Building What’s Meant to Be (Home Sweet Home #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

TINSLEY

I f this were a movie scene with the main character on the run, she’d be looking over her shoulder, afraid she was being followed. Instead, this is real life and I am on the run, looking over my shoulder, afraid I’m being followed.

After a long flight from Los Angeles, I turned up at my parents’ place in the middle of the night. Everyone knows New York City never sleeps. But my parents do, and I figured I’d slide into the penthouse apartment without disturbing them. Lucky me, they’re out of town. No surprise there. I counted it as a bonus, considering my situation and the late hour.

However, the doorman informed me that my mother and father put me on the “Do Not Let In” list. When I told him they must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else named Tinsley Humber, he gave me a sharp, “True New Yorker” look that told me he’s seen it all, and nothing I could say or do would convince him to let me pass through the door.

The guy was old enough to be my grandfather and while I’d like to see him retire rather than work the night shift, I decided not to push my luck.

But that left me on the street. In Manhattan. In the middle of the night. Options spread before me like the city lights, but none of them glittered. I could’ve:

Gotten a hotel and charged it to my parents as per usual.

Called a friend and stayed with them, though doing that got me into this mess in the first place.

Gone to any number of all-night parties that were only sure to be getting started.

Instead, the yellow light at the entrance to the underground parking garage caught my eye.

After some light flirting with the garage attendant, I managed to convince him to give me the keys to my parents’ BMW. Considering they barred me from the building, I doubt they would’ve loaned me the vehicle so measures had to be taken.

Yes, it’s stealing.

No, Mother, Father, and I are not on the best of terms.

But I promise I’m not a criminal. I consider this a rental.

My word might not be the most valuable currency, but at the moment, it’s all I have. Other than grand theft auto, I have not committed a single crime. However, I was prepared to give the guy in the garage the emergency one-hundred-dollar bill in my wallet, so maybe theft with the intent to bribe is also considered illegal.

But that’s the least of my problems.

Right now, I leave the dazzling New York City skyline behind me as I crank the radio and cruise north while the GPS on my phone guides me to Newport, Rhode Island. Far too soon, the bass-heavy song turns repetitive as I yawn and my eyes grow heavy.

“Only forty-five more minutes. I can do this. Not much farther.” I almost don’t recognize the sound of my own voice. Typically, it’s light, bright. After all, I’m the Queen of Tinseltown, the New York Socialite, and for a brief time, Nashville Nobility—well, I was on my way to wearing that crown before my fall from country music groupie grace.

My voice is thick, scratchy after the long flight from Los Angeles and the even longer twelve hours of interrogation before that. I consider turning off the music, but that leaves too big of an opening for my thoughts to weasel in. They’re sure to torment me with a revisit to everything that happened since my rude awakening and likely the mounting questions and doubts that led to it as well as what’s to come.

Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, instead, I imagine the “Cottage” where our family used to spend the summer. A broad, sweeping lawn leads to the colonial home with pillars and wide marble steps. Inside, there are too many bedrooms to count, so I’ll take whichever one has the most comfortable bed.

The estate used to belong to one of those fancy Gilded Age couples who owned it like the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, or that one that starts with the letter S and I can hardly pronounce. Stuyvesant maybe.

Of course, there’s a ballroom, so the argument can easily be made that it’s not a cottage. I might also consider that my family is hardly one—in name only. We’re splintered, fractured, chasing everything except each other, and have been for a long time. Never mind a wide opening for unwelcome thoughts, that’s a chasm. One I do my level best to ignore.

When I turn onto Fairhaven Street, I roll down the window. The mild, fresh salt air invigorates me and is a reminder that it’s spring. That means Mother and Father are probably still at their place in Hawaii so I’ll have the cottage to myself while I regroup.

Likely, after what happened in LA, I’ll have to do some damage control. I should throw a Great Gatsby-esque party and invite everyone I know. Show my parents that I’m well on my way to making something of myself, despite their doubts.

When I pull up to the wrought iron gate, thankful there isn’t a doorman this time, I scour my memory for the code and hope that it hasn’t been changed. It swings open and I speed down the driveway, summoned by the lure of a thick featherbed and Egyptian cotton sheets.

