THREE
Maldito, she was out of coffee.
Definitely a first world problem, because Violet happened to live on the grounds of Chase Manor. Not in Chase Manor itself—heaven forbid—but in the coach house at the end of the drive near the main entrance. Like where the horses were desaddled or something in olden times. That was the kind of life her sisters had growing up, a life Violet couldn’t relate to at all.
Eleven years ago, when she was thirteen, Violet had found out about her father. Who he was (Clifford Chase, NHL Hall of Famer, three-time Stanley Cup winner). Who he didn’t want to be (an actual parent to the messy result of his one-night stand). He might not have known immediately, but he’d eventually learned that her mom had left that restroom at Caesar’s Casino in Vegas with a puck strike between the pipes: Cliffie-boy’s sperm, meet Louisa’s egg. Ding, ding, ding—jackpot!
Informed of his responsibility, he made a settlement, but never any effort to contact his daughter until much later. To have any influence in her life other than financial. It had hurt more than Violet would ever reveal. Still did.
His leaving her a one-third ownership of his beloved hockey franchise was odd, to say the least. It felt like a game. A trap. Or, as she swiftly learned, some sort of test for Harper, whom he didn’t trust to lead, and Isobel, in whom he placed all his faith. As for why Violet was included in this cluster, she couldn’t be sure. Why not give her a chunk of change and be done? Not even the letter he left behind addressed to her personally gave much away.
Violet,
I haven’t been much of a father to you, and when I realized my error, you had already decided you were better off without me. I won’t apologize for how I behaved. It is what it is. While you refused my efforts to help you financially with your medical bills while I was alive, it seems petty to refuse now that I’m dead. But that’s not all I’m hoping for. I haven’t done the best by Harper and Isobel. The competitor in me wanted them to duke it out and show me what they were made of. I think your injection into the mix will shake things up, and getting to know your sisters might answer some of the questions you’ve had all these years.
Clifford Chase
Apparently, Violet’s role was to play umpire while her half sisters navigated the thorny paths of their relationship. What a crock!
She didn’t have to stay. She could have demanded they sold there and then, taken her cut, and gone on her way. But then she had that strange run-in with a cantankerous Scotsman in a bar and Harper had offered her a place to live rent-free. A few months to catch her breath was all she needed while she figured out her purpose.
She wasn’t here to please a dead man, that was for sure. She knew all she needed to know about her father, and every moment she spent with Harper and Isobel since had only confirmed her initial impressions: the guy was an out-and-out asshole. His daughters, however? Pretty awesome.
She sighed. It was much too early for this level of navel-gazing. Back to her coffee issue.
Just before 7 a.m., she headed out, trudging toward the big house like she was on a mission to the South Pole. A beautiful April day, the air was crisp, the sun watery bright and making the fluffy clouds glow. Lake Michigan lay silent behind her as she picked her way up the path to the stone and cedar mansion where Harper had grown up, living with her dipso mom after her parents divorced when she was six years old.
With the key Harper had given her the day Violet moved into the cottage eight months ago, she unlocked the kitchen door to the main house and slid in, early enough that there was a good chance her oldest sister was still asleep.
Bren St. James’s kids were seated at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios.
Violet recalled the vibe in the Rebels HQ front office a few days ago. Harper didn’t want her near these kids, and while she’d tried not to let it bother her, the itch had slid like a burr under her skin. They had been here for the past few days, and knowing this, Violet had stayed out of their way.
The chartered flight from Dallas would have arrived early this morning. She’d assumed—oh hell, she didn’t know what she’d assumed. That they wouldn’t still be here? That the Scot would have picked them up because he missed them?
Franky looked up. “Hey, Pink.”
“Hey, there.” Perhaps the kid was color-blind, because her highlights were most definitely purple.
“Did you know that some species of gastropod mollusk practice apophallation during mating?”
Violet was inordinately proud that she understood about half of those words. “I had no idea.”
Her ignorance must have been written all over her face, because Franky patiently explained. “It’s when a slug’s penis gets bitten off by his partner—or sometimes himself.”
Okay, Harper and Iz must be playing a prank on her.
“That’s disgusting,” Caitriona said. Beats headphones cradled her head, but apparently the dick-eating habits of slugs penetrated all.
