Chasing Serenity Read online

  “Harvey.”

  I harumphed, and I didn’t care that my doing so made him emit an appealing, surprised chuckle.

  I carried on talking.

  “Well, he’s off my Christmas list and I’ve known him mere months. However, in those months, Christmas occurred, so he will feel that sting, I assure you.”

  “You’re that good with giving presents?”

  “I am a master at accessorizing,” I bragged without the least bit of humility because the subject didn’t deserve it. I was a master at these things. “I am a master at wine pairings. I am a master at space-economizing packing. And I am a master at gift giving.”

  I decided not to include my talent with lying in that list since, so far, I had yet to demonstrate it to him.

  Not to mention other reasons.

  “Space-economizing packing?”

  “When on holiday, each day requires three outfits, Judge,” I retorted like he was dimwitted. “You go to Paris for a week and try to fit everything you’ll need in the two measly seventy-pound bags you’re limited to without mastering the art of space economy. Specifically, when you’ll be shopping whilst there, so you’ll need extra space for your return.”

  He burst out laughing.

  I should have hung up.

  I didn’t.

  I listened.

  Because it was deep and rich and full of humor and life.

  I had learned Judge Oakley did not hold back when he laughed.

  It was a remarkably satisfying sound.

  Though, I did listen while drumming my fingers on my desk, due to, I told myself, impatience when it was actually (I refused to admit) that I hated I was listening to it over the phone rather than in person.

  “Three outfits?” he asked through his residual chuckles.

  “Yes. With shoe changes.” Pause, then, so he could understand fully, “And handbag changes.”

  “No airline gives you two seventy-pound bags,” he informed me.

  “They do in first class.”

  “’Course they do,” he murmured, humor tingeing his tone.

  “Lest you forgot, I’m filthy rich,” I told him, not knowing if I did it trying to repulse him or test him (and this was an actual successful lie, because my parents were, but regardless of my healthy trust fund (which I didn’t count because I didn’t earn it), I was not).

  “You’d think a rich chick wouldn’t steal a guy’s coat,” he teased.

  If it was a test, which I decided it wasn’t (though it was), he would have passed.

  Time to end this.

  “Judge—”

  “Parfait means perfect in…” He let that trail for me to fill in the blank.

  “French.”

  “Right. You speak it?”

  “I lived there for three years.”

  “Right. Seems a natural fit. I’m surprised you came back.”

  “My beloved grandmother died, then my parents’ long, loving marriage disintegrated,” I stated coldly.

  And then my uncle blew his brains all over a priceless painting.

  His tone was vastly different, just as mine had been.

  But his was as warm as his laugh, though without the humor.

  “Chloe—”

  “I’ll get the coat to Bowie.”

  “You’ll get it to him? Can’t he just bring it to the store from the house?”

  Damn, damn.

  Shit.

  “I mistakenly packed it,” I sniffed.

  “You can’t mistakenly pack an overcoat.”

  He was so right.

  God.

  “Especially you,” he continued, “being a master at space-economizing packing and all.”

  I walked right into that one.

  What had become of me?

  “Are you quite finished haranguing me about your coat?” I demanded.

  “Sure. I can be finished haranguing you about my coat if you’ll talk to me about why you sounded like your world was ending when you picked up the phone.”

  “I’ve said repeatedly I’m fine.”

  “Parfait, which I don’t know French, I still think it also might mean bullshit.”

  “You might not be done,” I stated acidly. “But I am.”

  “Don’t hang up on me, Chloe, please,” he said quickly.

  I hesitated.

  And then his voice became soft, gentle.

  God.

  Beautiful.

  “Talk to me.”

  So beautiful.

  So dangerous.

  “I’ll get the coat to you, Judge.”

  “Chloe—”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Give it to me yourself.”

  Seeing him again, in his tall, rustic, brown-eyed, broad-shouldered wonder?

  Not on my life.

  “Goodbye, Judge.”

  “Chloe—”

  I hung up.

  I then turned the sound off my phone, set it face down on my desk, and I did not see the contents of the file on my father’s lover scattered across my desk.

  I heard Judge saying, Because you’re two hours away, and not at Duncan’s, which I can get to in fifteen minutes.

  He didn’t care about his coat.

  He heard in my voice that something was wrong, and he was going to come to me.

  He was annoyed that getting to me would take too long.

  And he barely knew me.

  But he was going to come to me.

  My phone lit from underneath, someone was calling.

  Or calling back.

  I plopped in my chair with not even a nuance of my carefully cultivated elegance and stared at a picture of the very attractive Susan Shepherd on my desk, not thinking that this woman had played a part in turning my life upside down.

  I did it thinking, He was going to come to me.

  And then I shoved that thought aside and wrote myself a note to fire my private investigator.

  Tout de suite.

  Chapter 7

  The Texts

  Chloe

  Two days later, I had somewhere to be, and I needed to get into my red Evoque and get there, but instead I was sitting at my desk at the store, torturing myself by scrolling through a variety of text strings.

  Text string one, Matt.

  Me, five days ago: We need to speak.

