Almost A Bravo

“Correct. It’s weak. And your suit would likely fail. Plus, by the time you obtained DNA samples not only from Aislinn Bravo, but from Martin’s remains and then hashed it all out in court, Wild River would already be sold, anyway.”

Jax sat back in the guest chair. “You’re my lawyer now.”

Anders granted him a thin smile. “And I’m pleased to help you in any way I can.”

“Got any suggestions to get me out of this mess?”

“As your lawyer, I would advise you to marry Aislinn Bravo and remain married to her for the next three months.”

“I didn’t need a lawyer to figure that out, Kip—and in spite of Martin’s claim that the woman was once in love with me, so far she’s not jumping at the chance to get my ring on her finger.”

“I’m sorry, Jaxon. Truly. But there is no way I can help you with that. Give her a little time.”

“Time? There are six days left until we have to be married.”

“Look at it this way. If she doesn’t agree from the goodness of her heart, maybe she’ll think of a use for the money. Not many people would turn down a chance at fifty thousand dollars.”

* * *

It was just after noon and Aislinn was selling a ceramic sculpture to a regular customer at Sand & Sea when Jaxon called. She had her phone right there on the register counter, set to vibrate. It spun halfway around and lit up with his name, because she’d programmed it into her phone, ready to go as soon as she felt she could deal with him.

“Go ahead,” said the customer. “Answer it. I’m in no hurry.”

But Aislinn was so far from ready to talk to Jax again. “I’ll call him back later.” She gave the customer a big smile and let the call go to voice mail.

Later didn’t come—not that day, anyway. It was rude of her not to pick up or even listen to the message he’d left, and she was sorry. But she needed more answers before she faced his demands.

When she got off at four, she called Valentine House, where her great-uncle Percy and great-aunt Daffodil lived. They were brother and sister, Percy and Daffy, the last of the Valentines. Neither had ever married and they still lived in the house where they’d grown up.

When Uncle Percy finally answered the phone, she asked him if she could drop by.

“Bring pizza,” he instructed. “With the works. Anchovies on the side.”

Half an hour later, bearing an extralarge pie with everything on it—except the anchovies, which had their own small separate tub—she mounted the chipped concrete steps leading up to the seven-thousand-square-foot mansion on the edge of Valentine City Park. Aunt Daffy’s garden was glorious if a tad overgrown. And to Aislinn, the Italianate Victorian itself looked like something transplanted from the Garden District in New Orleans. Built by Captain Aeschylus Valentine back in 1922, the house boasted a healthy helping of gingerbread trim, an excess of dentil moldings and acres of balconies framed in iron lace. The paint job needed freshening and some of the moldings could use repair, but still. It was a beautiful old house and it made her smile every time she saw it.

Daffy and Percy greeted her at the door.

“So good to see you, sweetheart.” Daffy’s thin, dry lips brushed her cheek, light as a cobweb. Aislinn got a whiff of the familiar vanilla and sandalwood scent of the old woman’s Arpège perfume. “You’re a lifesaver with that pizza. Letha’s off today.” Letha March cleaned the house and cooked for them. “Let me take that.” Daffy whisked the pizza away.

Percy led her into the parlor, where the red carpet had a dizzying pattern of closely woven white lilies overlapping each other. When Aislinn was little, she used to try to count those lilies.

They ate the pizza right there in the front room, paper plates in their laps, clutching paper napkins. Percy talked of the ongoing hunt for her brother Finn, lost in some frozen wilderness on the other side of the world.

He was so sure they would have Finn back home eventually. “We shall never give up the search, never surrender the quest,” he declared, like some latter-day Winston Churchill. And then he gave her his sweetest, dottiest smile and asked, “But how are you doing, my dear?”

Aunt Daffy, slim and straight even at eighty-plus, her silver hair in soft waves framing her narrow, wrinkled face, piped up with, “Yes. Tell us everything.”

Aislinn realized she wanted to—needed to—tell someone. Or maybe she was just ready to get it all out. “It has to be only between us, for now, anyway, until I figure out what I’m going to do next, until I’m ready to tell the whole family.”

“And so it shall be,” declared Daffy, sharing a nod with her brother.

It was so simple after that. She swore them to secrecy and then she told them. Everything. About her summer at Wild River Ranch, her college-girl crush on Jaxon, about Martin Durand, about that letter he’d written claiming to be her father and to have switched her with her mother’s real daughter on the day she was born, about the terms of his will—and yes, she had meant to keep all those secrets until after she’d shared everything with Keely. But she really needed answers now.

When she’d told it all, Daffy asked, “Will you marry the man?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Yes. Yes, I do believe that he is.”

“And your feelings for him...?”

“Aunt Daffy, that was years ago.”

Daffy peered at her closely. “I think you still like him.”

“I do like him. And whether I decide to marry him or not in the next week, I’m counting on you two to keep my confidence about all of this.”

“We’ve given you our word,” Percy intoned.

Daffy promised, “We will not let you down.”

“Thank you. And what I really came here for was to ask you both if you recall how Mom always said I was born in Montedoro?”

Daffy waved a hand. “Ah, our Marie. So full of fun and fantasy.”

“But is it true? Was I born at Villa Della Torre?”

Daffy and Percy shook their heads in unison. Daffy said, “Your mother loved that story. Sometimes I think she even started to believe it.”

“Oh, God.” Aislinn felt sick to her stomach. “Just tell me the truth, please. I really do have to know.”

Daffy patted her shoulder, a touch meant to soothe her. “You were her firstborn daughter, her little princess—and of course you had to have been born in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean.”

“You’re saying she just made it up?” Her heart was a ball of lead in her chest.

“Well, it wasn’t only that Marie considered you her little princess, it was that you fell in love with all things royal,” Daffy said, as if that explained everything. “You do remember your princess phase?”

“Yeah, I remember.” She’d had three princess dresses, in pink, blue and yellow, each with a big tulle skirt and a train. Her mom had made her a princess room, with glittery stars on the ceiling and a bed like a throne. She’d had four tiaras, each more sparkly than the last. And a magic wand, too—because when you’re five, the line between princess and fairy is a blurry one.

“You loved the story of your Montedoran birth,” Daffy reminded her. “As did your mother. It just seemed harmless and sweet to indulge you both. And, well, the years went by, didn’t they? We lost Finn and then your mother and father, and the story simply stuck. Now and then you would mention it, but until now, you’ve never asked directly if it might actually be true.”

And that brought her to the next big question. “So, where was I born, then?”

Uncle Percy rose from the circular settee. When he reached her, she stood from her wing chair. He took her hand in his wrinkly one. His faded blue eyes held hers. “I’m afraid that this Martin Durand fellow had it right about that much, at least.”

“Oh, no...” The two words came out as barely more than a whisper.