Uneasy Street (Sons of Scandal #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I ’ve waited four years for this day, and it’s finally here .

That was the thought that dropped into Max’s head the split second he came awake in his luxurious bed. His eyes flicked open. And a slow smile moved across his lips.

Today was the day. He was not a patient person and so the time between when he’d learned that Sloane was coming back to Maine and now had moved as slowly as a sailboat without wind.

Even so, time had finally done what time did.

It had passed.

And today, though she did not know it, he’d see her again.

For the next four months of her life, Sloane would be living with two males who terrified her.

Namely, a pair of rats named Kevin and Ricky. Due to Sloane’s (extremely reasonable) fear of rodents, very, very few things in life would have convinced her to share square footage with two of them. Come to think of it, there was only one thing in life that could have convinced her—the fifteen-year-old girl shrieking with joy and running toward her now.

“Ivy!” Sloane opened her arms. It had been six months since she’d seen her niece.

“Aunt Sloane!”

They hugged. A ball of emotion formed in Sloane’s throat as she breathed in the peppermint scent of Ivy’s shampoo. Deep love. Happiness. A sense of completeness.

Her alarm clock back home in Los Angeles had jolted her awake this morning at 3:45 a.m. She’d flown to Chicago. Changed planes. Flown to Bangor. Jumped into the 2015 white Suburban that Brooke had left for her in the airport’s long-term parking. Now here she was in the quaint town of Groomsport, Maine, collecting her niece and her niece’s beloved pet rats. Sloane was less than a minute into her time with Ivy and already everything that had gone into making this trip possible—the planning, the prep for working remotely, today’s travel—was worth it.

They stepped apart.

“You look beautiful,” Sloane said.

The girl beamed. “Thank you.”

Ivy’s appearance always reminded Sloane in the best possible way of the phrase “peaches and cream.” Her long hair was the peaches part, a mellow shade of red. Her complexion was cream, dotted with auburn freckles. At this age, her almond-shaped brown eyes, as well as her nose and mouth, appeared to be a bit too large for her petite face. Almost as if Ivy’s bone structure was lagging behind her features in a race—huffing, puffing, and entreating her features to slow down until it could catch up. Ivy had dressed her five-foot-two frame in a T-shirt emblazoned with a smiling rat on the front, Nike shorts, and Birkenstocks.

“I missed you,” Sloane told her honestly.

“I missed you! Thank you so, so much for coming to Maine to stay with me.”

“You’re welcome. I’m excited about it.” Excited about everything, that is, except the rodents.

“I really did think at first that I wanted to go with Mom and Dad to the Middle East.” Her parents were both geologists and from time to time accepted overseas assignments. “But then my church invited me to volunteer as an intern at their summer camps in the mornings. And I’m taking driver’s ed. I don’t want to leave my friends, and it would be a bummer not to start my sophomore year when everyone else does.” She paused to inhale. “But mostly I changed my mind about the Middle East after becoming a rat mom. When I received Kevin and Ricky as my birthday gifts I was like, ‘There’s no way I can go overseas.’ And Mom was like, ‘You’re the only child left in my nest. There’s no way you and Kevin and Ricky can stay in the States alone.’ And I was like, ‘What if Aunt Sloane came to stay with me?’”

“And here I am.”

“You’re my hero! Come meet the rats.”

They walked up the path toward the cute historic house where Ivy had been staying the past two nights, with her friend Faith.

Ivy was the only child of Sloane’s only sibling, an older sister named Harper. Harper had placed Ivy with a family through open adoption when Ivy was a baby. Back then, Brooke and Jared Ray had become Ivy’s parents and Ivy had become the youngest of their four children. Brooke and Jared, who operated under the worldview of “the more the merrier,” had also welcomed Harper and Sloane into their family, inviting them to be as involved as they wished to be with Ivy. Sloane had joyfully taken them up on that and thank God for Ivy. Since her birth the girl had been a ray of sunshine in Sloane’s life.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it to Groomsport in time to see your parents,” Sloane said. They’d departed for the Middle East on Saturday, and it was now Monday.

“They would have loved that. It’s okay, though. You had a big etiquette training event this past weekend, right?”

“Right.”

They entered the foyer and Ivy flourished both hands toward a large, two-story cage. “Here they are.”

