Fortune, page 2
Something is bothering Ryan Steel, and it concerns his daughter. Why else would he be here? The only link Ryan has to me is Ava.
“Is Ava all right?” I ask.
“Seems you would know better than I would.”
Interesting choice of words for Ryan. Sure, Ava and I are dating, but she’s very close to her family. Has she been avoiding them? Not from where I’m sitting. It’s Ryan and Ruby who have been avoiding her.
“I just left her, and she’s been…”
“Been what?”
I pause a moment, searching for the word I want. “Concerned,” I finally say.
Concerned is too tame a word, but I owe Ava some discretion.
“God…” Ryan drums his fingers on the table.
I meet his gaze head on. “What is troubling her? She doesn’t know, so how could you?”
“God… I can’t even believe this is happening.”
My patience is down to a nub. “What? What is happening?”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “My mother. My fucking mother.”
“Daphne Steel?”
He doesn’t say anything.
Sweat emerges from Ryan’s brow. “I watched her die. I watched her fucking die, Brendan.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
It’s not what he means? Then I’m done feeling sorry. “You’re down to about thirty seconds, Ryan.”
He rises. “How do you feel about my daughter?”
“I’m fond of her.”
“Are you in love with her?”
I drop my jaw. Am I that obvious? Hell, I think I just admitted it to myself. I’m sure not going to tell her yet because she’s not ready to hear it.
“What if I were?” I ask.
“Then I’d expect you to protect her. Protect her from everything.”
Another odd comment. Of course I’ll protect Ava. But isn’t that his job as well? He’s her father.
I clear my throat. “I’m happy to do that anyway.”
Ryan wipes his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Why is this all happening now?”
“Since I don’t know what is happening, I can’t answer that question, Ryan.”
He regards me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Look. I need to speak with you privately. And I need more than ninety seconds. When can we talk?”
“I’ve got to get the bar open, and it’s going to be a busy day. People are here for the holiday, and they’re going to want to come into town to have a drink. Ava’s going to come over to help me tonight after she closes the bakery.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. I helped her this morning at the bakery, and she’s going to return the favor this evening. And then tomorrow is your party.”
Ryan sighs. “I know. That damned party.”
Damned party? This is his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A milestone.
“It’s your anniversary.”
“I know. I love my wife, and she loves me. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years we’ve been happy. And now…”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not happy?”
Ryan strokes his fingers over his upper lip. “No, we are.”
“Is Ruby okay?”
“Yes. As much as she can be.”
Uh-oh. My thoughts go to Ava, to her fear that her mother’s cancer has returned. “Ava’s concerned. She thinks her mother might be sick again.”
Ryan shakes his head. “God, no. She’s fine. She just had a mammogram a couple of months ago.”
“Thank God. Ava drew some cards and—”
“The cards said her mother is sick?”
“The cards don’t tell Ava anything. She uses them for—”
“Yes. For guidance. I know.”
“Right. Anyway, she’s worried about her family. That Ruby may be sick. You should go over to the bakery and tell her that Ruby’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t face my daughter right now.”
My nerves jump. “What are you not telling me, Ryan? What do you mean you can’t face your daughter? There’s a big party in your honor tomorrow night, and your daughter—both of your daughters—will be there. Ava’s helping plan the party with Marjorie and Jade.”
“I know that. God, I love my wife and my daughters more than anything.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever questioned that. I know Ava hasn’t.”
“Ava. Gina. They’re going to question it. They’re going to question both Ruby and me.”
My nerves again. I can’t stomach the idea of Ava in any kind of pain. “Why would they do that?”
“God…” He shakes his head again. “I’ve got to get out of here. But you and I do need to talk. Find an hour for me. Tomorrow morning. Got it?”
I want to resist. I hate taking orders. But this concerns Ava. “Fine. Tomorrow morning. How about ten o’clock here at the bar?”
“Good enough. I’ll be here.” He whisks out of the bar through the back way.
Where Pat Lamone still stands, waiting to talk to me.
I sigh as I walk toward him.
Chapter Three
Ava
I force myself to walk to my bathroom to take a shower. Once I’m clean and dressed, I sit back down at my table and stare at the tower card.
The tower. So solid and erect and unyielding, yet one strike of lightning brings it down.
Does that mean it’s built on shaky ground?
Does that mean I’m built on shaky ground?
Is there some falsehood in my life that I’ve been ignorant to all this time?
A bolt of lightning can represent so many things.
Illumination.
Destruction.
Or a combination, which is what I fear.
Something illuminating and also destructive.
My skin goes cold, and I brush my hands over my upper arms, trying to ease the chill. It doesn’t work.
I need to get my mind off the card and whatever it may represent, so I grab a jacket, wander outside, and walk around town. Most of the smaller shops are closed for the long Thanksgiving weekend, but the tattoo shop is open.
