Britt had only seen her parents twice in the past two years. They’d returned to Washington after her kayaking accident. Then they’d met up with the family a few months later in Switzerland for Willow’s late summer wedding to Corbin.
Willow had decided on a destination wedding at a chalet complete with snow-crowned mountains and green pastures. Cows wearing bells around their necks had ambled through drifts of purple alpine flowers. During the entire trip, Britt had felt like a character in the children’s bookHeidi.
She’d taken stock of her parents on those other occasions, just like now.
Her mom wore her hair, which had mellowed to a pale nutmeg color, in a straight, shoulder-length cut. Couple that with her ivory complexion and passionate, persuasive personality, and most people were able to correctly deduce her Irish heritage.
Her dad’s broad shoulders and square jaw proclaimed him to be the patient, steady one of the pair. The age lines marking his face and the gray streaking his thick, dark hair revealed his wisdom but did nothing to lessen his handsomeness.
They were both tanner and leaner than they’d been before they’d left for Africa. A deeper sense of calm emanated from them. When Britt had mentioned that sense of calm the last time she’d seen them, her dad had told her that serving in Africa had helped clarify what was important and what wasn’t. He no longer saw the point in getting worked up over the unimportant.
“It’s good to be home,” Dad said, sentimental moisture gathering in his eyes. “Look at you three.”
“Impressive, aren’t we?” Britt asked.
“Very,” Dad answered.
“I can’t believe all that’s happened since we left.” Mom adjusted her carry-on so that it stood to her side like a short soldier. “Willow got married, and now Nora’s getting married in a few weeks. Is there something in the water?”
“If so, it hasn’t affected me,” Britt said.
“Good,” her dad joked. “That’s how I like it. Stay away from boys.”
“Grandma, Valentina, and Clint are all waiting at the house,” Willow told them. “Valentina made borscht, so no one’s going to go hungry tonight.”
“Borscht,” Dad said. He and Mom exchanged a laughing look. “Perfect.” Valentina, their Russian nanny-turned-housekeeper, had been employed by their family since Willow was a baby. She’d been making the hearty Russian stew called borscht for so long now that it had become their unofficial family meal.
“John, Corbin, the extended family, and your friends are all champing at the bit to see you,” Nora said. “We wanted to give you a little time to deal with jet lag before everyone descended on you, so we’re thinking we’ll cater fajitas and have a game night at John’s house on Thursday.”
“Sounds good,” Dad said.
“Zander’s still in town, right?” Mom asked Britt.
A thrill zipped through Britt at the mention of his name. “Right.”
“Will he come to the game night?”
“I’m pretty sure he will, yes.”
“Great,” Mom said. “It’s been way too long since I’ve seen him.”
Phone call from Nora to Britt:
Nora:
I’ve conducted some additional research into Ricardo Serra, and everything he told you about his wife checks out. They married two months ago, and as far as I can tell she’s an upstanding person who is not at all involved in the underworld of antiquities theft. In fact, I’m looking at her LinkedIn profile now, and she’s a commercial real-estate broker.
Britt:
Huh.