The dim yellow glow of dawn emanates from behind the house, facing the east. How is it almost dawn?

“Welcome home,” I say with a laugh as I slam the BMW’s door and then go around to the side entrance where the housekeeper used to hide a key under a rock. Of course, she’s not likely to be here this time of year either.

I’m all alone and no longer on the run. Relief sweeps through me along with fatigue. The same Christian Louboutin crystal embellished high heels I’ve been wearing since yesterday and causing a significant amount of swelling in my feet, click along the slate path. I crouch and lift the volleyball-sized granite rock. My nail catches and chips. I mutter under my breath. When I stand to unlock the door, it swings open.

My oldest brother, John, stands in the doorway. His trim hair is dark and so are his eyes. “A rare appearance by the adult lady child.”

A director once instructed me to dramatically grimace. I wear that exact expression now. Then again, everything I do is dramatic. John should know that by now, but the adult lady child comment? We can discuss when the granite rock no longer looks like a potential pillow.

“Ah, I stand corrected. You make plenty of public appearances, but not too many in the presence of the Humbers. What are you doing here, Tinsley?”

My instinct is to balk. But this is typical John—always quick to point out my shortcomings, especially because I was short growing up. At a shave under five feet ten, I’ve now caught up. I shove past him and drop my bag on the floor. “No, ‘Hi, sis. Haven’t seen you in a while. Welcome!’ Where are your manners?” I huff then slide into my familial role. “You can bring this up to whatever bedroom is available. I’d prefer one with an ocean view and balcony.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Tinsley, you’re persona non grata.”

I squint at him. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already this testy so early in the morning. John Humber III Esquire has always been a very unhappy man. And yes, even when we were kids, we’d joke that he was “The old man.” The kind of kid that would holler at us for playing tag on the freshly mown lawn—not that he was the one to do the work. He always needed quiet, order, and for everything to be just so.

I’ll have to “reorganize” his closet later. He he.

He’s the oldest and I’m the youngest and we couldn’t be farther apart, opposites, in every way.

“Why the look of confusion? Do you need me to translate? Persona non grata means—” he starts.

“I know what it means.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

He stabs the air with his finger. “Ah, then you’re wondering why the change in status.”

The comment drops like a pebble into the chasm because I probably know why even though he’s revving up to tell me.

“Mother and Father do not approve of your lifestyle. You were given every opportunity to make the right choices, to make this family proud, and to live a respectable life. When you chose to flush your privilege down the drain along with the family name, they were also forced to make a choice.”

Oof. That hurts a little. “And there I thought you were going to say you’re glad to see me or at least remind me that nothing good ever happens after midnight.”

He snorts. “It doesn’t. And they don’t even know about the most recent incident.” His smile is wry. “But I do.”

“What, do you have an online alert set with my name?”

He shrugs mildly.

“Stalker much?”

“You’re my sister.”

“I thought I was persona non grata.”

He opens his mouth as if to fire back and then closes it. At least for this round, I’ve won. “Mother and Father are yachting.”

“Good for them.” I move deeper into the side entrance breezeway.

“And they said I could have full use of the house until they arrive in June.”

“Good for you,” I say.

He moves to block me.

I shift left. He mirrors me. I move right. He does the same.

A huffy huff escapes. “If you want to dance, there’s a ballroom just down the hall. As it is, I’m too tired to play games, John.”

“Then you can turn around the way you came.” Angling his fingers overhead, he spins them toward the door.

“I cannot,” I say simply.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“You’re saying that I can’t stay at my own house?”

“This is Mother and Father’s cottage.”

“Estate.”

“Right.” He grumbles, annoyed that I corrected him. “And I’m in charge.”

“Who appointed you King of the Cottage?”

“Mother and Father.”

“Why can’t we be normal and call them Mom and Dad?” I ask as an aside.

John’s lips form a tight little knot that reminds me of the business end of a hotdog. It’s an effort to contain my laughter, which borders hysteria at this point.

So. Tired.

“They named me the executor of their last will and testament.”

“You said they’re yachting, so that means they’re still alive unless yachting means something different since I last checked the Humber Family Dictionary.”

His lips flatten into a line. “Tinsley, unlike you, I take my life and my roles seriously. Mother and Father trusted me with this important task because they respect me. As such, I happen to know that this is not your house, cottage, or estate. They’ve left it to me.”

