bone,” Kath noted. “The world could use several more just like him.”
Byron tossed a heated glance into Grim’s office when he heard his business partner snigger. “Thank you, Kath.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said as she returned to the lobby.
As Byron stuffed the folder into his satchel and pulled on his coat and scarf, his father buttoned his peacoat. He peered into Grim’s office and asked after Priscilla and the baby before joining Byron at the door while saying, “Vivi’s flight was delayed again.”
“She still hasn’t flown out?” Byron asked, pushing the door open into the cold. Byron didn’t particularly care for his sister being on another continent, not to mention a third-world country. The flying didn’t soothe him either. She and her fiancé, Sidney, treasured their humanitarian calling. Their work was important, but Byron would feel a lot less edgy when his baby sister was back on home soil. “She’s going to miss her own wedding.”
“She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.” Constantine clapped an arm around Byron’s shoulders. “Remember, you need us, we’re here.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Byron said, amused.
“Go see Athena.”
“First chance I get,” Byron promised. He wrapped an arm around his father. “Come here, you old geezer.”
“Ah.” Constantine squeezed him into a bear hug, rubbing circles over Byron’s back just as he had when he was a child. He gave him a few thumps for good measure. “Fruit of my loins.”
“Pop, word of advice,” Byron quipped. “Don’t talk about your loins when you’re hugging people. Unless it’s Ma. In which case please ensure the rest of us aren’t anywhere within hearing distance.”
A laugh rolled through Constantine’s torso. He grabbed Byron’s face and kissed him square on the mouth. “I love ya.”
Byron rubbed his lips together. “Save some for her, huh?”
Constantine opened the driver’s door of the Prius and folded his long frame behind the wheel, defying everything Byron knew about logic. He winked. “Valentine’s Day, leap year, Lincoln’s birthday...” He cranked the Prius to life. “Doesn’t matter what day it is. My girl gets the lion’s share.”
Byron threw his father a casual salute. He waited for him to leave the parking lot before starting off for the library to the north. He bypassed the children’s park, taking a shortcut between the buildings that walled off Fairhope’s version of the French Quarter to cut the wind off his face.
As he came out onto De La Mare and turned east toward Section, he collided with the brunt of an icy gale. His scarf loosened and went flying. He spun around quickly to snatch it. The wind swirled, sending the scarf sailing the other way. And a torrent of rose petals rushed up to meet him.
He raised his hands to shield his face from the odd deluge. When he lowered them, he saw the woman standing on the curb, looking at him in dawning horror. Her peaches and cream complexion went white as Easter lilies as the petals winged away. “Oh, God,” she uttered, the round box in her hands empty.
Byron reached out to grasp Roxie Honeycutt’s arm. She looked dangerously close to falling to her knees. “Hey, hey. It’s all right. They’re just flowers.”
Her gaze seized on his, her lips parting in shock.
Clearly not the right thing to say to a wedding planner. He extricated the box from her gloved hand. “I meant there’s probably more where those came from, right?” He tried smiling to draw her out of her blank stare. The woman he’d known for a little over a year was normally expressive. Bubbly, even. Sure, she’d been a thinner, quieter, more subdued version of Roxie over the last ten months thanks in large part to her husband’s affair.
Idiot, Byron thought automatically whenever Richard Levy was mentioned. Make that her ex-husband, and rightly so. Any man who slept with one of his wife’s sisters deserved to be kicked brusquely to the curb.
Roxie licked her lips. “I’m...so dead.”
Her hand was in his. It was small, wrapped in cashmere. It folded into his big, icy fist like the wings of a jewel-breasted barbet. He moved his other palm over the back of it for friction. “Let’s call Adrian,” he said instantly. The florist was a mutual friend. She and Roxie often collaborated on events. “She’ll get what you need.”
Roxie blinked. “Adrian? She’s doing flowers for a wedding in Mobile.”
“Shit. Sorry.” He shook his head. It was ridiculous. They were friends. He could curse in front of her.
She always put him on his toes. Not that she ever spared him the free-flowing tap of her amiability. There was just something about her... It didn’t set him ill at ease. Not at all. It...brought him to attention. Close attention.
Kath would’ve said it was the “gentleman” in him responding to the lady in her.
“I’m sure there’s a solution,” he asserted, giving her hand a squeeze. He looked to her Lexus. There were boxes stacked neatly on the ground and more in the trunk. “First...why don’t I help you get these where they need to go?”
She nodded. “That would be wonderful.” Her gaze locked onto his again. Her mouth moved at the corners. “Thank you, Byron.”
The first time he’d seen her smile, he’d stopped breathing. Actually stopped breathing. The zing of her exuberant blue eyes, her blinding white teeth—straight as Grecian pillars—had hit him square in the chest. Her beauty was impeccable. He remembered thinking that she was the most unspoiled thing he’d ever seen.
She was riveting. The kind of riveting that made a man stare a few seconds too long.
Carefully, he looked away from her warm round eyes. Growing up, his parents had lived in a house on the outskirts of Atlanta. Larkspur had grown there, blooming in blue-flamed spikes in high summer. When he looked into Roxie’s eyes, he remembered just how blue those spikes were.
He bent to retrieve her packages. “Where’re you headed?”
“Just around the corner,” she told him, placing the empty box in the trunk as he gathered the others. “To the library.”
“Fancy that,” he said. “Me, too.”
