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“Summer… Summer…” Coop muttered, thinking about how Vivi didn’t believe the nameChuckfit him. “Why does the last name Summer sound familiar?”
“If you grew up wealthy and a male around here, I’d say it was because of the Summer sisters’ Kissing Test. Those Summer sisters are a suspicious lot. If one of them was dating a guy, you can bet another would come along and try to test his affection with the offer of a kiss.”
Having spent many a summer as a wealthy young man in the Hamptons, something tickled the back of Coop’s memories, as if he’d either heard of this before or…
Coop’s cell phone rang. It didn’t have his old contacts in it, so the number wasn’t identified. But he knew the number on the screen by heart.
“I’ve got to take this other call, Paul.” Coop switched lines. “Dad? Are you okay?” Coop had given Stratton his phone number several weeks back in case of emergency. This was the first time his father or anyone in the family had reached out since he’d been given the boot.
“Where are you, son?” His father’s voice was stronger than it had been two months ago, but just as filled with urgency.
“I’m in the Hamptons.”
“Have you found it? On second thought, you don’t need to answer. That’s a no.” Dad’s words were filled with a disappointment that stung Coop. “If you had any idea why I sent you away, you wouldn’t have gone to the Hamptons.” He hung up.
A rush of frustration tangled with hot impatience in Coop’s veins. He pounded the steering wheel. This was like being King Arthur sent out to find the Holy Grail without knowing what the Holy Grail was.
He took a deep, calming breath. And then another.
Think, Coop.
What had his father told him that day? To find his gift? To follow the whims of fate? Or…
“Gah!” Coop gripped the steering wheel and gave it a good shake.
Maybe he should try to call Stratton and ask for advice, not that Dad’s assistant would necessarily answer. Maybe he should call his mother or one of his teenage sisters, not that he wanted to put them in the middle.
At an impasse, Coop shook his head.
But he couldn’t just keep working on this hamster wheel. He needed a new perspective on fathers who considered Shakespeare a guiding light.
Maybe I should ask a Shakespearean professor.
Vivi.
Now he was onto something.
Chapter Four
“That-that don’t kill me...” Grandma Dotty boogied out of the exercise studio doing the cobra and looking none the worse for wear. Even her short mohawk was still in place.
“My hip has no hop.” Violet followed, limping because muscles Vi didn’t even know she had were protesting. She wanted nothing more than to fall on her bed and curl into a fetal position. “I’m all for solidarity, Grandma Dotty, but I’d prefer to stick to my walking regimen from now on.”
“How about a nice long horseback ride?” Shakespeare opened the rear door of the Town Car. He looked just as handsome as he had earlier, while Violet knew she looked like a damp rag. “A ride can be a form of daily exercise in place of hip hop cardio. I’d be happy to take you both.”
“No, thanks,” Violet said at the same time Grandma Dotty cried, “Okay, Chuck!”
Kelcie, their blond hip hop instructor, trotted out on the sidewalk. “Ladies, if you’re interested in private hip hop lessons to get up to speed, I’m available for in-home visits.”
Because we’re so very horrible at hip hop.
Especially Grandma Dotty, who’d muscled her way to the front row and had been a step behind the entire time, sometimes whacking her neighbor with her outstretched arms. Toward the end of class, Grandma Dotty hip-checked a woman so hard, she fell to her knees and then left before Vi had a chance to apologize.
“This day keeps getting better and better.” Grandma Dotty gyrated her hips in a circle. “Private lessons. I’m practically a shoe-in.”
“Great. Let’s put something on the schedule. I’m relatively new here and building my personal training client list.” Kelcie had the kind of bubbly, innocent, infectious demeanor, at least when she wasn’t yelling at a class to shake it harder. She wore a skimpy red sports bra and skimpier black shorts as if used to wearing hardly anything at all. She glanced at their chauffeur, and her entire demeanor changed from peppy, non-threatening salesperson to schmexy woman-on-the-prowl. “Chuck.”
One syllable. It said a lot about not-Chuck and Kelcie’s history. And if Vi had to guess, that history had nothing to do with William Shakespeare.