“It’s nature,” Franky said. “They just need the slug penis once, but the male slug doesn’t die.” Said as if the now dickless slug should be grateful. “It switches genders and just goes on to produce more eggs. It’s a more efficient allocation of resources.”
Violet’s mom and two aunts—or the Macbeth Witches, as her ex, Denny, used to call them—would have gotten a perverse pleasure out of this conversation. Man haters to the core, all of them.
“Just came in for some coffee,” Violet said, feeling she should justify her presence. Nothing new there. “Harper around?”
“She’s throwing up,” the slug expert revealed.
“Excuse me?”
Franky blinked big behind her glasses. “She was making us scrambled eggs and then she got this look on her face. Kind of like Dad used to get in the morning. Then she ran out.”
“Hungover,” pronounced Caitriona without even looking up from her cereal bowl.
This seemed a bit of a stretch, but who was Violet to argue with the logic of children who’d witnessed their alcoholic father worshipping the porcelain god? Maybe the baby Gorgons had driven Harper to overimbibe last night.
She surveyed the kitchen CSI-style. Half-scrambled eggs in a pan, untoasted bread in the toaster, a full pot of freshly brewed coffee. Conclusion: someone had started breakfast and hadn’t finished. Astounding, Sherlock. She grabbed a cup off the phallus-shaped mug tree, smiling in memory at this misbegotten product of one of the Chase sisters’ awkward sister bonding nights, and poured herself a cup of joe.
“You guys watch the game last night?”
“Yeah,” Franky said with a long-suffering sigh. “Dad didn’t play as well as he did in the first game, but Remy and Cade were awesome.”
Violet’s thoughts exactly. St. James should have performed better, but he was in a weird spot in his life, worried about his ex and his kids. She should probably go check on Harper, but she felt odd about leaving the girls on their own. Maybe they were used to it. They seemed like self-sufficient humans.
“So, what did you do with Harper on your visit? Anything fun?”
“We watched Wonder Woman.”
“Oh yeah?”
Franky had a curious smile on her face. “Harper said it had important lessons for female empowerment, but by the third viewing, she didn’t seem so thrilled about it.”
Violet couldn’t help her laugh. “Strange.”
“Yeah. Strange.”
What a cool kid. Must have gotten it from her mom, because St. James had never demonstrated this level of personality.
The older girl, who Harper had said was eleven years old, was not as friendly as her sister. Maybe she just needed to be drawn out.
“So, Cat, whatcha listening to?”
No response.
Violet waved a hand in front of her face. Caitriona wrinkled her nose, looking like Violet had opened a sewer in the kitchen, but because someone had taught her manners, she turned off her music.
“Did you say something?” She had the St. James scowl down pat.
“Just wondering what you’re listening to.”
Caitriona was clearly restraining herself from a massive eye roll that pronounced Violet an idiot.
“Hamilton,” Franky said. “That’s all she ever listens to.”
“No, I don’t. You don’t know a thing about it.”
“Hamilton had a big mouth. No wonder Burr shot him.”
“God, you’re so stupid, Slug Girl.”
“How am I stupid? You listen to the same music over and over. That’s stupid!”
“That’s art!”
“Hey, girls,” Violet cut in, feeling a smidge guilty for upsetting the fragile ecosystem with her pesky questions. “Let’s chill. You’re going to wake hungover Harper.”
Oops. So not the right thing to say. These kids had probably witnessed enough hangovers to last a lifetime.
“I suppose I’d better check on her.” The kids were unlikely to miss her, so Violet went on her way, coffee in hand. No sign of Harper near the first-floor bathroom, so she headed upstairs.
Sometimes Violet couldn’t believe all this affluence and beauty surrounding her. And in another few weeks, she could take her share and do whatever she liked with it. That knot behind her breastbone throbbed, the same one that activated whenever Violet thought about her inheritance or leaving.
“Hey, Harper?” Violet peered into Harper’s bedroom, only to find her in PJs, sitting on the bed, and looking off into the middle distance.
On seeing Violet, she clutched her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. I called out.” Harper looked pale and not her usual fresh-faced self. Witnessing her in anything less than the full bloom of health made Violet uneasy—it was a little too close to the memory of her own illness. “The girls seemed to think you were hurling your guts out.”
