Sam

Cara James greeted them warmly after another butler-looking fellow escorted Sam and her father to the salon. Ugh! Sam forgot how much she hated all the pretentious names for everything in Ireland. Why couldn’t they just call it ostentatious room number 1 or 2 or 3? We get it, you’re rich!

It’s not that Sam was poor by any means, but for some reason she always hated it when people flaunted their money. She’d only met Cara for two seconds and Sam could already tell Cara was one of those people. Sam was good at spotting pretentiousness. Probably because she’d spent the last few years attending Stanton Prep, Boston’s most elite prep school. Everyone who attended basically oozed money. The problem was, there were always the few who didn’t, and Sam hated how her classmates ostracized them—not that she ever did anything about it. She wasn’t crazy. Sticking up for the less fortunate at Stanton would land her outsider status faster than a faux Prada handbag.

But there was no hiding from the wealth in a place like this. The James’s home leaked opulence. It made Rockefeller look like a hack. Sam suddenly wondered if good old Henry was holding out on her father. The thought made her queasy.

“Thomas! It’s so good to see you,” Cara hailed. “And this must be your lovely daughter, Samantha. Hello, darling.”

Darling? Cara wasn’t old enough to be calling anyone darling. “Hello,” Sam replied, trying to keep her face neutral. She was shocked by how young Cara was. She looked like she was still in her twenties! Can you say trophy wife?

A few feet away from Cara, Sam spotted two identical little toe-headed girls playing politely with a tea set—Tallulah and Isabella. Next to them, was a baby sleeping in a bassinet—Charles.

Sam had been expecting Henry’s children to be closer to her own age. Her palms started sweating. She wasn’t good with little kids. She didn’t really like them. They were always sticky and unpredictable. Her father better not expect her to babysit while he was meeting with Henry!

Right then a cheery-faced servant strolled in, silently scooping up the baby and escorting the twins from the room. Of course Sam wouldn’t have to babysit. What was she thinking? This place probably had enough servants that you didn’t even have to wipe your own ass.

For the umpteenth time, Sam found herself wishing Megan was with her. She’d probably be singing Be Our Guest from the library ladder by now—assuming this place had a massive library. The house looked like it could be the castle from Beauty and the Beast. There were even old china cabinets and tapestries—there had to be a dusty old library hidden somewhere.

“I’m afraid Henry’s not well today,” Cara started. But just then the doors to the salon opened and a ghostly man wobbled in. “Henry!” Cara cooed, rushing to his side. “What are you doing out of bed, darling?”

“My best mate flies all the way from the states to see me? The least I can do is get my sorry arse outta bed to greet him.”

“Henry!” her father boomed, crossing the room to hug the thin man.

If everyone hadn’t been saying his name, Sam never would have recognized him as Henry James. The Henry she remembered was built like a rugby player, with a thick head of brown hair and a dark mustache. He had a boisterous laugh, a big belly and wore ridiculously colorful suits. This man was pale and gray. He had no hair and he looked like he weighed as much as his petite twenty-year old wife!

“Henry, I really must insist you lie down. The doctor—”

“Pish! I know what the doctor says, dear. But keeping my spirits up is just as important.” Henry gave her father a conspiratorial grin she recognized before turning his attention to her. “No!” Henry squawked. “This can’t be little Sam?”

“I’m afraid so,” her father confirmed.

“Good Christ! I remember her and Devon in diapers. It seems like yesterday. What did he used to call you?” Henry asked.

Spam! Spam! Spam! “No idea,” Sam mused. “But it’s good to see you again, Henry.”

“Oh, it’s Uncle Henry to you,” he wheezed pulling Sam into a feeble hug.

“Well, now that we’re all acquainted. I really must insist you lie down, darling,” Cara begged.

“Yes, fine dear, but only if I can bring Thomas with me. We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Cara conceded. “But please try not to exhaust yourself.”

“To the bat cave,” Henry proclaimed.

Sam’s father smiled and started humming the theme song to Batman. She forgot how silly her father was when he was with Henry. It seemed he’d left that part of himself in Ireland. And now that he’d returned, it was back, like nothing had changed.

But everything had. Seeing Henry made Sam’s stomach knot up. Cancer. Henry had cancer. She remembered now. How could she ever forget? Cancer had stolen her mother too. She had the same gaunt gray skin in the end. And the same sickly sweet smell—like funeral flowers.

What about me? Sam wanted to scream as she watched her father walk away leaving her alone with Cara. But that seemed like such a childish thing to say. Being back in Ireland made her feel so young and uncertain again, and she hated it.

Instead of chasing after her father like she wanted to, Sam turned to Cara and smiled. “Would it be all right to check my email while they catch up?”

“Of course,” Cara replied. “Thorton, please take Miss Connors to the study and set her up with Wi-Fi.”

“Right away, madam.” A third identical butler-looking man had appeared. He seemed to have materialized from thin air, making Sam jump. She would never get used to that. Maybe it was a good thing her father hadn’t found them their own little McMansion. It seemed they came with McButlers and Sam hated having people sneak up on her.

Devon

Devon snuck Eggsy in the back entrance to the house after hosing him off in the stables. He hated feeling like he was sneaking about in his own home, but Cara would be murderous if she caught a wet dog inside her house. It was ridiculous how she presided over the place. It was bad enough that she demanded Devon’s father buy the palatial home, but she ran it like she thought she was some kind of royalty. They had more staff than occupants. And Devon was always afraid one of them would rat him out for keeping Eggsy in his room. But so far they hadn’t. Maybe they disliked Cara as much as Devon did.

Cara O’Leary was twenty-four years old. It would be more appropriate for Devon to be dating her than his father. But that hadn’t stopped Cara. She had Henry James pegged from the beginning and got herself knocked up with twins before he had a chance to wise up. And now she’d just had his third child—who she grotesquely referred to as his last child, since she was just waiting for him to die so she could inherit his fortune.

Devon hated Cara. But mostly, he hated himself. Because it was his fault Cara ever met his father. Devon tried to drive the unsettling thoughts from his mind when he reached his room. He undressed and jumped into the shower. He needed to concentrate on better things, like Sam.