younger man, who looked like he was about to faint from heatstroke. “This is my colleague Dave Johnson.” Both men held out hands and Deacon shook them before heading to the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of beer, twisted off the cap, and took a deep drink before finally speaking.
“So Michael put me and my brothers in his will.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Mr. Connors answered it anyway.
“Yes.” He sat back down and removed some papers from his briefcase. “We would’ve had these to you sooner, but it wasn’t easy locating you and your brothers.” He smiled. “Although I understand. Just this past year, I went salmon fishing with my brothers in a remote spot in Canada. Most enjoyable two weeks I’ve had in a long time.”
It annoyed Deacon that the man would think this was just a vacation spot. He scowled as the lawyer took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. He put them on before he started reading the will.
Mr. Connors had a low, soothing voice, one that would’ve put Deacon to sleep if the stakes hadn’t been so high. He, his brothers, and Donny John all listened intently as the man read. It wasn’t until he reached the details of the shares Uncle Michael had left them that Deacon interrupted.
“Excuse me. Did you say controlling shares?”
Mr. Connors glanced up. “I did.”
“Controlling as in majority shareholders?”
The lawyer smiled. “Correct. Your uncle left you all of his shares.”
Nash got up from the couch. “Does that mean what I think it means, Deacon?”
Since Deacon couldn’t seem to find his voice, Mr. Connors answered the question for him. “It means that you and your brothers are now the owners of French Kiss, Incorporated.”
C HAPTER FIVE
O livia was running late…again. No matter how early she got up, she just couldn’t seem to keep from being late. This morning she’d been distracted by the pretty hummingbird that fluttered by her kitchen window, Mr. Huckabee watering his flowers in the nude, and her trash and recycling bins sitting by the curb. Not that there was anything unusual about her trash bins being out. Especially on trash day. At least there wouldn’t have been if she had been the one to roll them out to the curb. But until she saw them, she’d forgotten that it was trash day. Which meant that someone else had put her trash and recycling bins out. Just as they had the week before. And the week before that.
Late or not, she couldn’t help opening the balcony doors and calling to Mr. Huckabee, whose dangling parts were thankfully covered by the large watering can he held, “Good morning, Mr. Huckabee.”
He squinted over at her. “Is that you, Britney?”
Britney had been the former owner of Olivia’s house. And even after five years, Mr. Huckabee still thought she lived there. Olivia had corrected him numerous times and had finally given up.
“I wanted to thank you for putting out my trash,” she said.
“I didn’t. And you left your garage door open again.” Mr. Huckabee lifted the can to water his geraniums, displaying his private parts.
She averted her eyes. “Yes, I know. I guess I need to tie a string on my penis—I mean finger.” With a heated face, she backed toward the doors. “Well, have a good day.” On her way inside, she noticed Jonathan Livingston Seagull standing in the corner of her balcony, eating what looked like a piece of moldy banana peel. “Shoo!” she yelled, and waved her arms. The bird stared her down with a beady-eyed look before he picked up the banana peel and took flight, leaving his calling card on her rug.
She usually took the trolley to work, but after cleaning up Jonathan’s mess she was running too late to wait for public transportation, so she decided to take the Porsche Michael had given her for her thirtieth birthday. It was a nice car—fast, sleek, and a pretty French Kiss silver. Which didn’t explain why she felt so uncomfortable driving it.
Backing out of