“Nothing that bears on your work.” He turns from the window, warm again. “Old grievances. Every family has them.”
I writeask what happened to myin my notebook, exactly as he said it, and I circle it.
“I’d like to speak with members of both families,” I say. “Get their perspectives.”
“Absolutely. The Merricks are an open book.” The smile is back at full strength. “Several of them are joining us for lunch. I’d like you to meet them.”
Perfect. Exactly what I need.
Lunch is in a private dining room on the resort’s lower level, floor-to-ceiling windows turning the sound into a living painting. The table is set for six, crystal and china catching the light off a chandelier that could kill a man if it fell.
Three people are already seated. Nobody stands when we come in.
There’s a card at my place with my name on it in calligraphy. There’s a card at every place. This is a family that has eaten together their whole lives, and someone has made a seating chart.
My mother did that. Twice a year, Thanksgiving and the Christmas party, place cards in her own hand, and a rehearsal the night before about what I’d be asked and what I’d say back. I was nine before I understood that the guests were work.
I pick up the card. My name spelled right.
“Scarlett, this is my brother Theodore. He runs our marina operations.”
Theodore Merrick stands from his chair with a warm, slightly awkward smile. He’s softer than his brother—rounder in the middle, gentler in the eyes, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a nose that’s seen more sun than boardrooms.
His handshake is careful, almost apologetic. “It’s a real pleasure. I enjoyed your series on the wildfire recovery in Northern California. The piece about the ex-Marine who threw a woman in a river to save her from the fire—that was extraordinary work.”
I blink.
That was the last thing I reported before my life imploded. Eighteen months, and nobody has said a word about it to me since, because eighteen months ago is also when I became something else entirely.
“Thank you.” It comes out less composed than I want it to. “That means a lot.”
“It should. It was the best thing in that whole series.” He sits, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve a boy about the age hers was. It stayed with me.”
Down the table, Malcolm is already turning away.
“And this is Cordelia. My daughter.”
Cordelia Merrick raises her glass from where she’s slouched in her chair, boots propped on the rung, and gives me a grin that could power a small town. She’s pretty in a way that has nothing to do with effort—dark wavy hair in a messy braid, sun-kissed skin, bright hazel eyes.
“Hey. Everyone calls me Corey. Try not to hold the last name against me. I didn’t pick it.”
I like her instantly.
“She runs our marine tour operations,” Malcolm says, with the faintest edge in his voice. “She’s our resident expert on the water.”
“Dad’s being generous. I drive boats and point out whales.”
I want to ask her if she knows Dean, but decide to stick to small talk and pleasantries until I know her better. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes a sip of her wine. “Likewise. Don’t let him overwhelm you with the whole treasure hunt pitch. He’s been rehearsing that speech since I was in diapers.”
The whole vibe of the room suddenly changes.
Malcolm’s expression doesn’t move, but there’s a snap to his quiet voice when he says, “Cordelia.”
Corey’s grin holds for a second longer, then collapses. She reaches for her wine and drains the glass.
There’s a beat of awkward silence, then Malcolm’s cordial smile returns like nothing happened and turns to the man at the far end of the table. “And this is my brother Jasper.”