I walk in.
Cyrus Banks is alone in the shop. He’s sitting behind the counter reading a magazine. For a tattoo artist, he only has a little ink himself—if you call both arms being sleeved with tribal designs a little ink. The rest that’s visible is completely clean. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, and his sandy hair is shoved inside a Colorado Rockies ball cap.
“Hey, Ava.”
“Hi, Cy. Did you give Kiki the day off?”
Kiki is Cy’s receptionist and a budding artist herself. Unlike Cy, she is covered in ink, and she’s the only other woman in town who colors her hair pink—neon in her case, though. Not a soft honey pink like mine.
“Yeah. The whole long weekend, actually. She went to Grand Junction to be with her folks for Thanksgiving.”
“What are you doing open?”
“I don’t have any appointments today,” he says. “But I had some paperwork. It’s done, and I thought I’d hang for a while. You never know who might want some ink on a Friday, though I do need to close soon.” He smiles.
“I’ve been thinking a long time about getting a tattoo. I love the ones you did for Brendan Murphy.”
“Those were a while ago. Like ten years.”
“That long ago?”
Ten years ago, Brendan was twenty-five years old. I was fourteen. Funny. The age thing doesn’t bother me much anymore. Not at all, really. Brendan and I—we just seem to fit.
“You think you could design something for me?” I ask.
“That’s what I’m here for. What do you have in mind?”
An image comes to me. Seriously, it just pops into my head as if by divine intervention.
“I always thought I’d want something related to the tarot,” I say, “but I’ve changed my mind.”
I close my eyes for a moment, visualize the tattoo on the back of Brendan’s left shoulder.
A triquetra—the Celtic symbol for mind, body, and spirit.
Balance.
The tower being struck by lightning.
Destruction.
Illumination.
I open my eyes. “I want a triquetra…being struck by a bolt of lightning.”
Cyrus widens his eyes. “That’s an interesting concept.”
“The triquetra symbolizes balance,” I say.
“Right. Which is why the lightning striking it is an interesting concept. Is the balance being disrupted in your life?”
Cy is a tattoo artist, not a therapist. Why is he asking me such a question? Still, I feel compelled to reply.
“I don’t know. But I think I need to be reminded on a daily basis to expect the unexpected. Not to get too comfortable with the status quo. You know what I mean?”
I expect him to ask me more questions, but instead—
“That’s a powerful image. Let me make some quick sketches for you and see if anything speaks to you.”
I nod and take a seat in the waiting area. I grab one of his books and leaf through it. He’s done some beautiful work.
He looks up from his sketch pad. “Where do you want the tattoo?”
“The middle of my upper back. Or the middle of my lower back. Or do you have a better suggestion?”
“Depends,” he says. “If you want it to remind you of something, it’s better to put it in a place you can actually see. You can’t see your lower back or your upper back without looking in a mirror.”
“Interesting. That’s a good point. Maybe the inside of my forearm.”
“You’d certainly see it then, but so would everyone else when you’re wearing short sleeves. Something to think about as well.”
“I don’t mind if other people see it.”
“Just remember, if other people can readily see it, they will ask you about it.”
I rub my chin, pondering. “You’re thinking of things that I never considered.”
“That’s my job. You need to think about these things before you permanently ink yourself. If it’s something just for you, put it in a place where only you can see it. If it’s something for someone else, put it in a place where they can see it.”
“Why would anyone tattoo themselves for someone else?”
“A lot of people do. For example, a man will get his wife’s name tattooed somewhere on his body. That’s something he wants her to see and others to see as well. Which is why you see it on an upper arm a lot.”
Interesting. I’ve racked my brain for years trying to find the right image, only to have it come to me like an epiphany. But I never considered the almost more important aspect—where to put the ink and why.
“Sometimes, someone wants to tattoo something for others to see that they won’t see. Those are the tattoos you see on the back.”
“And what if only I want to see it? And I don’t want others to? Where would you put it?”
“That’s a tougher one. But a lot of women will put it on the top of one of their breasts. Or on their hip.”
Hmm. I don’t like the breast idea. Besides, if I wear something low-cut… Who am I kidding? I never wear anything that low-cut. Still…the hip seems like the better choice.
“I like the idea of my hip. Let’s do that.”
“Good. That way, no one will see it unless you’re wearing a very low-cut bikini. But you’ll see it every day when you get in and out of the shower.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“That gives me a good idea of the size you’re looking for. Give me a few more minutes.”
I nod and get back to leafing through his tattoo book. Such gorgeous work, and so colorful. A phoenix rising from the ashes, a raven with flaming wings, an American flag with starbursts all around it, and then…
Brendan’s sea warrior, dated ten years ago. The colors are still as vibrant now. Cyrus is a true artist.
