Page 2 of The Candlemaker

For all the wrong reasons.A sharp pain pinched my chest, making me clear my throat. “Yeah.”

Mom and Tom were the only two people I really cared about and the only two people who cared about me. Well, it was more like one of them these days…

“And you’re sure about the Stocker deal?”

I narrowed my eyes on him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared at me for a long moment, finally accepting that I was going to make him spell it out. “Because it will mean the end of GC Holdings.”

My jaw ticked. “That’s the whole point.”

“Is it?”

I ignored his deeper intonation. “GC Holdings will go under, and I’ll buy what’s left of it for more than anyone else, but still at much less than what it’s worth now.”And the last of my father’s legacy would be gone.

Tom cleared his throat. “And the fact that GC is based in New York?”

“We have an office there. It will expand,” I said nonchalantly. “I’ll move there for a few years until everything is incorporated.”

“A few years…” He trailed off and shook his head, his distress obvious.

Mom was up here, living in Maine. My visits to her were already too infrequent for Tom’s liking, and New York would only give me another excuse to stay away.

He let out a deep exhale. “I hope this is really what you want, Chandler.”

“It is.” I dared him to question me again.

Instead, he gave me a sad smile and a nod, and somehow, that managed to feel even worse; it was times like these, when our conversations strayed from business, that I really saw his age and the toll this job took. And his worry about what it was taking from me.

“You should go home. It’s late,” I said gruffly and rubbed along the side of my jaw.

“And what about you?”

I had a good thirty years on him, not to mention the stamina, the drive, and the buried resentment to keep me going.

“I’m fine.”

“Did you even eat dinner?”

I didn’t even know what time it was; I sure as hell hadn’t stopped when it was time to eat.

“I’m fine, Tom,” I said firmly and glanced at the door.

“I promised her I’d look out for you,” he reminded me with a low, resolute voice.

My jaw locked tight. That was back when Mom was here—physically and mentally—and saw the work-obsessed path I’d been heading down. She was the only one who had the pull to get me to step back and take a break. And she hadn’t been able to do that in five years since the dementia set in. Now, she hardly remembered who I was. Which, ironically, was preferable to the alternative:when she thought I was my father.

That was why my visits had become less frequent. Nothing like wanting to see one of the few people I loved only for her to mistake me for the singular man I hated.

“Good night, Tom.”

“Do you want me to arrange transportation?—”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’ll drive.”

His chin dipped, and he gave me one last look—the kind that spoke volumes—before letting himself out.

I swiped open my iPad and typed in the address of the inn, watching the pin drop on the coastal stretch of Friendship. It was a prime location—an ideal spot for an inn or any business, really. My eyes narrowed. There was a business name tagged at the spot.The Lamplight Inn.I grunted. This Kinkade fellowmust’ve claimed his business before the property reverted back to me. Another tap brought up the image of the business—an artist’s rendering of the inn—and refocused the map, several other businesses highlighted nearby.

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