A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,46

owner and the new owner being the same person.”

“Yes,” he said, casting a sideways glance at me. “Does the reality disturb you?”

Did it?

I shook my head. “No,” I said, thinking it out as I spoke. I lived with dead people. Not much freaked me out lately. “Although, it’s still surreal to me. The logistics are mind boggling. How long have you had your house in town?”

Gideon thought for a moment. “About seventy years, give or take a few.”

“And have you died off and left it to a relative?”

Gideon again glanced over. “Once. Left it to my son. Gideon Jr.”

“That’s handy,” I said with a laugh. “Do you own a lot of houses?”

“I do.”

“How many?” I questioned.

Gideon shrugged. “Lost count.”

“Dude,” I said. “That’s not right. One house should be enough for a person.”

“I’ll pare it down,” he promised, amused.

“Wait. Do you have a house in Greece?” I asked.

Stories about Greece were something special I remembered about my mother. It was a vague and fuzzy memory, but I’d held on to it. She’d told me Greece was a magical place filled with love and that she would take me there one day. That had never happened, but the stories had stuck with me always.

“Three,” he replied, looking guilty.

I laughed. “Keep one of them, please. I’ve never been to Greece and it’s on my bucket list.”

“Done,” Gideon said with a smile. “I’m here to make your bucket list wishes come true.”

The line was familiar. Steve had said something similar earlier. Both Steve and Gideon loved me. However, neither were or would ever be responsible for making my wishes come true. But it was a lovely thought.

“And John Travolta? Who did he leave his house to? A son? A brother? A long-lost nephew?” I asked.

“Not sure, you’ll have to ask John Travolta.”

“It’s not really a social call,” I reminded him.

“Correct,” Gideon agreed. “However, that’s exactly how we’re going to treat it. For lack of a better way to put it, we’ll call it a father-daughter get-together.”

“Sperm donor and unwanted spawn slightly polite visit,” I corrected him.

“Definitely more accurate,” Gideon commented. “I’d suggest polite interaction unless he gives us reason to behave otherwise.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking going in with metaphorical guns drawn was probably a bad plan. “Does he know we’re coming?”

“No. I figured since he’s been fond of surprises lately, we’d give him a taste of his own medicine.”

We drove on in silence. Unsure of how I was going to get the information I was after, like why he was reluctant to go after Clarissa, why she was after me, along with his lifelong denial of me, I made plans A, B, C and D inside my head. With life as off-kilter as it was, I’d probably end up going with plan Z, but rolling with the changes had become my new way of life. It was that or the mental institution.

“We’re here,” Gideon said in a calm voice. “You ready?”

I nodded and swallowed back my fear and anger. Neither would serve me well this morning.

The tree-lined drive was impressive—manicured and lovely. However, the house made the landscaping pale in comparison.

John Travolta lived in an enormous white marble mansion. It was fascinatingly beautiful and horrible.

One could argue that the white exterior represented the purity of an Angel. On the other hand, one could say it was as cold as ice—lifeless and without character. I was of the second opinion.

Thinking about my old farmhouse, a small smile pulled at my lips. It wasn’t perfect by anyone’s standards, but it was loved and lived in. It had a warmth that was sorely missing here.

My stomach roiled and I grabbed the dashboard as Gideon parked in the circular drive.

Gideon’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Daisy, what’s wrong?”

“Having a déjà vu,” I whispered, trying to figure out what it meant. “I think I’ve been here before.”

“Here?” he questioned. “At this house or in this area?”

“This house,” I said, squinting at it and trying like hell to remember. Adrenaline shot through my veins and my heart raced. Something was important, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Had something horrible happened here? “Maybe I dreamed it.”

Gideon watched me as I worked through my panic. Did it matter if I’d been here? Had my mother described it to me as a child, and I just felt as if I’d seen it? Had I finally lost my ever-loving mind for real?

“Tell me what else you remember about it,” Gideon said, rubbing my back for comfort. “Details. Any details you remember, tell