“What about Andrew and Vicky?” I ask, referring to our other siblings.

“Because Andrew is Manhattan-based, he’ll inherit the building with the penthouse. Victoria gets the home in Hawaii.” He rattles on about our parents’ rules and expectations.

Even though he doesn’t say, And that leaves nothing for you , I still hear the message. Loud and clear.

Then again, unless our parents purchase a fourth home, I guess there wouldn’t have been one for me anyway. I’ve always been the oddball, the afterthought. The renegade. Ha! As if chasing fame were in any way rebellious. I just didn’t follow the family mold to become an upper-crust socialite, a housewife, a trophy wife, or part of their legal corporation.

It’s not that I don’t want the luxury that comes with that lifestyle. I’m one of the most extravagant people I know. It’s all I’ve ever known. Rather, I don’t want all the fussy events, the strict dress code, and always having to do and say the right thing. Then again, in the circles I spin, we have our own sets of rules.

And I just learned a new one. Guilt by association. Thanks a lot, Puma.

Standing here on the threshold of a place I’d always called home, I don’t feel wanted or like I fit in. But where can I turn? Because the truth is, the path that brought me here—the high life of an aspiring starlet, band groupie, and celebrity by proxy hasn’t served me too well either.

I spent the night under inquisition for crimes I know nothing about.

So what am I looking for? To be seen? To be loved? The life I so recently fled during the party hours hasn’t exactly worked out either. John has made it clear that I’m not wanted here and even if I was, would I want to slide back into a mannequin’s life?

Granted, I wouldn’t mind a place to sleep. I’m already exhausted and all this thinking about change threatens to send me into a coma.

But if I woke up in a week, a year, or ten would anything be different? Like a whisper on the salty breeze, the answer comes.

I’m the one who has to change.

I’d like to send it out to sea, back where it came from, or get in the car and speed away from the idea that I’m the problem. However, I remain rooted to the spot because I’m stubborn and not about to let my too-big-for-his-britches brother drive me off. In fact, now that he’s hit midlife, he is getting a slight paunch. Nothing major, but it’s not the slim waistline that he’s always prided himself on.

I drag myself out of the chasm of introspective thinking and back onto solid sibling-banter ground.

“Anything to eat around here?” I ask, interrupting John’s litany of reprimands and expressions of disappointment on behalf of our mother and father. “Doughnuts maybe?”

He ignores me and prattles on.

If my family isn’t going to change and welcome me in, I always have my friends. Although, the truth is, my phone has been unusually quiet for the last twenty-four hours. No calls, check-ins, or invitations to parties.

If I’m the one who has to change, after working so hard to have my name synonymous with being influential and relevant, what will my new life look like?

An itchy, humid summer feeling like a hot and sticky sunburn breaks out across my skin. I’m being silly, sucked into my brother’s games. Of course, my family loves me. My friends adore me, and everything is going to be fine.

I’ll spend the night then lie low for a little while until the whole thing with Puma blows over then I’ll return to business as usual.

Business being social events, shopping, and film spots.

“When Mother and Father find out about the latest scandal, they’re not going to approve,” John says as if keeping us on track during a boardroom meeting.

Talk about boring.

“Have they ever approved of me? Anyway, if they’re yachting, they won’t know.” I narrow my gaze. “Unless you tell them.”

Because of Father’s high-pressure job, if they’re on a boat, it likely means they’re unplugged from screens and devices.

“If you’d just try harder.”

“To what? Fit in? To be someone I’m not? Parade around like Mother’s little minion?”

John sweeps his hand from my head to my toes. “Oh, and this is who you are, Tinsley?”

I look down at the glittery high heels. Yes, those are definitely me. But the sequined mini dress that leaves little to the imagination isn’t Newport elite appropriate. Nor is it something I’d ordinarily opt to wear while flying, traveling, or going anywhere other than to a club.

It’s not made for a child, but it is child-sized. I adjust the hem, but if I pull too hard, it’ll reveal more skin than is optimal in front of my brother on top.

“Didn’t think so.” He speaks dismissively like our meeting is over.

Thank goodness.

