or straying outside societal norms, she secured a divorce settlement with strings attached. To her, Stan was a bargaining chip. She viewed her role as the mother of a Wanamaker in terms of the long game. No legal team was capable of boxing her in without cause. She simply played the right cards at the right time.
Time didn’t stand still. Age and a son who was no longer co-dependent must be rattling the ice-cold bitch’s cage. Maybe she’d finally make a mistake. If Giselle crashed and burned, he hoped to be there when it happened. The thought of her going down in flames was fiercely satisfying.
“See why I need you?”
“Relax, old man,” Arnie teased. “I’m on my way as we speak. Hired a car service.”
“Well, aren’t you all fancy. What’s the matter, Arnie? An hour behind the wheel is too much?”
“I’m coming in hot.” He sniggered. “Locked and loaded.”
“And when are you arriving? Spit it out.”
He looked out the window and immediately recognized his location. “Ten minutes. It better be okay for me to stay at the house.”
Something in his father’s reply made tingles dance on all his nerves.
“My boy, you’re going to be doing a lot more than just staying.”
Arnie didn’t know what he meant, but he didn’t ask for clarification. There were powerful forces in motion—in every area of his life—so the best he could do was strap in and hold on.
Sipping a very dirty martini hours later, he sat in the large formal living room of the Wanamaker homestead in Stamford, Connecticut, and eyed those also gathered with a dispassionate gaze.
Was it his imagination, or was everyone openly scowling at him? What the hell had he done? Nothing as far as he knew.
Out of the damn blue, his dad pinned him with an intense look. “He’s giving you this house,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The whole property. Now. He isn’t going to wait. He told me this morning over breakfast. Judging by our reception, I’m guessing everyone knows.”
Arnie’s eyes swept the room where most of the Wanamaker clan huddled in groups for Senior’s mandatory cocktail hour. Of the thirty or so people present, not one would support him inheriting Darnell Senior’s Connecticut estate. No one except his dad, of course. Definitely Aunt Lou. And Stan. Stan was turning out to be a rock-solid wingman.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with thirty-two acres, a pond, formal gardens, a pool, and a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion?”
“Don’t forget the babbling brook, tennis court, three-thousand-square-foot guest cottage, wine cellar, and the six-car climate-controlled garage.”
Oh, Jesus. His swimming head began to pound, and his left eye twitched. He’d spent the better part of his adult life turning his back on the Wanamaker lifestyle. He despised the shallow mindset of the generationally wealthy classes. Money passing through families was dirty business. Financial bottom lines obscured emotion and damaged family roots. It was easy to hate what the money represented.
“I guess I could list it with Airbnb,” he mumbled.
His dad grew serious. “Arnie, my boy,” he said. “Someday, you’re going to stop running away from who you are. I hope you’ll find someone special like your mother and settle down. Start a family.” He gestured around. “Admit it, son. Rose Hill isn’t hell or even the waiting room. Once upon a time, this grand estate was filled with love and laughter. If your mom hadn’t died, this is where we planned to live. It’s only as pretentious as the inhabitants, Arnie. Lianne had big plans to make Rose Hill Manor and Cottage a real family home.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before.” Thinking about his mom caused Arnie’s throat to tighten with emotion. “She liked this mausoleum? Really?”
“Finish your drink and follow me.” His dad shot back the end of his Manhattan, fished the cherry out of the ice, and bit into it. “Ah.” He chuckled. “Nothing like an explosion of sweetness soaked with Michter’s Kentucky Straight Rye.”
His father’s signature drink wasn’t new or adventurous. He preferred a classic Manhattan made with his favorite rye whiskey, the best Italian vermouth available, and a Luxardo maraschino cherry.
Chuckling, Arnie tossed back the last of a deliciously dirty martini and tracked after his dad. They ended up in the long sunroom running along the back of a first-floor wing. Large windows with beautiful transoms made up three of the walls. A door led to a small flagstone patio overlooking the gardens. It was the only area of the house not overflowing with furniture and art.
“This