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1
Finn
If only the new guy had put in the right paperwork for the flight plan. If only I had paid more attention to the naysayers. If only I had kept a closer eye on my bank balance. If only I had not trusted Miranda .
There were a lot of if onlys that led me to this moment. This moment where I now stand on my parents’ back doorstep in Sharon Springs, reaching under the plant pot in the dark, searching for the spare key. I know it’s around here somewhere, but it’s past three in the morning, and the fact that it’s dark out is not helping my search. I’m tired, more than a little frustrated with my own idiocy, and feeling a little sorry for myself. But at least I’d managed to avoid the hounding assault of those wannabe journalists.
It’s been a whole lot of hours since I left my penthouse apartment in Washington, D.C.
I took the stairs rather than the elevator. Being stuck in such a confined space with another tenant of the luxury apartment building was the last thing I needed. I was trying especially hard to avoid Mrs. Carlton and her yappy dogs. Dogs that are treated better than humans, I might add. She lets them do whatever they want, which includes, but is not confined to, jumping up on my three-thousand-dollar suit.
The last time we shared an elevator journey, I was picking her pesky pets’ hairy deposits from my trouser legs for three days. Besides, she seems to know more about my life than I do. She is also relentless in her endeavors to discover more and would put some government agencies to shame with her interrogation techniques. All with a sweet, old-lady smile, of course.
Terence spotted me when I reached the foyer. He hurriedly ushered me down the hallway. “This way, Mr. Brecken. The press is waiting for you at the front.” His reference to the bottom feeders who are determined to discover my business—only to spread it all over the Internet—was kind, to say the least. “I’ve sent your car to the parking garage. You can use the service elevator.”
Terence was the doorman, an extremely conscientious and observant older man in his fifties. When I moved into the penthouse just over four years ago, it had been Terence who told me the best places to eat, the places to avoid, the best car services, and a lot of other things I had been ignorant about as a man who did not know my way around town.
An unlikely friend by anyone’s standards, Terence has been the most unpretentious person I have met since my move to Washington. It hardly takes a great stretch of the imagination to see why. In this town, everyone knows your name because they want something from you. Terence and I have shared more than just a passing greeting, as many of the other tenants do. But then, I’m not a city boy, and raised in such a small town, I find myself more comfortable in the company of down-to-earth folk.
“Thanks, Terence.” I sighed. “You’re a good man.”
“I think you have enough on your mind, without having to deal with the wolves, sir,” the older man replied.
Yes. “Wolves” is a far more fitting term than “press,” that’s for certain.
I stepped onto the elevator and, turning around, watched as Terence reached inside and pressed the button for the basement car park. “Good luck, Mr. Brecken,” he said as the metal doors slid closed.
Only I have not had much luck since. The traffic had been nose-to-tail all the way out of the capital. A sea of red taillights for miles ahead worried me. If we didn’t get through the traffic, I’d miss my flight. But there was nothing either I or my driver had been able to do about it, and thus, to keep my mind occupied, I spent the time answering emails. When I arrived at the hangar, I was more than ready to board the private jet that was supposed to be flying me into Albany. Only the paperwork had been queried. A new employee had somehow fumbled the flight details, and I was grounded for another three hours.
I don’t lose my patience often. In fact, I’m usually a very easy-going guy. But my unflappability was slowly beginning to unravel, and I worried I was going to start flapping in a rather intense manner if things continued going against me. The delayed flight meant that I missed the car service that had been ordered to pick me up and take me to Sharon Springs. I was then forced to take a cab. Let me tell you, the private car service was cheaper. After paying a small fortune for the journey, my only solace was the fact that the cab driver left with a smile on his face.
But I’m home now. Away from all the press, the greedy bottom feeders who want to pull my life to shreds. Mom and Dad are worried. They’ve read about my life on showbiz websites, even though I’ve asked them to ignore it all. None of it is anywhere near the truth. But then, lazy journalism doesn’t care for the truth. They just want a story that sells and brings in frenzied interest. And of course, Miranda is feeding them like they’re piranhas. She’s loving all the attention. But more so, she wants to make sure they see her as the victim, rather than the perpetrator.
Wow, I picked a good one there, right?
I texted Dad earlier and told him and Mom not to wait up. Running the diner and gas station they own in Sharon Springs is no easy task, and I knew they’d be exhausted. Dad had replied with a reminder of where the spare key was, not that I needed reminding. I’d used it a million times in my youth.
Finally grabbing the key, I take another moment and a deep breath. Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that I’m arriving home so late. It was going to be difficult enough having to come to terms with being back here. Not having to face my parents straight away might actually be a blessing in disguise. They’ve been more than supportive over this last year. Of course, when Mom found out Miranda and I were separating, she had something to say about it.
“I never did like that woman, anyway.”
Her remark made me laugh. She’d met Miranda once, on our wedding day.
But it was their homely affection and unconditional love that was going to be the hardest to deal with. My parents are proud of all my success, and as far as they’re concerned, I can do no wrong. But I’m as much to blame for this situation as anyone else. I’d foolishly believed that Miranda was different. That she actually cared. That she hadn’t just married me for my money.
How wrong was I?
My naivety was humiliating. Never could I have imagined a scenario where I’d be forced to run back to my hometown. And yet, here I was.
Sharon Springs was where I grew up. Everyone knew my name for an entirely different reason than my success and ensuing wealth. They had known me since I was a boy. They had witnessed my stages of growth, from a toddler into the primary years, and then the spotty geeky teenager at school, to the pump attendant when I had worked for Mom and Dad during the long summers.
But Sharon Springs was also the one place the media could not find me. I had gone to great lengths and great expense to ensure that this part of my life was never discovered. As far as the world knew, I grew up in New York State. Other details had never been available. It wasn’t because I was proud. It had nothing to do with any shame, either. Sharon Springs was a fine place to live. The secrecy had come from one motivation: to protect my family from the vultures.
With a population of five hundred and sixty people, the town is nearly an extension of my family. We all know each other really well. Rarely are there any newcomers. The families now living here are the descendants of the same families who have been here for nearly a century.
When I became a household name, I worried that someone from Sharon Springs would slip up and make mention of their connection to me. But with a strange kind of collective consciousness—probably not wanting their small town to be turned into a circus—not one person ever said a word. Something that I am eternally grateful for as I slip the key into the back door lock.
I’m trying to be as quiet as possible as I cross the threshold and tip-toe into the house. But the back door is old and makes the same creaking noise it has for years. I wince, and I am just turning to reach onto the back porch for my suitcase when I suddenly hear this piercing, high-pitched scream.
