An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach), Mariah Stewart [best classic novels TXT] 📗

going into the office soon for my monthly walk-around, when I smile at everyone as if I had a true purpose there. Mostly I meet new employees. Water the plants in your father’s office, dust his bookshelves. Then I close it up again, take Lois to lunch, then try to catch a train by two thirty or so.”

“What exactly does Lois do there these days?”

“Anything she wants,” Maggie quipped. “She was your father’s first hire when he started the firm. She was his right hand for thirty-two years.”

“Yeah, I know all that, but what does she actually do?”

“Mostly, she keeps his spirit alive. She’s there to reassure the old clients that even though Art’s gone, the firm still is behind them one hundred percent and the clients are comfortable with that.” Maggie laughed softly. “And yeah, whatever all that means. The bottom line is that I promised your father that I’d keep her on until she decided to retire, and that’s what I’ll do. Now and then, I ask her to look up something inane for me. Most recently I’ve asked her to go through your dad’s files and make a list of the firm’s oldest clients so I could be sure they’re on the Christmas card list. What can I say, Nat? She was faithful to him, so we’re faithful to her.”

Nat was still thinking about her father while she checked for any new DNA matches and pondered how randomly certain traits were passed through DNA. Nat looked like her mother, her hair the same honey-blonde, her eyes the same green, but her build—tall and lanky—was her father’s. Her no-nonsense approach to life was Art’s as well. Grace, on the other hand, who was a traditionist down to her toes, was a dead ringer for a younger version of their father’s mother—dark hair and blue eyes, like Art—but she had the soul of a romantic, like their mother. And like Maggie, Grace was long waisted and petite. From their father, Grace had inherited a love of the law, Italian food, and Paris, while Natalie shared his love of crime shows on TV, hiking, and an appreciation for sixties rock bands. Reading the names of past generations on her computer screen, Nat wondered which of her ancestors had passed on her free spirit, and who, like Grace, never colored outside the lines.

She had only one really cool find through her research, but it was a beauty. Lily Mullin, their father’s Irish immigrant maternal great-grandmother, had been a cook at the home of one of Philadelphia’s most prominent families. She’d disappeared from the household at the next census, but Natalie later discovered her in the home of her great-great-grandfather, John McKeller—as his wife. How, Natalie mused, did one rise from a young cook’s apprentice—sixteen years old!—to become the wife of a man who was heir to a fortune and years older? Whatever the story, she was certain it was a romantic one: Lily and John had gone on to have nine children, all of whom were alive to celebrate their parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Natalie pondered the list of her DNA matches, wondering if the story was known to any of her second, third, and fourth cousins. It wouldn’t be difficult to figure out which of the names were connected to her father’s side of the family—just a little checking to see who had a McKeller in their family tree.

“A task for another day,” she muttered as she exited the site and did a quick check of her email before turning off her computer. She’d promised Daisy a visit to the Please Touch Museum on Saturday, and she hoped to get an early start.

But first—baking for the weekend.

Scones for the morning, cupcakes for dessert after dinner tomorrow night, and some to take to Maggie’s on Sunday. Daisy loved cupcakes, any flavor, any color frosting—fancy or otherwise—with or without sprinkles, gummy bears, or chocolate shavings (Natalie’s favorite). This weekend they’d celebrate autumn: the scones would be pumpkin spice, and the cupcakes would be chocolate with cream cheese frosting and orange, yellow, and brown sprinkles. Natalie would bake the cupcakes tonight, and Daisy would help frost and decorate tomorrow after they returned from their outing.

Four years ago Natalie would have laughed if anyone’d predicted she’d be spending her Friday nights baking and her Saturday nights home tucked under a cozy throw sharing popcorn with a three-year-old. But then came Daisy, and Natalie’s life did a complete one-eighty. Even when she was with Jon, Friday nights were usually girls’ nights for her and her besties. And before Jon, her dance card was always filled. These days, if she occasionally missed male companionship, well, there were any number of men who’d be happy to date her and who weren’t put off by the fact that she had a three-year-old. Unfortunately, she hadn’t met anyone who appealed to her on every level that mattered to her.

Natalie’s father was the standard by which all men were measured. Art Flynn had been handsome, intelligent, warm, kind, thoughtful—and had a playful humor that she’d adored. For a while, she’d thought Jon had measured up, but once the facade had begun to crumble, he’d been left with nothing but his handsome face, and even that had begun to show the wear and tear of an addict’s life. While she wished she’d recognized the signs sooner, Natalie refused to beat herself up over it. Jon’s sins were not hers, nor would she take any responsibility for them. Her father had been one hundred percent in her corner when she’d opted to have her baby and to raise Daisy on her own, whereas Maggie had wanted her to pursue Jonathan for support. Art had disagreed, and his last gift to Natalie had made Jon’s help unnecessary. She didn’t live extravagantly, but she and Daisy were comfortable, and there’d be money for her daughter’s education.

“Jonathan Banks is out of our life now and forever,” Natalie declared when she turned on the kitchen light