‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Braydon,’ Kent admonished. ‘I won’t have you talking to a lady like that.’
Braydon, evidently embarrassed by the public reprimand, took a step back, eyes wide in surprise. ‘I expected more from you, Kent. How can you give either of them the time of day? Especially her!’ He pointed at Evie as though she was a pile of dog’s mess on the ground. ‘Especially given what she represents! Cynthia would be turning in her grave.’
At the mention of his late wife, Kent stopped, one arm only part way through the sleeve of his coat. ‘Shut up,’ he told his colleague. ‘I mean it. Shut up.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ Jack still had his jacket and coat over his arm but he no longer cared about the cold. He looked at Kent, at Braydon and back again.
‘Nothing,’ Kent said firmly and then to Braydon with a look of ferocity Jack had never seen before, ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
Jack stepped forwards. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Taxi!’ Kent yelled, then whistled and raised a hand to the passing yellow cab, which screeched to a halt at the kerb. ‘Let’s go.’
Jack touched Nicole briefly on the arm. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ And he managed a smile for Evie before he left them both standing there looking as dazed and confused as he was. Why was Braydon so riled up by these two anyway? And why the hell had he mentioned his mother?
In the back of the cab, none of them spoke. They pulled up outside the office and Kent remained in the cab, claiming he needed to head home, he was tired and the doctor had told him he shouldn’t overdo things. Braydon had taken off in one direction down the street without so much as a word to either of them, and Jack had been left to go back up to the office and carry on with the day-to-day running of the business, wondering what the hell was going on.
Kent
The house still seemed too quiet, even after all these years. First, Cynthia died, then Cameron moved out, Jack went off to college, and then he’d been stupid enough to fire Nicole. It was a time of immense change and you’d think by now he’d be used to it. But he wasn’t; it still hurt. Coming home to the walls of this house that didn’t echo laughter or sibling rivalry, or even love anymore, hurt as though part of his insides had been ripped out. And he knew some of it was his own fault. This house had begun to be a stark reminder of how he had failed his family. Not in a financial sense, he’d managed to get that right at least, but in every other facet of life. He’d failed to keep his wife safe, to have genuine friends by his side, and his relationship with his kids had an underlying strain he felt keenly.
He undid his tie, pulled it from his shirt collar and loosened his top button. He reached for the bottle of whiskey, took off the top and pulled out a glass from the kitchen cabinet. He poured a measure and cupped the wide glass in the palm of his hand, then swilled the mixture round and round, staring into the murky depths. He was so angry with Braydon he hadn’t been able to look at him in the cab on the way back from the restaurant, let alone talk to him. He’d been about to open his big mouth, Kent was sure of it, and Jack knew nothing of the real cause of his mother’s death. Kent had protected him for over twenty years and that was the way he wanted it to stay.
Jack had cried over his mother’s death. They’d pulled together as a family for a while and tried to remember what a beautiful woman Cynthia was both in heart and soul. But neither Jack nor Cameron had ever been told the truth about what happened. As far as they knew, Cynthia Churchill died of heart failure, something Kent was sure would’ve haunted Jack when he’d collapsed at the office and been taken to the hospital. Jack was only eleven when his mother died and he hadn’t probed any further about it, he’d taken the lie and dealt with it in the best way he could. Of course the internet hadn’t been around back then either, something Kent was thankful for. Jack could’ve easily found out the truth if it had been. Nothing stayed secret for long with the digital age.
Still holding the glass, Kent drifted into memories of how he’d met Cynthia for the first time. It’d been at a hot dog stand in Manhattan one summer’s day in July. He’d not long been out of college and was on his way to an interview in a sharp suit, white shirt and ice-blue silk tie when he’d stopped at the street vendor for a can of soda. The humidity was in levels his body didn’t tolerate too well and his mouth was dry, he was nervous and desperate to hydrate. He was running through interview questions in his mind when a girl in a scarlet and white polka-dot cotton dress had turned around from paying the vendor, hot dog in hand, and bumped into him. The hot dog had the works: mustard, onions, sauce. And all of that had ended up down his shirt, his tie. The only saving grace was that his suit jacket was hanging from the tips of his fingers, slung over one shoulder in the oppressive heat.
‘Oh … my … God!’ She’d dumped the hot dog behind her on the serving rack, grabbed napkins from the dispenser and rubbed at Kent’s shirt.
‘I don’t think that’ll work!’ He’d shouted, a knee-jerk reaction at the disaster.
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to say.’ She’d looked upset. ‘Can you change when you get back to the office?’
He’d been about to shout at her that he didn’t have an office, he had a goddamn interview! But the look in her eyes had captured him and never let him go. The chocolate brown eyes looking up to him, searching his, had melted his anger away. She’d forgotten all about her hot dog and he’d ended up running to the nearest department store with her hand in his and choosing a new shirt and tie from the racks. She’d waited outside the office block where he was interviewing for a job as a trainee manager. He’d gotten the job, and something he hadn’t set out to find that day. He’d found the love of his life.
Now, in the kitchen, he tipped the glass back until the whiskey met his lips. But he couldn’t do it. At three o’clock in the afternoon, in this house with all its memories, he couldn’t risk adding to Jack and Cameron’s pain by turning to the bottle. He put the glass down when he realised he was squeezing it so hard it threatened to break. Braydon had almost opened his mouth this afternoon, and because of what? His frustration about a homeless girl and his former housekeeper who’d helped her? Kent didn’t understand it. But Braydon knew the whole truth about Cynthia’s death. One of the reasons Kent put up with the man was because he worried that if he ever got rid of him, Braydon held a hand he could deal and blow apart the worlds of those Kent held dearest. The truth would destroy Jack. It had already almost destroyed him. And if the truth came out, Nicole’s life would fall apart for a second time. She had no idea who the Churchills really were, nor how inextricably linked they would always be in the most shocking way possible.
