Part 6 – The Summer We Forgot
Part 6
“I don’t remember you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Vincent enlarged the photograph.
Five-year-old Vincent looked deeply suspicious of toddler-me.
Toddler-me appeared delighted.
“This is humiliating,” he said.
“You were wearing suspenders.”
“My mother dressed me.”
“You looked adorable.”
He gave me a warning look.
I immediately saved the photo to my phone.
We drove to Lucia’s house.
She was waiting.
So was Mom.
Neither woman looked remotely ashamed.
“You knew?” I demanded.
Mom winced.
“Yes.”
“How many secrets are left?”
She considered.
“Define secrets.”
“Mother.”
“Three.”
I closed my eyes.
Vincent muttered, “Progress.”
The forgotten summer turned out to be less mysterious than we’d imagined.
When I was two, Dad spent several months helping Anthony establish Harbor House’s financial structure.
Mom volunteered.
Lucia volunteered.
Vincent, age five, was frequently brought along because childcare arrangements had collapsed.
So was I.
There were photographs everywhere.
Vincent pushing me in a toy wagon.
Me stealing his baseball cap.
Us asleep on the same couch.
One image showed five-year-old Vincent standing in front of me with both arms crossed while another child cried nearby.
“What happened there?” I asked.
Lucia laughed.
“The boy took your cookie.”
I looked at Vincent.
He frowned.
“I don’t remember assaulting anyone over baked goods.”
“You didn’t.”
Lucia smiled.
“You gave him your own cookie if he’d return Evelyn’s.”
I stared.
“That is strangely diplomatic.”
“I’ve always been gifted.”
Mom snorted.
The six months ended when Anthony’s business became increasingly public and Dad decided distance between the families would protect us from gossip and scrutiny.
Nothing dark.
Nothing dramatic.
Just adults making choices for children.
Then life moved on.
I forgot.
Vincent forgot.
Our mothers didn’t.
“So that’s why you wanted us together?” I asked.
Mom looked embarrassed.
“Partly.”
“You thought because we shared crackers at age two, we’d be soulmates?”
“You also shared a sandbox.”
“Oh, well.”
Vincent’s mother laughed.
Mom sighed.
“Your fathers always joked that you’d either become best friends or hate each other.”
“We have time,” Vincent said.
I elbowed him.
The truth should have made our connection feel less real.
Instead, strangely, it did the opposite.
It removed fate.
We weren’t magically drawn together because of some childhood bond.
We hadn’t recognized each other.
We had met again as strangers.
And liked each other anyway.
That mattered.
Later, Vincent drove me home.
We sat outside my building.
Neither of us moved.
“So,” I said.
“So.”
“Business partner.”
“Yes.”
“Former sandbox acquaintance.”
“Apparently.”
“Chicken sandwich supplier.”
“One time.”
I turned toward him.
His eyes met mine.
There it was.
The thing we’d both carefully avoided.
Attraction had been easy beneath the table.
Now there were foundations and mothers and fathers and millions of dollars wrapped around us.
I didn’t want confusion.
“I like you.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
I continued quickly.
“That was not permission to look smug.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“Possibly.”
“I like you,” I repeated. “But I don’t know whether I like you because the past forty-eight hours have been completely insane.”
“Reasonable.”
“And I don’t want our mothers becoming involved.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I don’t want the foundation complicated.”
“Agreed.”
“So nothing happens.”
Vincent nodded.
“Nothing happens.”
Relief.
Then disappointment.
Annoyingly simultaneous.
I opened the door.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Evelyn.”
I stepped out.
He said, “One thing.”
I turned.
“When nothing stops happening…”
I waited.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
“…I’d like first consideration.”
My pulse jumped.
I shut the door in his face.
He laughed.
The next two weeks became surprisingly normal.
Normal if your definition included managing an eighty-four-million-dollar foundation with a man whose security staff occasionally appeared outside meetings.
Vincent never brought them into Harbor House.
He said he didn’t want residents uncomfortable.
That told me more about him than headlines ever had.
We worked.
Argued.
Compromised.
Nathan officially joined the Parcel C redevelopment as a minority partner.
My architecture firm received no contract.
I refused to let the foundation hire me directly.
Conflict of interest.
Instead, I helped draft the design criteria pro bono and insisted on an independent selection process.
Vincent looked absurdly pleased.
“What?”
“You’re good at this.”
“Stop sounding surprised.”
“I keep being impressed.”
“Worse.”
He smiled.
Then came the fundraiser.
Our first public appearance as co-trustees.
The press was waiting.
Someone had already connected my mother’s old marriage to Thomas Marino.
Someone had found our childhood photograph.
Headlines appeared.
MAFIA HEIR REUNITED WITH CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART.
I nearly threw my phone into Lake Michigan.
“We were five and two!” I said.
Vincent looked over my shoulder.
“Apparently we had a forbidden romance.”
“You wore suspenders.”
“The heart wants what it wants.”
I laughed.
Cameras caught it.
The photo became worse than the headline.
At the fundraiser, a reporter asked whether we were dating.
“No,” I said.
At exactly the same moment, Vincent said, “Not currently.”
I turned slowly.
“Not currently?”
He looked innocent.
The room laughed.
I did not.
Mostly.
Afterward, we escaped onto a hotel balcony.
“No tables?” Vincent asked.
“Don’t tempt me.”
City lights stretched below us.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“For?”
“Not currently.”
“Yes.”
“I panicked.”
I stared at him.
“Vincent Marino panics?”
“Rarely.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
The wind lifted my hair.
He reached toward me.
Stopped.
Waited.
I nodded.
He tucked one strand behind my ear.
A tiny gesture.
Far too intimate.
“Evelyn.”
“Yes?”
“I still want first consideration.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“For what?”
His mouth curved.
“You’re going to make me say it.”
“Yes.”
“A date.”
I considered pretending to think.
“Dinner.”
His expression softened.
“One dinner.”
“No foundation talk.”
“Agreed.”
“No mothers.”
“Essential.”
“No bodyguards at the table.”
“They don’t sit with me.”
“I don’t know Mafia etiquette.”
His smile disappeared slightly.
“Neither do I, some days.”
That answer stayed with me.
“Friday?”
“Friday.”
I went home absurdly happy.
The following morning, that happiness met reality.
An envelope waited outside my office.
Inside were photocopies of financial records.
Old ones.
Hartwell-Marino Foundation.
My father’s signature appeared repeatedly.
So did Anthony Marino’s.
At first, nothing looked strange.
Then I noticed payments.
Large transfers.
Millions.
To an entity I’d never heard of.
North Lake Holdings.
Attached was a single handwritten note.
Ask Vincent who owns it.
I called him.
“What is North Lake Holdings?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
“Vincent?”
His voice changed.
“Where did you hear that name?”
So he knew.
My stomach dropped.
“Who owns it?”
Another pause.
Then:
“I do.”
And suddenly our first date no longer seemed like the most important thing scheduled for Friday.
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