“Yes.” He sat back down and removed some papers from his briefcase. “We would’ve had these to you sooner, but it wasn’t easy locating you and your brothers.” He smiled. “Although I understand. Just this past year, I went salmon fishing with my brothers in a remote spot in Canada. Most enjoyable two weeks I’ve had in a long time.”
It annoyed Deacon that the man would think this was just a vacation spot. He scowled as the lawyer took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. He put them on before he started reading the will.
Mr. Connors had a low, soothing voice, one that would’ve put Deacon to sleep if the stakes hadn’t been so high. He, his brothers, and Donny John all listened intently as the man read. It wasn’t until he reached the details of the shares Uncle Michael had left them that Deacon interrupted.
“Excuse me. Did you say controlling shares?”
Mr. Connors glanced up. “I did.”
“Controlling as in majority shareholders?”
The lawyer smiled. “Correct. Your uncle left you all of his shares.”
Nash got up from the couch. “Does that mean what I think it means, Deacon?”
Since Deacon couldn’t seem to find his voice, Mr. Connors answered the question for him. “It means that you and your brothers are now the owners of French Kiss, Incorporated.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Olivia was running late…again. No matter how early she got up, she just couldn’t seem to keep from being late. This morning she’d been distracted by the pretty hummingbird that fluttered by her kitchen window, Mr. Huckabee watering his flowers in the nude, and her trash and recycling bins sitting by the curb. Not that there was anything unusual about her trash bins being out. Especially on trash day. At least there wouldn’t have been if she had been the one to roll them out to the curb. But until she saw them, she’d forgotten that it was trash day. Which meant that someone else had put her trash and recycling bins out. Just as they had the week before. And the week before that.
Late or not, she couldn’t help opening the balcony doors and calling to Mr. Huckabee, whose dangling parts were thankfully covered by the large watering can he held, “Good morning, Mr. Huckabee.”
He squinted over at her. “Is that you, Britney?”
Britney had been the former owner of Olivia’s house. And even after five years, Mr. Huckabee still thought she lived there. Olivia had corrected him numerous times and had finally given up.
“I wanted to thank you for putting out my trash,” she said.
“I didn’t. And you left your garage door open again.” Mr. Huckabee lifted the can to water his geraniums, displaying his private parts.
She averted her eyes. “Yes, I know. I guess I need to tie a string on my penis—I mean finger.” With a heated face, she backed toward the doors. “Well, have a good day.” On her way inside, she noticed Jonathan Livingston Seagull standing in the corner of her balcony, eating what looked like a piece of moldy banana peel. “Shoo!” she yelled, and waved her arms. The bird stared her down with a beady-eyed look before he picked up the banana peel and took flight, leaving his calling card on her rug.
She usually took the trolley to work, but after cleaning up Jonathan’s mess she was running too late to wait for public transportation, so she decided to take the Porsche Michael had given her for her thirtieth birthday. It was a nice car—fast, sleek, and a pretty French Kiss silver. Which didn’t explain why she felt so uncomfortable driving it.
Backing out of her garage, she ground the gears and almost ran over her trash bins. The sight of them at the curb had her glancing around to see if any neighbors were waiting to be thanked for putting out her trash. But the only person she saw was the guy who sold lemon juicers to the tourists on Fisherman’s Wharf. He hurried down the street, pulling his roller suitcase of juicers behind him.
He had to live somewhere close by because she saw him almost every day, although she couldn’t see him making enough on lemon juicers to afford to live in the wealthy neighborhood. She would think he was a street person if not for the quality of his coat and pants. Even his Nikes looked new. When she drove past and waved, he ducked his head and ignored her. She should really buy a juicer from him. Maybe she would get one for her mother as well. Deirdre loved kitchen gadgets. Thinking of her mother, Olivia tapped the screen on the dashboard.
After a few trilling rings, her mother’s voice came through the Bose speakers.
“When are you coming to get this woman?”
“Today.” Olivia stifled a yawn. Her sleep the last two nights had been plagued by nightmares. Not about being eaten alive by mosquitoes or death-rolled by an alligator, but about showing her panties to Deacon Beaumont and him laughing hysterically. Of course the nightmares weren’t any worse than the daydreams that kept popping up since she left Louisiana. Daydreams about Deacon’s body. Even now it was hard to blink the image of his manly muscles and lightly furred chest away. “So how is Babette this morning?” Olivia asked. “Has she gotten any work done?”
“It appears so. She spent all day yesterday scribbling on some design or another.”
“That’s great.” Olivia passed a Starbucks and struggled with the strong desire to turn in. But since she was already late, her caffeine hit would have to wait until she got to work. “Tell her I’ll send a car to pick her up this afternoon. And as soon as I call a board meeting and present her designs, she can start working with the designers at French Kiss.”
“As if the woman can work with anyone,” her mother said. “And instead of sending a car for her, why don’t you come and pick her up yourself? I’d like to see you.”
“I’d love to, Mother, but now that the Beaumonts have signed over their shares of the company, there’s just too much to get done. What about if we have lunch this weekend?”
“Fine. And afterwards you can help me go through some of Michael’s things. If the house sells quickly, we’ll need to have it done. Although it’s a shame to sell the house when it would be a perfect home for you to start a family.”
The comment took Olivia completely by surprise. “A family?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what a family is, Olivia. Yours wasn’t conventional—what with your father running off and you having a workaholic stepfather who ran the largest lingerie company in the world—but you certainly don’t want to end up like Regina Longley’s daughter, who has to hire men to escort her to social events. You need a husband. Even if for nothing more than arm decoration.”
“I have a boyfriend, Mother.”
“That young man who works at French Kiss? Does he have money?”
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t plan to marry for money.” In fact Olivia didn’t plan to marry at all. She had enough complications in her life.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Olivia Harrington. I won’t have you marrying some yuppie businessman with nothing more than a 401(k). Do you know anything about this Parker’s family?”
Olivia opened her mouth and then closed it when she realized that she didn’t know anything about Parker’s family. Not one thing. She didn’t know if his parents were living. If he had siblings. Or even a dog.