However, I want to come up with a words-on-fire reply but something douses the flames inside. The problem is, he’s right. I love clothes, luxe fabrics, and sparkles, but this dress is something out of Barbie’s closet. Even though I resemble her, is that who I am? Plastic? Generic? A Hollywood cutout?

Perhaps deep thoughts like these are byproducts of the trauma of federal agents waking me from a dream, the nightmare of a crisis that followed, and the kind of fatigue that only comes with being awake for over twenty-four hours.

“Tinsley, just remember. This is all a result of the decisions you made. It’s like you’re allergic to taking personal responsibility for your life and choices. You’re always pointing the finger because it’s easier.”

“Pfft. The only thing I’m allergic to is tarragon.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“That would be easier if you were nicer.”

He scoffs. “And when have you ever been nice? You nicknamed me Baldy when I was fourteen.”

“In my defense, I was only six and you had thinning hair.”

“You could say you’re sorry. Are you sorry?” John wears an expression I’ve never seen on his pale face. It almost looks like hurt.

I step back as memories rush toward me like a thick, cresting wave. My factory default with my family is to always be on the defensive. Easy because they often excluded me. I was the baby. A later-in-life child. Unexpected and at times I felt unwanted. They’re painfully judgmental, and I was a rascal to their uptight, buttoned-up order. But what would happen if I played nice?

The thing is, it takes two—or six in this case. Our parents plus my siblings and me. It’s like Mother and Father knew I’d be the outlier the moment I came into the world. They named me Tinsley for goodness sake while the others are John, Victoria, and Andrew.

“Sorry,” I say as plainly as possible.

John nods as if to say, Apology accepted .

“Now, can I please go lay down?” I brush my hand across my forehead.

“No,” John says in the same mild tone.

“No?” I repeat an octave or ten higher.

“No. I’m under strict orders not to allow you onto the property.”

A jolt of electricity runs hot through my veins. My skin turns clammy. My vision is liquid red.

“Don’t tell me you’re on the brink of a Tinsley Tantrum,” he says as if already bored by my antics.

Those two words remind me to be patient. I won’t allow myself to come undone in front of him. “Just to be clear, I’m an adult.”

“When was the last time you acted like one and not a spoiled brat, using Mother and Father’s credit cards and—?”

I hold up my hand. “I’ll stop you there.”

“Because you know it’s true?”

“John, I didn’t come here to engage in a war of words. I’m tired.”

“Not surprising, what with being involved in criminal activity.”

“I am not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said, and I quote—” There he goes with his lawyer logic.

“To be clear, Puma allegedly did commit a crime. Multiple, including lying about his name, that I was staying at his house, among other things.” I only just learned that the Malibu mansion belongs to Julie and Harry Bergman who’re in their seventies and spend the winter and spring in Arizona. Suffice it to say, he did not have permission to occupy the space. But how was I supposed to know? I was his guest.

“Save it for the judge and jury, Tinsley.”

“Speaking of, would you offer me legal counsel?”

He snorts. “Figures you’d need it.”

I stomp my foot on the ground. “John.”

He arches one eyebrow.

I take a deep breath. “Obviously, the guy was a scam artist, but I was also scammed. Now, I’m involved in the scandal, and I didn’t do anything wrong. All I really want right now is a shower and sleep.”

“Was chasing all that glitz and glamour worth it?” he asks.

“Is making me feel like my family hates me and that I’m about an inch tall worth it?” I ask, straightening to my full height, making it so we’re nearly eye to eye.

John’s general energy is relatively still and quiet versus Andrew who is more animated, yet also has the aristocratic bearing that Mother and Father Humber tried very hard to cultivate in us. Victoria is Mother’s clone. When they got to me, they must’ve run out of gas, essentially leaving me stranded to find my own way, which it looks like I’ll be doing.

“Puma Palmer, aka Harold Jerrold Pumanowski, notorious member of the band Incurable Calypso Cyclo—” John stumbles over the name.

“Incurable Calypso Cyclotron,” I say.

“Right. His background is minimal. It’s as if he appeared on the scene out of the fog. He rose in rank on the music charts, filling stadiums, and causing scandals. But the biggest one wasn’t throwing televisions into hotel pools or trashing restaurants. He led the world to believe he was a raucous rock star, when in reality, he had a mind for numbers,” John says.

