Page 4 of A Summer of Stars

One more mile to go.

“Dad, it’s happening, it’s already been decided.”

He grumbled. “Then why did you call?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because we always talk on Saturdays at seven.”

“Well, it’s noon in Lisbon.”

“What’s in Lisbon?”

“My newest investment.” There was a jolly note in his tone. I could hear his smile through the phone. “I’m currently walking around a vineyard outside my newest restaurant with a glass of wine. Did you know the Portuguese make the best wine in the world?”

“I can hear Nonna rolling in her grave at that remark. Also, I thought Walt cut you off from any more investments?”

“Your brother may be my financial advisor, but that doesn’t make him any less my son. I know a good investment when I see one.” His voice moved in and out of the speaker, which meant he was waving his hands around.

“What about that wine that sparkles when you pour it?”

“God forbid I make one mistake out of eighty-nine investments!”

“It was a fifty-thousand-dollar investment,” I corrected him. Turning a corner, I caught my breath outside a small bakery before returning to a jogging pace. It was often quiet this time of day in Scarsdale.

“If my mind serves me right, you were a pretty big investment too,” he grumbled. But it was a fatherly grumble, the kind that emerged when he gave in to his children.

“This investment has had a pretty big return,” I pointed out.

“Not if you’re going to frolic around with some actor.”Here we go again.

“Dad, this is so they’ll get off my back, so I can do what I do best, remember? We’re doing this Deidra’s way,” I explained.

“This is Jeremiah’s fault, so we should be making this his problem.” My foot slipped at the sound of his name, my phone taking the fall so I could catch myself on the pavement. The beat of my heart sat in my throat as his name rang in my ears.

I scrambled to pick up my phone, brushing the gravel off my knees. Fortunately, Dad was still busy talking. “If we were doing it my way, there’d be a lawyer on that douchebag’s steps and an interviewer on yours for a tell-all.”

“This will work,” I decided, running again.

“Nowhere in this plan is there a strategy to put Jeremiah six feet in the gr—”

“I don’t think people are fond of letting criminals invest in their businesses, so I’d lower your voice.”

“Criminals invest more than you think.”

“Well, let’s not add that to your portfolio, Walt himself would swim to Lisbon to kill you. Now I have to go; I just got home.”

There was a sigh of unrest on his end. “Next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday,” I confirmed and hung up.

When I walked inside, I kicked the mail on the floor to the side, ignoring the one on top from Jeremiah—it would go straight in the trash anyway. Walt was still asleep on my couch. I gave the man a whole guest room, and he still managed to fall asleep in the living room every time he was visiting with one of Dad’s investors.

I pushed my sneakers off before I approached the couch. He was curled up like his orange cat; his dress shirt untucked, resting above plaid pajama pants. How he found the energy to change his pants but not his shirt, I had no clue. We had very different ideas of a nighttime routine. His: work on your laptop until enough is done that you can nod off and slip into REM. Mine: matching striped pajama set, only the nightstand lamp on, and a shortbread cookie on a cocktail napkin in bed.

Extremely different habits and personalities, but you’d never know. We looked like we were picked from the same litter. We had the same brown hair. The same straight bridge of a nose. The same oval face. Mom always said we looked like each other rather than her or Dad. As kids, she’d even give us the same haircut until I was five (him seven). Unfortunately, the decided haircut suited him more than me. But I’d never admit that to him.

“Walt,” I said, nudging his shoulder. Nothing. “Walt,” I repeated. He groaned on the third nudge, picking his head up from the armrest.

“Sleeping Beauty, I have to get ready,” I warned. “So if you’re going to shower, it needs to be right now.”