too,” Philippe countered, setting down three fours, one by one. And then he added, “Oh, and I’ve also got two of a kind.” The fours were joined by a pair of queens.
Beau huffed, staring down at the winning hand. “Full house, you damn lucky son of a gun.” He pushed the “pot,” with its assorted array of toothpicks, toward his oldest cousin.
“Gonna cash in this time and spend all your ‘winnings’ on renovating the house?” Remy teased as Philippe sorted out the different colors and placed them in their appropriate piles.
Philippe didn’t bother looking at his cousin. “I don’t have the time to start hunting for a decent contractor.”
Vincent’s grin went from ear to ear. He stuck his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Just so happens, I have the name of a contractor right here in my wallet.”
Philippe stopped sorting, feeling like a man who’d been set up. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Somebody named J. D. Wyatt,” Vincent told him. “Friend of mine had some work done on his place. Said it was fast and the bid was way below anything the other contractors he’d contacted had come through with.”
Which could be good, or could be bad, Philippe thought. The contractor could be hungry for work or he could be using sub-grade material. If he decided to hire this J.D., he was going to have to stay on top of him.
Philippe thought for a moment. He knew his brothers and cousins were going to keep on ribbing him until he gave in. In all fairness, he knew the place could stand to have some work done. He just hated the hassle of having someone else do it.
Better that than the hassle of you pretending you know what you’re doing and messing up, big time, a small voice in his head whispered.
For better or for worse, he made up his mind. He’d give it a go. After all, he wasn’t an unreasonable man and the place did look like it was waiting to get on the disaster-area list.
He could always cancel if it didn’t work out. “This J.D. have a phone number where I could reach him?”
Vincent was already ahead of him. “Just so happens,” he plucked the card out of his wallet and held it out to his cousin, “I’ve got it right here.”
“Serendipity,” Remy declared, grinning as Philippe looked at him quizzically. “Can’t mess with serendipity.”
“Since when?” Philippe snorted.
Remy had an answer for everything. “Since it’ll interfere with your karma.”
Philippe snorted even louder. He didn’t believe in any of that nonsense. That was his mother’s domain. Karma, tarot cards, tea leaves, mediums, everything and anything that pretended to link her up with the past. Although he loved the woman dearly and would do anything for her, he’d spent most of his life trying to be as different from his mother as humanly possible—from both his parents.
That was why he’d turned his back on the artistic ability that he’d so obviously inherited. Because he didn’t want to go his mother’s route.
Lily Moreau had coaxed her first born to pick up a paintbrush in his hand even before she’d encouraged him to pick up a toothbrush and brush his teeth. If he made it as an artist, he could always buy new teeth, she’d informed him cheerfully.
But he had dug in his heels and been extremely stubborn. He refused to draw or paint anything either under her watchful eye or away from it. Only when he was absently killing time, most likely on hold on the phone, did he catch himself doodling some elaborate figure in pencil.
He was always quick to destroy any and all evidence. He was his mother’s son, as well as his father’s, but there was no earthly reason that he could see to admit to either, at least not when it came to laboring under their shadows.
He wanted to make his own way in the world, be his own person, make his own mistakes and have his own triumphs. And this was one of the reasons it really bothered him that he wasn’t up to the task of fixing things in his own place. Neither his father, now dead, nor his mother, alive enough for both of them, could claim to be even remotely handy. If Philippe were handy, he would be even more different from his parents.
But for that to ever happen, he was going to need lessons. Intense lessons. He glanced down at the card in his hand. Maybe this would turn out all right after all.
“Okay,” he nodded, tucking the card into the back pocket of his jeans, “I’ll call this J.D. when I get a chance.”
“Before the bathroom sink breaks in half?” Georges asked.
Philippe nodded. “Before the bathroom sink breaks in half,” he promised. He picked up the deck of cards again and looked around. “Now, do you guys want to play poker or do you just want to sit around, complaining about my house?”
“All in favor of complaining about Philippe’s house,” Georges declared, raising his hand in the air as he looked around the table, “raise your hand.”
Every hand around him shot up, but Philippe focused his attention exclusively on his brother. Grabbing a handful of chips—the crunchy kind—he threw them at Georges. Laughing, Georges responded in kind.
Which was how the poker game devolved into a food fight that lasted until all the remaining edible material—and the toothpicks—and been commandeered and pressed into service.
The result was a huge mess and a great deal of laughter, punctuated by a stream of colorful words that didn’t begin to describe what had gone on.
Hours later, after he had gotten them to all lend a hand and clean up, the gathering finally broke up and they all went their separate ways. Alain returned to his law books and Georges declared that he had a late date waiting for him, one that, he’d whispered confidentially, held a great deal of promise. Which only meant that Georges thought he was going to get lucky.
Remy, Vincent and Beau went back to whatever it was that occupied them in their off-hours. Trouble, mostly, Philippe thought fondly. Probably instigated by Henri and Joseph, first cousins and two of the more silent members of the weekly poker game.
It was still early by his old standards. But his old standards hadn’t had to cope with deadlines and program bugs that insisted on manifesting themselves despite his diligent attempts to squash them. Program bugs he needed to iron out of his latest software package before he submitted it to Lyon Enterprises, his software publisher. The deadline was breathing down his neck.
He didn’t have to work this hard. He chose to work this hard. Philippe had made his fortune on a software package that he’d designed five years ago, a package that had become indispensable to the advertising industry. Streamlined and efficient, it was now considered the standard by which all other such programs were measured. There was no need for him to keep hours that would have only gladdened the heart of a Tibetan monk, but, unlike his late father, he had never believed in coasting. He liked being kept busy, liked creating, liked having a schedule to adhere to and something tangible to shoot for every day. He wasn’t the idle type.
His mother’s second husband, Georges’s father, had been a self-made millionaire, owing his fortune to a delicate scent that lured scores of women with far too much money on their hands. André Armand was a man who slept late and partied into
