Chapter One
MY FATHER’Syacht gleamed like a beacon through the blanket of mist over Lake Washington. I’d forgotten about the recent upgrade. Every few years, a newer model came to rest at our family’s personal dock. They were indistinguishable to me—each one appliance-white, each withMorganain sweeping scarlet letters across the helm, each a little bit bigger than its predecessor. I thought this one was the replacement. Who knew, really? You see one white yacht, you’ve seen them all.
Just looking at the boat inspired revulsion. The shores of Mercer Island were nearly magical, especially with the afternoon sun shimmering over the ripples of the water lapping at the rocks. It wouldn’t seem out of place for a unicorn to step through the mist and dip its head for a drink. It was the perfect setting for me to pull out my camera in an attempt to capture the wonder of it all. Maybe if there were an old canoe from the Duwamish tied up inMorgana’s place…. Even a tugboat. Something with personality. My father’s yacht held no wonder. No mystery. Despite its Arthurian moniker, it just said some rich white guy bought another boat to park at the base of his mansion nestled back in the trees. No reason to pull out the camera for that.
Repositioning myself on the jetty, I looked toward the other shore. I knew boats were there too, even though far enough away to be hidden by the fog.
There. There was mystery. The wonder. No unicorn, but three Canada geese glided through the water, one of them ducking under every so often, seeming to wave its feathered ass at me. A heron, perched on a protruding branch, watched both the geese and me. Yeah. He was a bit of magic.
Despite the mansions, the yachts, and the massive bridge in the distance, this was my favorite place, always had been. The old, refurbished, square-brick boiler room at my back, its tall chimney jutting up to the sky like a makeshift castle. The middle jetty of three shooting out from the dock. Being suspended a few feet over the water, which spread out around me, and bordered by lush Northwest forests—if they could still be called forests when mansions and yachts replaced the unicorns and native tribes.
Regardless of my father’s ever-changing watercraft, I was the only one of my family to take refuge on the water. On this wooden jetty, there were no expectations from the waterfowl, the rocky shores, or the moss-laden trees. Only silence, at least during the good times when other people weren’t infringing on my sacred space. It didn’t matter that I was Randall Franklin Morgan, nor that I was the son of Vincent James Morgan. Here, there was only the lapping waves, the chirping insects, and the creaking wooden planks settling.
“DARLING, YOUhave something on the seat of your pants. Here, stand still.” Without waiting, my mother swatted at my backside with a few flicks of her hand. She narrowed her eyes at the offending particles that fell to the kitchen floor, then let out a long-suffering sigh. “That explains why you were late. Mooning about on the lake. I swear you ruin all your clothes by sitting on that old wood.” She turned from me, raising her voice as she called out over her shoulder, “Pearl, could you please clean this up? Randall made a mess.”
Pearl glanced up, pausing with the cutting board full of chopped onions suspended over a pot. Her flash of irritation was barely discernable and instantly veiled by a subservient nod. “Yes, madam.”
“Mom, let me get it. No need to bother Pearl.”
I bent to pick up the small wood particles, but she caught my elbow and slinked her arm through mine. “Nonsense. Pearl doesn’t mind. That’s what she’s here for.”
I tried to offer Pearl an apologetic grin, but she didn’t look at me as Mom ushered me from the kitchen.
Mom leaned toward me as we stepped into the great room, whispering loud enough to be heard across the room, “Of course, you’re not nearly as late as your sister-in-law. I’m not sure how she can live next door and still never manage to show up to anything on time.”
My brother looked over at us from where he stood with my father at the massive stone fireplace. He took another tug from his Cuban cigar, held it in, and then exhaled before he responded. “Kayla won’t let the maid help get Bailey ready. She insists on doing it herself.” Dustin gave our father a conspiratorial shrug. “Of course, by the time she spends hours on her hair and makeup and picking out which jewelry to wear, it’s time to go, and she hasn’t even gotten Bailey’s clothes yet.”
I tried to keep my tone neutral. “Couldn’t you get her ready while Kayla finishes?”
His eyebrows knitted together, making him and our father look like twins separated by three decades. They both stared at me like I was a different species. “That’s what the maid is for.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter tonight,” Mom cut in before Dustin and I could start bickering like we were twelve instead forty-four and thirty-five. “We don’t have any guests, and Pearl seems to be in slow motion, so dinner will probably be as late as your wife and daughter.” She sat on the closest sofa and motioned for me to sit on the opposite one. She looked up at my dad, her newly Botoxed skin pulling tight over her jaw. “And what are you two planning? Another takeover, or are we talking cars this evening?”
Dad spared Mom a glance and an indulgent but brief smile. “Neither. It seems there’s another petition from the airlines to change their flight patterns.”
A long, agonized groan issued from my mom, so dramatic that anyone not from the island would have thought it fake. Every few years the issue came up and everyone girded their loins for yet another round of fighting. “It’s an attack. I promise you. This should be settled. It’s infringement. We were here first. It’s our way of life they’re threatening. As if any of us will be able to think with planes zooming this way and that over our heads. And what if they crash?”
Another look passed between my father and brother—wives could be so obtuse at times. Dad sighed and gave Mom another quick glance. “The likelihood of planes crashing above us is low, dear. It’s more an issue of noise pollution. Property values will plummet. The quality of life will be impacted.”
“Well, whatever the reason, the issue needs to be over. We don’t need planes flying over our island. We’ve already settled this several times.”
“That’s true, dear. Looks like we must fight once again.”
“And we will defeat them again.” My brother brandished his cigar like a sword. “By wit, money, and—”
The doorbell rang.
Dustin glared toward the entryway.
I rose from the sofa. Before I could make it to the end of the oriental rug, Pearl walked past the double doors of the great room, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’ve got it, Pearl. No need to—”
“Randall, stop that nonsense,” Mom called out from her reclined position. “Let the woman do what we pay her to do.”
I halted where I stood and took a breath, picturing what the sunset must look like at the moment from my little dock.
Though Pearl’s opening and closing of the front door was silent, the clicking of Kayla’s high heels across the marble floor was not. The clomping got louder as she drew closer until she rounded the corner and stepped onto the plush carpet of the great room. She’d dressed for the occasion, as had we all, but she would’ve managed to halt every movement in the room if there were more than our family. She was movie-star beautiful. Younger than me. Much younger than my brother. Killer Pilates body, with a topping of silicone breasts and platinum-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and looking like Jayne Mansfield reincarnate.