A shudder darted down Sloane’s spine at the sight of two white rats with pink eyes and long tails. They were scurrying over enough mini toys to stock a preschool.

“They’re smart and sweet.”

“Ah.”

“I’m sure they’ll warm up to you right away.”

Sloane highly doubted that but saw no reason to voice that thought. “Nice to meet you, Kevin and Ricky.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Ivy answered for them in a high-pitched rat voice.

Faith and her dad emerged to help load Ivy’s suitcases and rat condominium into the Suburban. Ivy secured the cage with a seat belt “for their safety” and draped some towels over it in order to “keep them from feeling anxious” during the car ride.

Sloane plugged the address of their apartment into the Maps app on her phone and then she and Ivy were coasting along Groomsport’s main street. Storefronts showed off muted shades of red, blue, green, cream, and gray. As picturesque as ever, the historic town nestled amid hills that funneled down to the harbor, where boats of all shapes and sizes bobbed on the swells.

The car windows open, breeze rushed against Sloane’s skin. Today was July eighth and her home state of Maine was basking in a quintessential, mid-summer, Down East day. With two hours to go before sunset, it was still warm enough for short sleeves. But barely, seeing as how the air here carried a crisp, bracing, salty tang.

Groomsport had begun as a ship-building village in the late 1700s. One hundred years later—thanks to the natural beauty of its mountains, rivers, and lakes—wealthy families had begun to build summer cottages here. This was one of the prettiest spots in one of the prettiest states in America and the charm of Groomsport was a good representation of the charm of Ivy’s overall life—so different from the hardscrabble beginning Sloane and Harper had experienced. They’d been raised thirty minutes inland from here in the working-class town of Waldoboro, yet their childhood might as well have taken place a continent away from Ivy’s childhood.

It had been a long time since Sloane had spent four straight months in Maine. In fact, she hadn’t spent that much consecutive time here since leaving the state at eighteen to attend the University of Pennsylvania on a full ride. She’d remained in Philadelphia for six years after graduation, then moved to California, where she’d been for the last four.

Since relocating to the West Coast, she’d seen Ivy as much as she could manage, but less than she’d wanted to, and certainly less than she had when she lived on the East Coast. Plus, she loved Maine best at this time of year. So her heart had begun saying yes even before Brooke had finished asking Sloane if she’d be willing to stay with Ivy.

Her phone’s map drew them north, parallel to the ocean. The buildings and houses became more infrequent. On the outskirts of town, the map voice prompted her to turn left into a driveway.

“This is exciting.” Sloane leaned forward in her seat.

Ordinarily, Sloane stayed at Ivy’s parents’ house when she came to Groomsport. They weren’t going that route this time because back when Brooke and Jared had accepted the Middle East assignment, they’d made their rambling farmhouse available on a house-swapping site. It had booked immediately.

When Ivy had chosen not to join her parents overseas, Brooke had rented a garage apartment for Sloane and Ivy and been happy to do so since she and Jared were making out like bandits on their house-swapping arrangement. As far as Sloane was concerned, the apartment was the best-case scenario. For one thing, Ivy’s house was jammed with decades of stuff. For another thing, this apartment wasn’t Sloane’s California house or Ivy’s Maine house. Because it was set apart from their usual routines, staying here felt special.

Residents of this region of Maine might not know that this property was formally named The Gables. But she’d bet they’d all seen the house on this piece of land. From Route 1, the Victorian mansion was partially visible through the woods and so magnificent that you slowed your car when you drove past, or made up fairytales about it in your imagination, or ran searches about it online. It had long been owned by a couple named the Brewsters, who were patrons of everything from school fundraising auctions, to food kitchens, to local theaters. Sloane had a vivid, star-struck memory of the Brewsters giving a speech at her high school once.

The pavement took them on a curving route through spruce trees. Ivy sighed dreamily as they passed the mansion.

“Harper and I used to call it The Prince’s House,” Sloane said.

“Oh? Chelsea, Caleb, Jordan, and I called it The Make-Believe House.”

A distance behind and to the side of the main house stood the free-standing building where Sloane and Ivy would be staying. The first floor contained a four-car garage. The second floor, their apartment.

The garage had been built in the same general style as the one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old mansion and was painted the same colors. Dark green, medium green, brown, beige. However, this structure smacked of new construction. Three dormer windows jutted from an A-line roof covered in slate shingles. At the base of each window, flower boxes burst with white geraniums and ivy.

