The offer from the Amersham Group had landed in the mailbox last week and it had kept Dylan standing outside in the rain in shock. The dollar figure being offered to him was too big to refuse. He knew very little about them, only that they were a real estate company who had enough money to make the investment. Dylan hadn’t delved further. He had other things on his mind. All he’d tried to do was think about how his father would’ve reacted if he’d received such an offer. Walter Bakersfield was as straight down the line as you could get. He fought fair, he didn’t deceive, and he genuinely wanted other people to be just as happy as he was. Dylan suspected his dad would’ve struggled with the decision of whether to sell up. Part of him would’ve tried to remain loyal to all those tenants, another part of him would’ve looked at the situation long-term and calculated how long he could hang on to the property to cover all the debts and make money once again. But the man who had supported his family the whole time he was alive would also consider this offer from the Amersham Group, because it was the solution to moving forward. It would clear the debts and leave enough left over to run the house and pay the bills while Dylan established his business. In the divorce, Dylan knew Prue suspected alimony payments from him would be questionable as he had the children—something she’d agreed to—and so he’d paid her a generous lump sum. It meant this money was his. He’d be able to do more advertising, take his business to the next level, get one step closer to running a successful business from home that would fit around his family life perfectly.
He took out the official papers for the deal he’s already agreed to verbally, the details of the sale he’d already discussed at length.
‘Daddy, come on!’ Jacob was back pulling at his arm.
‘Two minutes.’ Dylan laughed, halfway through reading the first page of the contract.
‘One… two… three… four…’ Jacob was off.
‘You know you need to count to a hundred and twenty, right?’ Dylan smiled at his son, concentrating on getting his numbers exactly right.
‘Thirty-one… thirty-two…’
‘Okay, okay.’ Dylan closed the contract. He’d flipped through it a couple of times since his mom’s death, each time vowing he’d do it properly next time, but it all looked in order to him. Mackenzie’s father and his other neighbour, Trent, had both been ready to witness his signature, but Dylan had been wrangling with Jacob who was in the middle of a full-blown tantrum and they’d both signed before him and he’d taken the papers home to sort them out there. He added his signature now and pushed the papers into a large envelope, added a stamp and addressed it. There, it was done.
He shut off the computer and left the envelope on the mat in the hallway so he’d remember to post it on the way to the party, and then he went into the living room, yelling at the top of his voice, ‘I’m coming to get you!’
‘Daddy!’ Ruby yanked off her blindfold. ‘That’s not the way we play and you know it.’
He sat down while Ruby dictated the rules to him.
‘Have you got it?’ she asked him with a sigh.
‘I think I have. One game, then Daddy is getting ready for a party.’
He loved his kids with all his heart. He had enough love to give them to make up for their mother’s absence, whether physical or emotional, but tonight he desperately needed some time for him.
3
6 ABBOTSWELL DRIVE, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as Cleo walked up the driveway. A garland in evergreen, snow white, and heart red hung from the knocker on the imposing front door, and Cleo knew behind it she would find a whole lot of love and laughter.
‘You came!’ Violet, looking spectacular in a ruby-red dress with kitten heels and enough bling to light up the whole of Connecticut, opened the door and hugged her friend madly.
‘I told you I would.’ Cleo handed over the bottle of wine when Violet let her go and shut the door behind her. Already there were a few people milling in the hallway, and introductions took place with those who weren’t familiar faces as Cleo followed her friend through to the kitchen.
Violet immediately picked up two champagne flutes from the dozens of different glasses standing in rows awaiting guests and filled the vessels.
‘Thank you.’ Cleo clinked her glass against Violet’s. She knew she wouldn’t have long to talk to her friend before the hostess was answering the door or tending to someone else’s needs. Violet still amazed Cleo with her calm demeanour, her ability to float through life with ease. She was so together, so confident; both qualities Cleo lacked. For years Violet had ebony locks trailing all the way down her back, almost to her bottom, but a year ago she’d had her hair cut off for charity into a pixie cut and following endless compliments and comparisons to Demi Moore inGhost, she’d been left loving her new look. The way she’d been happy to reinvent herself with barely a whimper of hesitation had left Cleo in awe.
‘How’s the store?’ Violet sipped her glass of champagne.
With a sigh Cleo leant against the kitchen countertop. It was a legitimate question, probably one Violet asked every time they saw one another, but she didn’t want to think about it tonight. The letter she’d shoved in her pocket and then left on the kitchen table had been from the current owner of the row of stores in the West Village where the Little Knitting Box stood. The lease had been renewed many a time and some of the stores had been there a lot longer than hers, but this was a letter of a different kind. It wasn’t an official document but a correspondence that felt personal, advising that due to unforeseen circumstances, the owner was being forced to sell up. The current owner had requested an extension of the leases for a period of one year to ensure tenants had ample time to prepare themselves for a change, relocate, close, or whatever they decided to do. The Little Knitting Box’s days in the West Village were numbered and the shock had hit Cleo that morning like a dumpster crushing a garbage bag. All the air had gone out of her.
And now, facing Violet, she wanted to talk to her but at the same time she wanted to get her own head straight first. After four years of having some kind of direction, her biggest fear was the unknown.
‘Takings are down a bit,’ Cleo said instead, ‘but they’re picking up with the winter season almost upon us. Christmas is always a manic time.’ She hoped this would explain away any anxiety she may accidentally convey.
‘That’s good. You have peaks and troughs in retail, it’s all part of it.’
Before Violet had children, she’d worked in fashion at both Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdales. It was all on a much grander scale than Cleo’s family business, but Cleo still appreciated the support.
‘You’re in a good spot,’ Violet went on. ‘There are several independents around you and they all seem to be thriving.’
‘I guess so.’
Violet moved aside for a woman who’d introduced herself as Imogen to get to the glasses. ‘That’s because you’re in your knitting world and rarely climb out.’
