I survey the open-plan loft style apartment complete with pink velvet couches. It’s girly and gorgeous with polished wood floors and large windows that the afternoon sun is beaming through. And now that I’ve placed a few of my favorite crystals around, the energy it’s giving off is zinging with possibility.
“This is exactly your kind of place, Jenny,” I say softly as I unwrap the photo frame from my suitcase that I’ve carefully protected inside a folded sweater.
I walk to the window, tracing down the frame’s cool glass with a fingertip. Over her cheek, along her smile.She was always smiling.
“Here you go. You can see it all from up here.” I place the frame on the window ledge, spinning it around so it faces the view of Central Park edged by soaring skyscrapers.
I hum, lost in a moment as I remember her laugh. Remember how she always picked out the purple skittles first, then gave me the rest. Except on my birthday.
“I saved these for you,” she says, opening her palm. Her skin has turned purple where she’s held them tightly for so long. She looks up into my eyes and we stare at one another. Then we start to laugh. We laugh so hard I have tears running down my cheeks.
A knock at the apartment door snaps me back to the present, and I blink, fanning my face with both hands as I move to answer it.
Sinclair greets me with Monty in her arms. “You ready?”
“Sure. Let me grab my purse.”
After Sinclair dropped me off, I had time to shower, grab some food from the refrigerator she stocked up for me, call Sophie to tell her I’m living some cool Manhattanite’s life, and unpack.
Now, I’m energized and itching to get started. I love the first meeting with a new client and getting that initial read of their energy. Seeing their aura for the first time. It’s like peeling back the first layer of tissue paper on a beautiful gift. Infinite possibilities held inside. Waiting.
I step out into the hallway, grinning.
“Let’s go.”
“Your father’s house is incredible.”
I thought the apartment Sinclair set up for me was beautiful. But Sterling Beaufort’s double-level penthouse is jaw-dropping. Polished marble floors, monochrome modern furniture, giant pieces of artwork hanging in the entryway. It’s like something from a swankyBillionaire’s Homesmagazine.
“He likes it.” Sinclair shrugs and places Monty onto the large sectional couch that has a backdrop of Manhattan’s skyline. “He’s here more now. He used to be on the yacht a lot, but…”
“I’m sorry.”
My research told me that Sterling’s wife and son died in some sort of accident on his yacht. It makes sense that he wouldn’t want to be on it anymore.
My mind flits to the Google image Sophie pulled up before I left London. The one of Sterling on the water. All silver-flecked hair and handsome sun-kissed face. She couldn’t believe he’s fifty. I was more interested in the photos of him at various events. Always with a different woman on his arm.
Still, I don’t mind a challenge. He’ll only have eyes for one woman once I find him his perfect match.
“Yeah,” Sinclair hums as she walks into the open kitchen area and opens the refrigerator. “At first, he was on the water a lot. But he doesn’t do that now. It’s rare for him to ever be at his house in LA or London anymore. And definitely not the one in Cape Town.”
She takes out a plate of smoked salmon and places it on the marble counter. “Here you are, Monty. Grandad has leftovers. I’m sure he won’t mind you having it.”
Monty trots over, and Sinclair scoops him up, depositing him on the fancy bar stool where he can reach the plate. He starts to eat, and Sinclair fetches a crystal bowl from a cabinet and fills it with bottled water.
“Dad should be home soon. I told him we were on our way.”
I nod as my gaze tracks back around the room. There was beautiful artwork in the entryway. But in here, the walls are mostly bare, apart from a few carefully hung framed photographs.
“Lovely photo,” I say, taking in a framed image.
“That was taken in Cape Town a few days before the accident. It’s the last picture we have of us all together,” Sinclair says as she glances at the photograph, then looks away quickly.
Sterling is on one side of the group, his arm around a handsome man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Sinclair is in the middle, standing next to another younger man, so much like the first but with longer hair, wearing a giant grin. And next to him is a woman with long dark blonde hair that falls in waves to her shoulders.
“Your mother was beautiful.”
“She was.” Sinclair smiles sadly.