Sloane peered at their apartment through the windshield, enchanted.

“It’s even cuter inside,” Ivy assured her. She and her mom had toured it a few months back before signing the rental papers.

Sloane carried one edge of the rat condominium up the exterior staircase, Ivy carrying the other. This proximity to rats was spurring a case of full-body shivers of revulsion.

The landing that served as the entrance to the apartment was just big enough for a café table and two outdoor chairs. They set the condominium on the little table while Sloane punched the code she’d been given into the keypad. The lock whirred open, then they carefully set the condominium inside.

“Isn’t this apartment so nice?” Ivy asked.

“It’s beyond perfect.”

Ivy crossed to a doorway on the far side of the space. “This is the room with the twin bed, so this one’s mine.” She disappeared inside.

Sloane took in the open-concept living areas. Most of the walls were white, except for the living room’s accent wall, which was covered in striped light-blue-and-white wallpaper. Oak hardwood floors. A pastel rug supported furniture accented with bright, patterned pillows. The kitchen’s white countertops and backsplash offset yellow cabinets. The overall effect was feminine, stylish, and serene.

Sloane arrived at her bedroom, which contained a queen bed, a nightstand, and a narrow desk facing the dormer window. The air smelled of fresh paint and grapefruit. Everything looked brand new.

Were she and Ivy the first people to stay here?

When Brooke had sent her pictures of this place, Sloane had responded with amazement. Ivy’s parents did fine financially, but it had been clear to her that this apartment was beyond their budget. Brooke had explained with enthusiasm that they’d gotten a killer deal because the owners of The Gables were very picky about who they’d let stay on the property. They were only open to renting it to friends of friends. Since the real estate agent Jennifer was a friend of Brooke’s, the apartment had gone to Brooke, which felt outrageously fortunate.

The beautiful bedding reminded Sloane how exhausted she was—sending her into a daydream that included her silk pajamas and sliding between those sheets?—

“Aunt Sloane?”

She startled. “Hmm?”

“I just tried to wash my hands in the bathroom but there’s no water.”

Sloane stepped to the shiny bathroom positioned between the two bedrooms.

Ivy moved the sink handle back and forth. Nothing happened. She glanced at Sloane like, Are you seeing this?

“Let me check the kitchen.” Sloane tried the faucet there. No water.

Ivy returned to her room as Sloane pulled her phone from her purse to text Jennifer, who’d been friendly and efficient via email and text messages.

Sloane

The apartment is absolutely wonderful, and we entered without any issues. Thanks! We just discovered that there’s no running water. Is there a way for me to turn that on?

Leaning wearily against the kitchen counter, she waited for an answering text. She’d put on this fitted black-and-white-striped top, this wide knee-length skirt, and these flats what felt like a week ago—way, way back when her day had begun. She was rumpled and, in the bathroom mirror a second ago, she’d seen that her hair was flat. She’d spilled coffee on her skirt and had been dogged by the scent of coffee ever since. She could not conceive of ending this day with anything other than a shower.

Jennifer

Head to the main house and knock. Explain the situation and I’m sure the owner will be able to get it running ASAP!

“Ivy,” she called, “I’m going to the main house to discuss the water situation. I’ll be right back and then we’ll finish unpacking the car.”

“Cool.”

The stairs she’d come up minutes ago, she now took in the opposite direction. A flagstone path led her through grounds lush with purple hydrangeas and white roses. When the path forked—one direction leading to the back patio, one direction leading toward the front door—she took the one toward the front.

Now that she was up close, she saw that the mansion had been superbly maintained. Not an inch of flaking paint or splintered wood anywhere. Its earth-tone colors gave it a rich, masculine vibe.

Well done, Brewsters.

She didn’t see a doorbell, so she knocked. Almost at once, she heard answering footsteps approach.

Though she was not at her absolute best, she was certainly presentable. Sloane straightened her posture and assumed a friendly, I’m-sorry-to-be-interrupting-you expression.

The door swung open.

And there . . . In the opening . . .

Was Max Cirillo.

In real life. Actually him.

Her expression dropped as she stared at him with confusion and shock.

He did not look confused or shocked. He regarded her with a hard, angry, and satisfied glint in his eyes.