  Also me, four days ago: I think you know by now, you can’t avoid me forever.

  And he did. He knew I’d fly to Indiana, if I had to, just to get in his face and put an end to this grudge he was holding.

  Another me, yesterday: At least tell me how things are going at Purdue. Sully says you’re neck deep in studies. But your sister would like to hear from you directly. Are you all right?

  Point of note, Sully was in his final year at Purdue, and before we even knew Sully, Matt had been accepted in veterinarian school there, ditching his final year of med school in LA to switch medicines. He’d started his first semester there just days ago. Boon for him, he knew someone there. Bummer for him, I’d checked (daily) and the weather there was so far from what it was in LA, it wasn’t funny.

  It was a ballsy move (these not unknown for Matt to pull) that fortunately didn’t make either Mom or Dad angry at him.

  They wanted him to be happy.

  I did too.

  I also wanted him to talk to me.

  Another point of note, all those texts from me, even if there were days in between, they were back-to-back.

  Matt hadn’t responded.

  Still.

  Text string two, Sasha.

  Me, five days ago: You know you can’t hold a grudge.

  Nothing from Sasha for two whole days.

  I was rather proud of myself for having patience through those days before I tried again.

  Me: I have Free People samples.

  Sash: Really?

  Important to note at this juncture that this was evidence of the advantages of a little white lie.

  Me: No. But we need to go to
lunch or have coffee or go eat cupcakes, do something SatC or we’ll lose our sister cards.

  Sash: I’m up in Prescott. Next week?

  Like it was harder for her to schedule me in her nothing than it was for me to schedule her into my whirlwind life in the Valley of the Sun.

  Me: Tuesday. Breakfast Club at the Biltmore. Ten o’clock.

  Sash: Yippee!

  Me: [gif of Marie from the Aristocats rolling her eyes]

  Sash: [gif of humongous teddy bear blowing a kiss]

  Although I was upset (and let’s face it, aggravated, he really needed to get over himself) at my estrangement with Matt, I was happy Sasha was moving on.

  However, the person I’d want to talk to about the file I got from the mysterious R would be Matt. That said, I would never in a million years (at this juncture) talk to him about it, what was in it, how I got it, and how it seemed Uncle Corey was still up to his bullshit machinations beyond the grave and how creepy that was even if it might also be a boon.

  It also came with more emotions about Uncle Corey, ones I battened the hatches down on tightly because I was not going to go there.

  But I needed to talk to someone about it, and not Mi-Young because…well, it was family stuff.

  I trusted her implicitly.

  Even so, it didn’t need to be said this ran deeper.

  In other words, I was weighing the options of talking about it to Sasha.

  However, she seemed…fragile somehow. Her usual breezy, cheery self that was her even when she wasn’t all boho but instead preppy and overachieving was still in place. She was the quintessential sunny California girl, no matter what clothes she wore.

  It just seemed like a façade now.

  She knew I had designs on helping Dad find some happiness (okay, plotting toward that).

  But that file was something else.

  The last text string was, you guessed it, with Judge.

  He’d started it.

  Judge, not long after our conversation: Hanging up. Uncool.

  I’d ignored that.

  The next morning, from Judge: Ghosting. Even more uncool.

  Point of note, I prided myself on my iron will. To my recollection, of my nearly quarter of a century on this planet, I’d worked tirelessly to fortify it, starting in kindergarten, when my bestest, best, bestie Brittany was being bullied by that little fucker, Andrew. He’d push her over. She’d cry. The teacher would be all touchy, feely, let’s-discuss-our-actions, on both parts, even Britt’s, when she did nothing but be cute and shy and an easy target, and our teacher wanted this discussion when we were five.

  As I saw it, the actions were, he pushed her because he was a spoiled little shit, she fell down, and it made her cry.

  Even though I knew my parents would lose their minds, when I’d had enough, I did what I had to do.

  Consequences be damned, the next time he’d pushed her, I’d gone right up to him and punched him in the sternum as hard as my little girl arm could do it.

  He’d howled like I’d cut him with a blade.

  And then it had been Andrew who’d been causing havoc for weeks, but I got in serious shit with the teacher and principal discussing with my parents my “alarming” tendency toward violence.

  Mom and Dad were pissed and worried (incidentally, I distinctly remember Uncle Corey winking at me when he’d been at the house and Mom told him this story).

  I found even at five I cared about the worried, but not the pissed.

  I also learned from that incident.

  Don’t do something, for yourself or someone else, that’ll get your ass in a sling.

  Be smarter.

  From then, to now, I made it my mission to do just that.

  Go forth.

  Do what I had to do for myself or someone I loved.

  Damn the consequences.

  But when I did it, be smart about it.

  And I very much wanted to guard my heart which meant, in all that was happening in my life and the lives of the ones I loved, guard my peace of mind when it came to Judge.

  But for some reason I could not fathom, I found it impossible to allow him to think I was ghosting him.

  Though, I did make him wait precisely one and a half hours before I responded to his ghosting accusation.

