Chapter 1

Brian clenched his hands, pasting a smile on his face. It was ten minutes to nine, he was working to fill in for a sick employee on what was supposed to be his day off, the coffee shop closed at nine—and four people had just walked in. He could have told them the shop was closing, but one look at his manager cut off any thought of doing so.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

The two men and one of the women knew what they wanted and told him. The second woman stared at the list above the counter. “Maybe, no, umm…”

“Come on, Val,” one of the men said as she kept vacillating. “Make up your mind. Honestly, you’re hopeless, and I’m sure these guys would like to close before midnight.”

No kidding.

While Brian’s manager began making the specialty coffees for the one couple, Brian drew a regular one from the almost empty coffee machine for the second man.

Val eventually settled on a raspberry mocha espresso with all the trimmings. By then her companions were ready to leave—and so was Brian, if he could have. He made her drink, heaving a silent sigh of relief when she joined her friends and they took off. All that remained now was clean-up, which Brian took care of while his manager did the books. By the time they finished it was after nine-thirty.

As he walked to the bus stop, Brian took out his phone to check for messages. He only had one, from a Walter Johnson, asking him to call back at his earliest convenience. Brian had no idea who he was, but did as the man asked, figuring he’d be sent to voicemail given the hour. He was half right. He’d reached an answering machine—“Johnson and Parker, Attorneys-at-Law. We are closed. Please leave a message and we will return your call as soon as possible.”

Huh? A lawyer? Why the hell would a lawyer be calling me? He shrugged, gave his name and number, saying he was returning Mr. Johnson’s call, and hung up.

* * * *

Brian had barely finished eating breakfast when his phone rang. He checked the Caller ID and answered.

“Mr. Newell? Brian Newell?” a man asked. When Brian told him he was, the man said, “My name is Walter Johnson. I’m, I was, your grandfather’s attorney.”

Brian frowned. “As far as I know, both my grandfathers died years ago. Why are you calling me now? And which grandfather?”

“Alistair. Your father’s father. Yes, he’s deceased.”

“You must have the wrong Brian Newell. My dad’s father was James Newell.”

“I believe you’re the man I need to talk with. Are you available today to visit our offices?”

“I suppose, as long as it’s before noon. I’m due at work at one.”

“It’s nine-fifteen. Can you be here by ten?” Mr. Johnson gave Brian the address.

“Sure, why not.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

* * * *

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Newell,” Mr. Johnson said after introducing himself. He escorted Brian to his plush office at the end of a long hallway. “If you’ll have a seat, please, I’ll explain everything to you.”

Brian debated between the sofa and one of two armchairs arranged around a coffee table at one side of the room, opting for a chair. When he was seated, Mr. Johnson took the other chair, pressing his fingertips together as he studied Brian.

“I’ll begin by telling you something that I know you are not aware of,” Mr. Johnson began. “The man you knew as your grandfather, James Newell, was your father’s step-father.”

“Are you serious?” Brian blurted out.

“Quite serious,” Mr. Johnson replied. “Alistair McDermott was your father’s birth father. Soon after your grandmother divorced him, she married James Newell. From what Alistair told me, the divorce was contentious, to put it politely, and your father was only a baby when it happened.”

“I’d ask her and Grandpa James why they didn’t tell me about Alistair,” Brian replied, “if they were alive. Unfortunately…” He shook his head with a sigh.

“I understand.”

“Have you told my father?”

“No, I haven’t. One of the stipulations of Alistair McDermott’s will is that he not be informed.”

“He’s dead, too, I take it. When?”

“Two weeks ago, of cancer. He was eighty-four.”

“Six years older than Grandpa James, when he died.” Brian tapped a finger to his lips. “You said he had a will. I presume, since you wanted to talk with me, I’m mentioned in it, which means he knew about me.”

“He did. He kept track of your father, because he washis son, even though he stayed out of his life.”

“Obviously, from what you said, he had no interest in being anything to him other than his sperm donor,” Brian replied tightly.