What the hell?
Fighting irritation, I do my best to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Mr. Wherclift,” I begin, remembering belatedly that he asked me to call him Easton. “I can assure you I am the decisionmaker. Spencer Holdings was founded by my father, but I’m in charge now. I have full power to lead all projects related to our charitable endeavors. We do have other donors involved, but I’m authorized to make decisions for this project.”
“Of course.” He flashes a smile that looks like he practiced in front of a mirror. “Great, well, as you undoubtedly read on my website, I’m able to break ground within two weeks of the first deposit.”
“That’s wonderful to hear.” I have to admit, I’m impressed by the level of detail on his website. “And you handle all staff recruiting and training?”
“That’s correct.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a PR campaign lined up already, or you want me to put you in touch with my people?”
His people? “Um?—”
“I’ve been hoping to gain traction with an American audience. I’m known well in Europe, but haven’t made much of a mark on the U.S.” He seems distracted as he taps on his phone, absently sipping from a brown bottle. “There’s a gap in my schedule two weeks from Friday. I could fly out for a quick press kickoff. I’ll send you my frequent flyer details—business class, please. Looks like Portland’s your closest major airport?”
“It is.” What’s happening here? “Mr. Wherclift?—”
“Oh, hey! This seems like a sign.”
“What is?”
“You’re just four hours away from where they film Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. You won’t believe this, but I have ties to that area.”
Now we’ve got time for chit-chat? “Yes, I saw on your website that you founded a food bank in Central Oregon.”
He looks excited now, and I don’t think it’s because of the food bank. “Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge is huge. Let me make some calls.” He sips from the bottle with a fancy-looking label that announces the contents as organic sarsaparilla. “I’ll bet we could get the show to sign on for some great cross promotion. If we get their PR team on this, we could film a few spots on Wednesday, maybe splice in some sad orphan B-roll—my people can handle that part, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t,” I mutter, but I don’t think he hears me.
“Right, so we get that wrapped up by Friday, I can drive over to Ponderosa Resort for some R&R. I’ll send you my booking info.”
“Mr. Wherclift.” This conversation can’t be real. “I’m sorry if you have the wrong idea about what we’re doing here. My primary goal is helping disadvantaged children. I’m interested in the tie between the sister cities, but beyond that, I haven’t made any decisions about funding a partnership.”
“Right, right.” He pastes on a serious expression, fixing those sparkling blue eyes on the camera. “It’s all about the children, when it comes right down to it. Children are our future. The backbone of?—”
“Do you have kids, Mr. Wherclift?”
“Well.” Something shifts in his expression. Those copper-flecked eyes turn wary. “I don’t know why that’s relevant.”
Something clicks in my brain. Maybe it’s the eyes. The familiar rasp in his voice. His ties to the same part of Oregon as somebody else I know.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Wherclift.” The uneasy lurch in my gut has nothing to do with pregnancy. “Thank you for your time.”
“But—”
I don’t give him a chance to protest. I’m already tapping the disconnect button and grabbing my phone off the charger.
“Noah,” I snap the second my cousin picks up. “Is Easton Wherclift who I think he is?”
There’s a long, heavy pause. “I’m coming over,” he says. “Got a few things to explain.”
“You certainly do.”
But he’s already hung up the call.
“I knew you were smart,” Noah says as he strides through my door ten minutes later. “But you figured that out pretty fast.”
“Come in,” I mutter, since I didn’t invite him. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No thanks.” He walks to the sitting room but doesn’t sit down. Just pivots to face me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says slowly. “You met Luke’s dad.”
