Page 1 of Roark
Chapter 1
Hyde Park, London
For as long as he lived and as many breaths as he’d be blessed to take, she’d always be the love of his life.
The worship space in Bolton Park Baptist Church overflowed with people who’d come to pay their respects. Their presence added a mixture of heavy perfumes and colognes that, combined with the strong, sweet aroma of the many flowers occupying the space, had Roark Donovan closing a fist over his mouth as he coughed. The couple who’d just walked past, shook his hand and whispered words meant to comfort. All Roark could think was that they must’ve had some sort of competition going for which one could have the most offensive scent.
He was already tired of standing, and he was definitely tired of saying “thank you,” “we appreciate it” and “yes, we’ll let you know if we need anything.” The latter particularly rubbed him the wrong way, because nobody in this room could give him the one thing he needed.
His mother.
At some point, the clergy filed into the room. Two men cloaked in robes standing just behind the pastor, who adjusted the microphone on the podium before speaking.
Roark had no idea what was said. He sat when they were directed to do so, and as part of the family, was not asked to stand again. When the choir stood, there was singing, clapping and crying. He’d heard more crying in the past two weeks than he ever wanted to hear again. As if on cue, Suri bent down, burying her face in her hands as she cried even harder.
His heart ached for his sister, and when he put his hand on her back, rubbing in small circles, he wished like hell that single act could take all the hurt and sorrow from her. It couldn’t, he knew that, but hearing her cry, knowing she suffered and being helpless to stop any of it, was just another part of this nightmare.
Ridge sat stoically on Roark’s other side, his fists tight and resting on his thighs. Roark’s younger brother wore a black suit almost identical to Roark’s but for the style of their jackets. Their shirts were white, ties a blood-orange color that was their mother’s favorite hue. Suri wore a cream-colored dress with an orange belt and matching shoes. The three children of Maxine Donovan paid homage to the woman who loved and raised them.
Roark was pulled from his thoughts when the pastor stood in front of him. He looked up and listened to what was being said, nodded and then reached for Suri’s hand. She gripped his hand in return, and he recalled the way she used to do that when she was little and he’d hold her hand as they’d crossed the street. At thirty years old, she was ten years younger than him and still much shorter, which he noted when they both stood.
The funeral director was giving instructions for what would happen next, who’d go where and how they’d continue with the day, but all Roark could think about was that this was almost over. The time he had with his mother close by was almost done, and his chest felt like it was collapsing with that thought.
Disregarding what was being said, he released Suri’s hand and stepped away from the first row of seats, where he’d been standing. He walked with steps that felt heavy and labored toward the rose-gold-colored casket and placed both his palms on top. Dropping his head and closing his eyes, he hoped she could feel him, hoped she knew how much he loved and appreciated her for all the sacrifices she’d made for him and his siblings. She’d been everything to him, and now, he wasn’t sure what he’d be without her.
Hands rubbed his back this time, one from the left side and another from the right. Suri rested her head on his arm, still crying, quietly now. Ridge stood close, and the moment Roark heard his brother sniffle, warm tears ran down Roark’s face.
“Who cooked this macaroni and cheese with this awful, crumbly mess on top?”
Bridgette “Birdie” Donovan was not happy today.
Or any other day, for that matter. Roark tried not to pay too much attention to her whenever she was around. Today, he especially didn’t feel like dealing with her bristling candor, nonstop complaints, or burning insults. In short, he just didn’t feel like Aunt Birdie.
“Come over here and get me another plate, and leave that mess in the pan. Better yet, take it back into the kitchen—nobody needs to see that catastrophe.” His aunt was talking to Jade, his cousin Linc’s wife, who was five months pregnant and still as beautiful as ever in a knee-length black dress.
Roark immediately pushed his chair back and stood. He picked up the plate Aunt Birdie had referred to. “I’ll get you another plate.” He hadn’t been able to hide the crispness in his tone and wasn’t really interested in how his aunt felt about it.
Aunt Birdie was the only girl and youngest child of Roark’s great-grandparents, Rowan and Adeline Donovan. She was ninety-two years old, had no children and had never married. She’d also never worked a day in her life. Thanks to her inheritance from her parents and the increasing worth of her shares in Donovan Oilwell, she never had to. She owned a house in her hometown of Beaumont, Texas but spent most of her time traveling or harassing the staff at the Donovan family-owned Camelot Resort on Sansonique, their private Caribbean island.
For the last two weeks, she’d been in London, staying at the flat Roark had rented for Suri after the fire had destroyed a good portion of his parents’ Hyde Park home. To keep Suri from locking their great-aunt in a closet, Ridge had agreed to stay there with them temporarily. Jade touched Roark’s arm in silent thanks as he walked past her, and he did everything he could to muster up at least a partial smile in response. “Sit down, you’ve been on your feet since eight this morning,” he told her.
Jade and Linc were from Las Vegas, but two years ago, Linc had moved his wife and twin twelve-year-old daughters to Paris, where he’d opened his new casino called the Odyssey.
“I’m fine, just trying to make sure this goes as smoothly as possible.” Jade lifted a hand and tucked her long, dark hair back behind an ear. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“Shouldn’t have had this get-together.” Aunt Birdie rolled her eyes as she looked around the room. “People’ve been dropping by all week, smiling in our faces like they knew Maxine personally. Some of them probably only knew how much money she had after Gabe died.”
Roark chaffed at the mention of his father, who’d died when he was seventeen. “It’s polite.”
“It’s a nuisance,” Aunt Birdie snapped. “And I thought you were getting me another plate.”
After a brief sigh, Roark didn’t even bother to comment, but turned away from Jade and walked toward the kitchen of the hall they’d rented for the repast. Forty-five minutes ago, he’d left his mother’s body at the cemetery, where she’d rest forever.
There were one hundred fifty people in the main hall, sitting at tables topped with white linen cloths. A buffet was set up with enough food to feed double the amount of people who’d received special invitations to the family repast. Roark had wanted to return home. There he could continue working with the fire investigation officer at the London Fire Brigade on the cause of the fire that had torn through his parents’ home, killing his mother as she’d slept.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”
The starkly spoken question brought his focus back to the present, and Roark blinked before shaking his head. “Sorry. Yes. Could you fix another plate for my aunt, without macaroni and cheese, please?”
