beamed at the mention of his great-aunt, Athena. “How’s she doing?”
“Yapped my ear off for three hours straight, so I’d say she’s doing pretty fine,” Constantine considered. “Had lots to say about you. And the house.”
“The house,” Byron breathed, tightening his grip on the keys.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Constantine asked with a knowing smile. “At least it seems that’s what you told her not too long ago. She’s got it set in her head that the place is yours. She even says there’s no use waiting for the will...what with the rest of your life ahead of you. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind...”
Changed his mind? Was his father crazy? Byron had been in love a few times in his life. But his first love had been and always would be his great-aunt Athena’s old Victorian house. The secret cupboards. The creaky walnut floors. The odd pitch of the upper-floor ceilings. The gingerbread trim. The old-timey wood-burning stove that had been replaced by a newer model fifteen years ago, but still retained the original stone surround. One of Byron’s first memories was of lying on the second-floor landing, watching the light wash through the stained-glass window his great-uncle Ari had bought in Greece to remind his wife of the homeland she’d left behind for him.
Byron and his sisters had chased ghosts and dreams in that house. He’d pushed Priscilla out of the Japanese magnolia in the backyard, resulting in a broken arm for her and a month at the mercy of Ari’s hard-labor tutelage for him. He’d replaced the treads on the stairs, put up crown molding, and helped Ari build a detached two-car garage with a comfortable space above it where Athena could host her sewing circle.
When Ari passed, Byron had nixed plans for summer courses in order to help Athena adjust, living in the garage apartment for a time. When he decided to live on the Eastern Shore for good, Athena—by that point in assisted living—offered him the use of the loft again, since the house was under long-term lease to an elderly couple, the Goodchilds. The Goodchilds seemed to like having a built-in handyman and yard boy. They let him keep his Camaro in the garage next to their El Camino and invited him to use the basement as a place for his exercise equipment.
Byron knew the Goodchilds hadn’t renewed their lease on the Victorian. Mrs. Goodchild could no longer manage the stairs. However, he had assumed that interest in the house would be sky-high. It was a prize. Sure, it had its quirks. All old houses did. However, the Victorian had historic, architectural and—for Byron—extreme sentimental value. Who wouldn’t bribe the Almighty Himself to live there?
He closed his fist around the keys. “When?” he asked.
Constantine lifted his shoulders. “Why not tomorrow?”
Byron’s brows drew together. “Didn’t Ma crack down on you for verbal contracts?”
“This is different,” Constantine said. He was serious. Byron rarely saw his father so serious. He had to swallow a few times to digest it. “It’s family. Athena. You. The house. It’s all in the family. I’m sure Athena would gift it to you outright—”
“No, I’m buying it outright,” Byron argued.
“Even if the loan goes toward your inheritance anyway?” Constantine asked.
“I want my name on it. I also want the appraisal estimate. Nothing lowball.”
Constantine knew better than to argue the point. As the family real estate business was shared between him and Vera, he usually found houses to renovate and flip into lease homes, while Vera handled the actual leasing and brokerage part of the equation.
Constantine did have a point, however. With its claim to family heritage and Byron’s long-held interest, the Victorian perhaps called for a more casual approach.
“Take some of your things over tonight and see how you adjust,” Constantine was saying. “If you don’t have any second thoughts over the next forty-eight hours, I’ll bring the papers Wednesday.” He lifted the go cup to punctuate the question.
Byron felt another smile, big and true, on his lips, and he liked it there. He raised his own cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
A knock on the door prevented him from raising the coffee to his mouth. Kath peered inside the office, her silver hair gathered on top of her head in a twist that pulled the corners of her eyes into a slant. “Good. You’re already in.” She spotted Constantine, stopped midspeech and smiled. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Strong. I didn’t see you arrive.”
“I snuck in,” Constantine said with a wink. “How’re you, Kathleen?”
Byron sipped his coffee as his father worked the charm on the older woman, bringing a pretty blush to her cheeks. Both his parents were compulsive flirts. They were also two of the happiest compulsive flirts he’d ever seen.
Strongs are like Magellanic, gentoo and royal penguins all wrapped up in one very Greek, very reformed package, Constantine had told his three children all their lives. We’re crazy enough to mate once, for life, and the male and female are equals.
You know way too much about penguins, Dad, a surly teenage Byron had once remarked. At the time he’d thought it was a strikingly conventional belief for a man who was in no way conventional.
Yet the belief held weight not even the staunchest cynic could deny. Byron’s parents had been married for thirty-five years and were still madly in love—so much so that open affection refused to die off between them. Byron had seen enough parental PDA over the years to make a Friday-night dinner with his mother and father go from gag-worthy to blasé.
The belief had held for Priscilla, as well. She’d married Grim right out of college. The two had been married for a decade and were impatiently awaiting the birth of their first child. In addition, Vivienne’s wedding to her boyfriend of four years, Sidney, was only a few short weeks away.
That “mate once for life” business was all too real. And that was the trouble.
Byron lifted his chin, catching Kath’s gaze. “What can we do for you?”
The twinkle Constantine had brought to the woman’s eyes faded out. “The Xerox machine is on the fritz.”
Byron pushed up from his chair. “Again?”
She held up her hands. “I’ve tried the manual. I’ve tried customer service. I even channeled Pelé and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, I’ll have to run to the library to see if they’ll let me use theirs.”
Byron shook his head. “It’s too cold out. You stay in. I’ll go to the library.”
“But you have a meeting,” she reminded him.
“I’ll have plenty of time to get back and prep.” Pointing at the manila folder she’d folded against her chest, he asked, “Is this what we need copied?”
Kath relinquished the papers. “They’re for today and tomorrow’s appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Byron said.
Kath eyed Constantine over Byron’s shoulder.