  Me: You don’t know this about me, because you don’t know me, but I’m a busy girl.

  Judge, playing no games (Lord help me with this man), this coming immediately: You OK?

  Me, timing it for sixteen minutes later: I was okay yesterday.

  Judge, again immediately: You were lying yesterday.

  Me, giving it nearly twenty-seven minutes that time: You’re delusional.

  Judge, after only maybe five minutes passed: Whatever. Are you timing your responses so I won’t think you’re into me?

  Annoying!

  Me: Cad.

  Judge: I’ve gone from asshole and dick to player to cad. I have to look up cad, but I think that’s progress.

  Me: Is there some reason you’re bothering me? I ask this because, you might have missed it with your selective male ears, but I DID mention previously I was a busy girl.

  Judge: Just wanna check in on my coat. It was a gift. I wanna make sure you’re taking real good care of it.

  I knew he was teasing, flirting, but I found this snippet of information about Judge interesting.

  And it was then it occurred to me that I’d given a lot away in our few meetings, but he’d given nothing away.

  I knew he was beautiful.

  I knew I loved his laugh.

  I knew preliminary research showed he was an exceptionally skilled kisser.

  I knew he worked for Duncan.

  I knew the work he did for Duncan provided evidence that he might genuinely be a good guy (when he wasn’t acting like a cad, of course).

  And I now knew someone gave him that fabulous coat.

  That was all I knew.

  It did nothing for my peace of mind, it clanged mightily against my iron will.

  But still, I did it.

  I asked.

  Me: A gift?

  Judge: From my dad.

  Me: He has good taste.

  Judge: In everything but women.

  Then another one from Judge on the heels of that: Though he’s proved he can learn.

  Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  My mental alarm went Defcon One as the assault to my shields went in overdrive.

  Because this did not intrigue me.

  I needed to know what that meant.

  Needed it.

  I knew he was trouble.

  I didn’t know the letters in the name “Judge” spelled d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r.

  So, of course, this was when I ghosted him.

  I’d heard from him twice right after that: You there? and You get busy?

  And I’d heard from him this morning: Get too real for you?

  Then…nothing.

  Nothing from me in return.

  Therefore, now I had Matt still angry with me. Sasha being too…whatever she was, to deal with the file our dead Uncle Corey had some mastermind private dick procure for me. When he started getting real, I’d blown off Judge precisely as he said I had. Making that worse, he was doing it sharing about himself.

  And I needed to get my ass in my car so I could go over to Dad’s house because Bowie and Mom were down from Prescott, we were having dinner together (at Dad’s!) because they had something to talk to me about.

  All Dad would say about it was, “A project we want you to get involved in.”

  I did not want to have dinner with my beloved father, my beloved mother, and my mother’s beloved fiancé, who I also was falling in love with, but who was not my dad.

  I further did not want to get involved in a project with the three of them.

  A project I knew, without them telling me, was their way to make sure the PR around Mom and Bowie being together, and Mom and Dad not, and all of us bein
g family anyway, stayed positive. This, no matter that Uncle Corey’s bitchface ex, Samantha, had told the world on a YouTube gossip show that Dad cheated on Mom.

  (Don’t worry, at the time, we’d lied and said she lied. Still, that fix was far too easy in the midst of the brouhaha when stuff like that could go underground only to surface at a later date, strike, and then you’re dying of venom poisoning before you knew the snake was even there. And one thing I hated most in this world was snakes.)

  So, no.

  I did not want any of this.

  Even so, I turned off my phone, shut down my laptop and put it away, cleared my desk, grabbed my bag and headed out to my car.

  Chapter 8

  The Greenway

  Chloe

  I wanted to hate it.

  But it was impossible.

  Dad’s flying-solo house was everything.

  Situated in a posh, quiet, golf course community with a club that had tennis courts he could use, large lots for the houses and a strict HOA policy that decreed you could not park on the street, it was located in an up, up, upper scale area between Scottsdale proper and North Scottsdale.

  My favorite parts of the house were the wall of windows that faced Dad’s black-mosaic tiled pool with adjacent hot tub and a minimalistic water feature that ran in a soothingly slow river in a raised section down one side of the pool to peacefully fall into it at the far end. This as well as Dad’s enormous kitchen that had solid ash, smooth-front cabinetry topped with white quartz that was three inches thick.

  His firepits (both of them) didn’t suck either.

  I had, in the many mental ramblings I’d been assailed with since their marriage disintegrated, wondered if the move to the high-rise Mom kept when they split was one of the blows their marriage had suffered.

  Dad was a house man. He never quite fit in Mom’s condo. And I thought of it more as her condo even when Dad lived in it with her, also even before she gutted it after he left and made it all glamor. It had been beautiful and roomy when Dad was there, and the views were insane, but he’d always seemed like a fish out of water.

  Nevertheless, Dad had been all-in to move from LA to Phoenix. Tennis. Golf. Cycling. Hiking. Wide open spaces that weren’t an hour and a half’s drive away, and some of them were right in town. It was an active person’s haven, regardless of the sweltering summer heat.