“Well . . .”
Recognition dawned. “You’re knocked up!”
“Yes. And this kid already hates me.”
Setting her coffee down on the nightstand, Violet sat on the bed beside her sister. Should she put an arm around her? Harper wasn’t really the touchy-feely type, but what the hell, Violet went for it anyway. When she felt Harper relax against her, she knew she’d made the right call.
“Other than the fact you’re carrying a succubus, how do you feel about this? Does Remy know?”
“I’m . . .” She shook her head, a smile slowly creasing her perfect porcelain doll features. “Excited. Remy doesn’t know yet, but he’s going to be thrilled. You know it’s exactly what he wants. But . . .”
“But what?”
“I want him to have the Cup first. And if we don’t win it this year, I was going to convince him to stay on in the NHL, not retire like he’d planned. Now he’ll feel extra pressure to get it done this time, and if we don’t—”
“He’s going to feel the pressure anyway. This is the first time in fifteen years the Rebels have even made the play-offs. You think every single one of them isn’t feeling the pinch? If anything, this will spur him on. He’ll want to get your kid baptized in that hardware.”
Harper giggled, a sign she’d come a long way. The Harper Violet met eight months ago was not a giggler. “I know. He’s going to make such a great father. You should see him with his nieces.”
A tiny pang of envy seized Violet’s heart for a moment, but she willed it away. Would she be here to see her new niece or nephew? Would her sisters want her to stick around if they knew she’d effectively stolen one-third of their inheritance when her mom baited the honey trap?
She swallowed around her discomfort. “Shouldn’t Remy be home by now?”
“Yeah, but when he loses, he’d rather go home to his apartment. He worries about snapping at me.” They shared a smirk of acknowledgment at that ridiculousness. Remy was so good-humored that his version of a bad mood probably involved a light scowl at a puppy.
“You have to tell him.”
“Have to tell him what?”
Violet looked up, surprised to see Remy after Harper had so adamantly assured them he wouldn’t be here. She squeezed Harper’s hand in encouragement. Tell him, it’ll be okay.
Harper squeezed her hand back, but nothing emerged from her mouth.
Remy tugged at his beard. Squinted. Assessed. With lightning-fast speed, he moved in, dropping to his knees before Harper. “Minou, what is it? You’re not looking so well.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Harper said overly brightly, blushing at Remy’s term of endearment for her. It meant “kitten,” but it also had a more X-rated meaning.
Violet opened her mouth to spill the beans, but Remy spoke first. “You’re pregnant.” He said it with such reverence Violet’s heart almost cracked in half.
Harper’s mouth wobbled and tears welled in those green eyes they’d all inherited from Papa Chase. “It’s the worst timing! I’m so sorry. This is not what you should be thinking about right now.”
His hand cupped her face. “Now, stow that attitude where it belongs—in some deep, dank place. We’re having a baby and nothing could make me happier or prouder. Unless”—his blue eyes turned troubled—“you’re not ready.”
Now it was Harper’s turn to put her partner at ease with a stroke of his face. Jesus. Violet’s eyes stung like a mother. She needed a bucket of popcorn for this beautiful sapfest.
“I’m ready. I’m just not sure you are. By the time this Cajunette arrives, you’re supposed to be retired and getting fitted for that BabyBjörn. You know I have an empire to run, honey.”
“We’ll figure it out. We’ve got an army of helpers and a lifetime of love ahead of us to figure it out.”
Gah, that sweet-talking lug. For once in his life, could he not come up with the perfect thing to say? Violet stood and retrieved her mug, not that anyone noticed. “Well, congratulations! I guess I’ll be off then. I only stopped by for coffee.”
“Sure,” said Harper, not looking at her.
“Uh-huh,” said Remy, his eyes still lovingly trained on his baby mama.
On leaving, Violet threw one last look over her shoulder to find Remy with his head resting against Harper’s stomach, whispering something in French, whether to Harper or the baby she didn’t know. The only thing that marred the scene is that Harper looked like she might throw up all over his head.
Still, pretty perfect. Taking her envy with her, Violet quietly left them to the joy of each other.