I continue leafing through the book, and then I grab another, peering out the window.
My jaw drops.
My father…
My father is walking by.
“Cy, I’ll be right back.” I exit the tattoo shop.
“Dad?”
He turns. His cheeks look…hollow almost, and his color is a little off. But those two things aren’t what strikes me the most. It’s his eyes. His gorgeous caramel-colored eyes are…unfocused. Distraught.
“Ava. Shouldn’t you be baking?”
“I’m done for the day. What are you doing here in town?”
“I had an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“With…no one you know.”
I cock my head. “Dad, I know everyone in town. We all do.”
“What are you doing in the tattoo shop?”
“Talking to Cy about getting a tattoo. Why didn’t you answer my question?”
Dad clears his throat. “Ava, what I do is not always your business.”
“You’re my father,” I say. “You look… Are you all right?”
He gazes down at the concrete sidewalk. “I’m fine, Ava.”
“And Mom?”
He looks back up. “She’s fine. She’s not sick again.”
“I know that. But how… Wait… How did you know I was worried about that?”
My father’s cheeks are ruddy. Is it from the brisk fall day? Or have I embarrassed him?
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“Nothing’s going on, Ava. I’ve got to get back to the ranch. See you tomorrow for the big party.” He continues down the street.
I want to run after him. Yank on his arm and force him to tell me what’s going on.
But I don’t. I don’t because his anniversary party is tomorrow and I promised my family I would let everything go until after the celebration.
I won’t ruin this milestone for my mother and father.
But already I know where my father was.
The only other person who knew I was worried about my mother being ill again is Brendan. Why would my father be talking to Brendan? Why would Brendan be talking to my father?
I will find out.
I head back into the tattoo shop.
Cy hands me a piece of paper. “How do these look?”
I widen my eyes. “Wow. These are magnificent.”
Three images. The first is a triquetra in basic black with a lightning bolt poised above it, also in black. In the third, the triquetra is completely cut in half by a jagged line, presumably representing the lightning.
But the second… The second is exactly what I had in mind. The triquetra is severed by the bolt diagonally. Perfect. Just as I saw it in my head.
“I recommend the second one for a tattoo on your hip. It’s a little less intricate, and we can make it smaller.”
“Yeah, I totally agree. All of them are beautiful, but the second image does stand out to me.”
“I can do the triquetra in whatever colors you want. The lightning, of course, should be either black or yellow.”
“I want the triquetra in plain black, with the lightning strike in yellow. I think that will be the most vibrant. The most… I can’t think of the right word, but it’s what I want.”
He smiles. “That’s what matters. Do you want to make an appointment?”
“Can you do it right now?”
“I wish I could, but I have to get home. Lavinia’s making wild rice and turkey soup, and we’re going to eat it this afternoon and watch football together.”
“Okay. Why don’t I stop by after the holiday, and we’ll set up an appointment?”
“Sounds good. See you, Ava.”
“See you, Cy.”
I walk out of the tattoo shop and head straight for Murphy’s bar.
Brendan owes me some answers.
Chapter Four
Brendan
“Can we do this another time?” I say to Pat. “I really have to go up and get showered so I can open the bar.”
Pat shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “I suppose so.”
“Good, because honestly I don’t know anything about your grandmother. I’m not sure why you’re here, anyway.”
“I’m here because I got this really weird email.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“Yeah, and it said to ask the Murphys.” He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.
I scan it quickly. It’s the same cryptic message that came to me through Hardy’s office.
When echoes navigate down yonder, many anchors destroy ideas generated about neglect.
Still clear as mud. “What address did this come from?” I ask.
“Nothing I recognized, and when I tried to email them back, it bounced.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what the hell this means. But I got the same email, and so did the Steels.”
He raises his eyebrows. “The Steels?”
“Well, Ava Steel. And mine didn’t come directly to me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It came to the sheriff’s office. Did this one come to you?”
He nods. “It came to one of my email addresses, but not the one I commonly use.”
I cock my head, eyeing him. “Why would you have more than one email address?”
“I opened a few email accounts when I was researching my relationship to the Steel family.”
“Again…why?”
He shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t want to bog down my regular email address with all this stuff.”
He’s lying, and I’ve lost all patience. “And for the third time… Why, Pat?”
He drops his gaze to the floor for a moment. “I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know which end is up these days. All I know is that the woman in the hospital is the only link I have to who I truly am. Her name is Dyane Wingdam, and my mother is her daughter, Lauren Wingdam.”
“And where is she? The daughter? Er…your mother?”
“I don’t know. I only recently found out her name. I haven’t been able to track her down. She may be dead for all I know. But her mother, Dyane Wingdam, using the name Sabrina Smith, is alive. Alive and sedated and in the hospital.”
