Page 1 of Building What's Meant to Be

Chapter One

TINSLEY

If this were a movie scene with the main character on the run, she’d be looking over her shoulder, afraid she was being followed. Instead, this is real life and I am on the run, looking over my shoulder, afraid I’m being followed.

After a long flight from Los Angeles, I turned up at my parents’ place in the middle of the night. Everyone knows New York City never sleeps. But my parents do, and I figured I’d slide into the penthouse apartment without disturbing them. Lucky me, they’re out of town. No surprise there. I counted it as a bonus, considering my situation and the late hour.

However, the doorman informed me that my mother and father put me on the “Do Not Let In” list. When I told him they must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else named Tinsley Humber, he gave me a sharp, “True New Yorker” look that told me he’s seen it all, and nothing I could say or do would convince him to let me pass through the door.

The guy was old enough to be my grandfather and while I’d like to see him retire rather than work the night shift, I decided not to push my luck.

But that left me on the street. In Manhattan. In the middle of the night. Options spread before me like the city lights, but none of them glittered. I could’ve:

Gotten a hotel and charged it to my parents as per usual.

Called a friend and stayed with them, though doing that got me into this mess in the first place.

Gone to any number of all-night parties that were only sure to be getting started.

Instead, the yellow light at the entrance to the underground parking garage caught my eye.

After some light flirting with the garage attendant, I managed to convince him to give me the keys to my parents’ BMW. Considering they barred me from the building, I doubt they would’ve loaned me the vehicle so measures had to be taken.

Yes, it’s stealing.

No, Mother, Father, and I are not on the best of terms.

But I promise I’m not a criminal. I consider this a rental.

My word might not be the most valuable currency, but at the moment, it’s all I have. Other than grand theft auto, I have not committed a single crime. However, I was prepared to give the guy in the garage the emergency one-hundred-dollar bill in my wallet, so maybe theft with the intent to bribe is also considered illegal.

But that’s the least of my problems.

Right now, I leave the dazzling New York City skyline behind me as I crank the radio and cruise north while the GPS on my phone guides me to Newport, Rhode Island. Far too soon, thebass-heavy song turns repetitive as I yawn and my eyes grow heavy.

“Only forty-five more minutes. I can do this. Not much farther.” I almost don’t recognize the sound of my own voice. Typically, it’s light, bright. After all, I’m the Queen of Tinseltown, the New York Socialite, and for a brief time, Nashville Nobility—well, I was on my way to wearing that crown before my fall from country music groupie grace.

My voice is thick, scratchy after the long flight from Los Angeles and the even longer twelve hours of interrogation before that. I consider turning off the music, but that leaves too big of an opening for my thoughts to weasel in. They’re sure to torment me with a revisit to everything that happened since my rude awakening and likely the mounting questions and doubts that led to it as well as what’s to come.

Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, instead, I imagine the “Cottage” where our family used to spend the summer. A broad, sweeping lawn leads to the colonial home with pillars and wide marble steps. Inside, there are too many bedrooms to count, so I’ll take whichever one has the most comfortable bed.

The estate used to belong to one of those fancy Gilded Age couples who owned it like the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, or that one that starts with the letterSand I can hardly pronounce. Stuyvesant maybe.

Of course, there’s a ballroom, so the argument can easily be made that it’s not a cottage. I might also consider that myfamilyis hardly one—in name only. We’re splintered, fractured, chasing everything except each other, and have been for a long time. Never mind a wide opening for unwelcome thoughts, that’s a chasm. One I do my level best to ignore.

When I turn onto Fairhaven Street, I roll down the window. The mild, fresh salt air invigorates me and is a reminder that it’sspring. That means Mother and Father are probably still at their place in Hawaii so I’ll have the cottage to myself while I regroup.

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