She saw Francie as a teenager, grinning as they dug into a bowl of ice cream with colored sprinkles. The memory was good. But it was followed swiftly by the memory of Francie shouting that she hated Chloe before storming out of the apartment and slamming the door.
Not that Kate blamed Francie for bailing. Chloe had never been a candidate for mother of the year.
She had loved her daughters when the mood struck her and ignored them when it didn’t. She’d criticized them when she was in a bad mood, which was most of the time. She claimed they had cramped her style, ruined her figure and kept her home with their snotty-nosed whining when she’d rather be out with an eligible man. In Chloe’s mind, the only thing between her and happily ever after with some handsome, wealthy Prince Charming had been the anchor of Kate and Francie.
Kate had followed Francie’s lead, leaving for Seattle with her best friend, Nadia Ivanova, as soon as they’d graduated high school. She and Nadia had supported each other through teachers’ college, and she’d never looked back, at least not until now. Not until Francie had been killed in a car accident.
“She was drinking, you know,” Chloe said, closing the apartment door and crossing the worn braided rug on high heels.
“I read the news article.” Kate was the last person to defend Francie’s actions, but she bristled at the critical tone in her mother’s voice.
Chloe lifted a glass of orange juice from the small, chipped dining table. “She should have known better.”
Even if ice cubes hadn’t clinked against the glass as she drank, Kate would have guessed the juice was laced with vodka.
Because of the great example you set for us? The sarcastic question rang silent in Kate’s mind.
“When is her service?” she asked instead.
Chloe waved a dismissive hand. “She didn’t want a service.”
“It doesn’t have to be big or fancy,” Kate said.
They were anything but a close-knit family, but they were Francie’s only family. They needed to say goodbye.
“The body was already cremated.”
“What? When?” Kate’s knees went unexpectedly weak, the finality of her sister’s death suddenly hitting home.
She was never going to see Francie again. Visions of her sister bloomed in earnest now, at eight years old, reading The Jolly Green Frog to Kate on their shared mattress in the back bedroom, the time she’d tried to bake peanut butter cookies and nearly lit the kitchen on fire, the two of them on the floor in front of the television, watching a thoroughly inappropriate late-night crime drama with Chloe passed out on the sofa.
Kate moved now to touch that sofa, that same old burgundy brocade sofa. She lowered herself to the saggy cushion.
“Why would you do that?” she asked her mother, her throat tight.
“It wasn’t me,” Chloe said.
“The hospital decided to cremate her?”
Had Chloe pleaded poverty? Was cremation the default decision for patients who died without the means to pay for a funeral? Chloe should have come to Kate. Kate didn’t have a lot of money, but she could have buried her own sister.
“Quentin decided to cremate her. He said it was what she wanted. He can afford anything he wants without blinking an eye, so I expect he was telling the truth.” Chloe took a large swallow of the orange juice drink.
“Quentin?” Kate prompted.
“Francie’s boyfriend, Annabelle’s father.”
“Who is Annabelle?”
Chloe blinked at Kate for a moment. “Francie’s baby.”
Kate was glad to be sitting down. “Francie...” Her voice failed her before she could finish the sentence. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Francie has a baby?”
“You didn’t know?”
“How would I know?” Kate hadn’t spoken to either her mother or her sister in nearly seven years. “Is the baby all right? Where is she?” Kate found herself glancing around the apartment, wondering if her niece might be sleeping in the bedroom.
Chloe obviously guessed the direction of Kate’s thoughts and drew back in what looked like alarm. “She’s not here. She’s where she belongs, with her father, Quentin Roo.”
* * *
As he had for nearly a month now, Brody Calder pretended to be amused by Quentin Roo’s crude, misogynistic remarks. The man’s current target was swimsuit model Vera Redmond, who was clad in a clingy black sheath of a minidress, sipping a crimson martini across the crowded pool deck of Quentin’s Hollywood Hills mansion.
“Could bounce a quarter off it,” Quentin stated with a low, meaningful chuckle.
“I have,” said Rex Markel, causing Quentin to laugh harder.
Brody smiled at the joke, wishing he was someplace else, quite frankly anywhere else on this Saturday night. But his family had put their faith in him, and that faith had put their fortune at risk. Brody had made a bad calculation, and now it was up to him to set things right.
He was standing, while Quentin and Rex lounged in padded rattan chairs on the second level of the multitiered pool deck. Light spilled from the great room, its sliding glass walls wide open in the still August night as guests moved inside and out. Quentin liked to party, and the massive profits from his gaming company, Beast Blue Designs, ensured he had the means.
“Did you catch her baby owl tattoo?” Brody asked Rex, putting on the cocky confidence of the rock concert promoter he was pretending to be.
Rex looked surprised, causing Brody to suspect he hadn’t bounced a quarter off or anywhere near the former Miss Ventura County’s rear end.
Brody had caught a glimpse of the tattoo last Wednesday morning. It seemed Vera liked string bikinis and sunrise swims, while Brody had been the only punctual arrival at breakfast that day. It was all quite innocent, but he wasn’t about to mess with his street cred by explaining the circumstance.
Quentin raised his highball in a toast. “Rock on, Brody.”
“I do my best,” Brody drawled.
“Take a seat,” Quentin invited.
While Rex frowned at him, Brody eased onto another of the rattan chairs. Music from the extensive sound system throbbed around them. A few guests splashed in the pool, while others clustered around the bar and the dessert buffet.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous,” Rex drawled, sitting up straight, prompting Brody to follow the direction of his gaze.
A new woman had appeared on the pool deck, leggy and tanned in sparkly four-inch heels. Her dress was a skintight wrap of hot, shimmering pink. Her short blond hair flowed sleekly around her face, purple highlights framing her thick-lashed, wide blue eyes. She wore sparkling earrings and chunky bangles. And when her bright red lips curved into a sultry smile, Brody felt the impact right down to his bones.
“Who is she?” he asked, before remembering to play it cool.
“Kate Dunhern,” Quentin answered.
“Francie’s sister?” Rex asked with clear surprise.
“It seems that’s the little sister,” said Quentin, a thoughtful thread running through his tone as he perused the woman with obvious curiosity.
“Who’s Francie?” Brody asked, cataloging the women he’d met since striking up his acquaintance with Quentin. He didn’t recall anyone named Francie.
“My baby-mama,” said Quentin.
The revelation surprised Brody. “You have a child?”
“Annabelle.”