“Numbers with dollars attached to them from what I’ve gathered.”

“Numbers with foreign denominations and global leaders attached to them.”

“So you looked into the case?” I ask.

“Of course I did. My sister was taken in for questioning after the arrest of a man accused of extortion, embezzlement, and espionage.”

“Because it could damage the family name?”

“You’ve already made quite a dent, Tinsley.”

“By living in Hollywood? Going to concerts? Parties? Traveling all over the world?”

“Let me remind you that our father grew up approximately seventy miles from here in a building that has since been condemned. Until he went to grade school, he only got one meal a day. At the age of nine, he was too young to have his own paper route, so he talked the neighborhood kid who had it into letting him take over for seventy percent of the earnings. When things started looking up, he was sent to an orphanage. There, he organized the other kids to make felt Christmas ornaments and sold them on the corner. I could go on to how he learned to fix cars, became a lifeguard, and studied law at night even though it was doubtful he’d ever go to college.”

“I know the story. I also know that Mother had an affair and Father has been married to his job my entire life.”

My brother flinches at my accusation but plows ahead with his defense. He’s a great lawyer, but we’re not in the courthouse. “Our father has worked exceedingly hard for all of this,” John spreads his arms wide, “and you’re out there—”

“Yeah. I’m out there.” Tears pierce the corners of my eyes as I glance over my shoulder, ready to leave. “But that’s because I’ve never felt welcome here. Maybe Dad worked hard for all of this, but I’d be happy in that condemned building if I’d ever even had ten minutes of his time and attention. And as for Mom? She married into it. She hasn’t worked a day—”

“And you think all of this just holds itself together?” John asks, voice even.

“She’s never lifted a finger except for that time I walked in on her and—”

Again, he overlooks my comment about our mother. “You really don’t know how Mother and Father met? She was a maid at a hotel he stayed at in Texas while on a tournament trip thanks to his basketball scholarship in college. You think our parents look down on people who aren’t as wealthy as they are, but the truth is you look down on Mother and Father.”

“Then you’re saying she has a Cinderella story?” I snort, imagining our mother in a maid’s uniform instead of the designer clothing and pearls she ordinarily wears.

“Their story is even better. It’s the American dream.”

“You don’t understand, John. I’m pretty sure that dream includes fidelity and family. When was the last time Dad called me? Never. He has never called me to say hi.”

John blows by what I said. “No, you don’t understand because you’ve never wanted for anything in your life.”

“Not true. I wanted to be in movies.”

“I said you never wanted for anything, meaning you’ve always had access to three meals or more a day. You didn’t have to get a paper route at the age of nine to help pay rent. You weren’t orphaned.”

“No, except right now.” I cock my head sharply, jarring my brain which throbs with a headache.

He tilts his head with irritation. “Tinsley, you have no idea what Mother and Father went through to get here.”

Because they’ve never told me. Because they don’t talk to me. Because I mean nothing to them.

“But I don’t want all of this.” I indicate the estate with a flip of my hand.

“Then what are you doing here?” His voice is what I imagine a shark sounds like.

“Good question.” But again, the answer comes as if on the breeze.

Because I don’t have anywhere else to go. Because I just want a family. To love and be loved.

But the other answer from earlier is on its tail, rising out of my internal chasm like a fire-breathing dragon. The thing has the potential to burn it all down.

If I want all that, I’ll have to change.

“There’s a box in the garage containing some of your stuff,” John says.

“Just going to pack me up and ship me off like Mom and Dad did when they sent me to boarding school?”

“Father was giving you an opportunity that he didn’t have.”

I want him to be wrong. But we both are. We’re both wrong. We’re both right. The Humber family is complicated, and I feel like I was run over by a bus, a plane, and a car making my thoughts scramble.

John takes a step forward, ushering me out the door like an unwanted guest or a stray dog. He opens the garage and a cardboard box sits all alone in an empty bay flanked by my father’s nautical blue Maybach and mom’s diamond-white Mercedes convertible.

From my pocket comes the distinct tinkle of my cell phone, finally ringing. Relief sweeps through me like a masseuse working out the tension in my back. Finally, someone cares. Without looking at the caller ID, I answer.