Chapter One

Emily

April

Emily Brynn inhales a final gulp of smog and siren. “Today is the day, Dad.”

She had started planning her New York City escape just nine hours earlier, standing in this same spot on this small balcony of her two-bedroom Tribeca condo. Sure, she was two glasses of red wine into the midnight hour when the revelation hit, but she knew it then, and she is sure of it now.

She is leaving New York.

She is leaving The Brynn Company.

She is moving to Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.

It’s not entirely out of the blue. Leaving the rush of the city has been on her mind since her fruitless fling with Zaya Bloomsburg when she questioned, for the first time, if there was a single woman in all of New York City that could savor a holiday without turning it into some social media spectacle.

That was four years ago.

A loud knock sends her scrambling for a to-go coffee mug before opening the door. “Good morning, Mike.”

“Hello, Ms. Brynn.” She watches him scan the room. “I see why you need the luggage cart today. Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to spend some time in North Carolina. Have you been?”

Mike lifts bag number one as he speaks in his thick city accent, methodical and often disregarding the pronunciation of the letter R. “Back when I was about your age, I was a private driver. One of my regular guys had business in Raleigh. I’d drive him down there a few times a year. Don’t know much about the state beyond that.” Mike goes for bag number two. “What part of the state you headed to, Ms. Brynn?”

“Wrightsville Beach.” Emily flings a large plum tote over her shoulder before handing the third and final bag to Mike for proper placement on his cart. She’s known Mike since she bought her condo eleven years ago, and she knows if she places the bag on the cart herself he will readjust it, even if only slightly, to his liking.

“Right along the coast. I’ve got no doubt it’ll be beautiful, Ms. Brynn.”

She smiles tenderly at her old friend.

“Is there anything I can do to help you here while you’re gone?”

“No thank you, Mike. I appreciate the help this morning.”

“My pleasure. Julian should have your car out front by now. I’ll follow you down.”

Emily does not attempt to push the luggage cart. Mike won’t allow it. She locks the front door and pats it with a “Farewell for now, home.”

“I’ve got the lift,” she says. “Least I can do.” When the elevator doors open, she helps Mike guide the bulky cart in.

“How’s Maria doing?” Emily asks.

Maria, Mike’s wife of thirty-seven years, had a knee replacement last Monday. Emily has been checking in daily. Last Wednesday, she sent him home with a dozen yellow lilies and a woven basket full of fresh fruits to give to her.

“She’s making progress. You know that physical therapy sure does wonders.” He answers similarly every time.

“I’m glad she’s continuing to make good progress.”

“Thank you for always asking about her, Ms. Brynn. We’re still working on all that fruit. She appreciated it so much, as did I.”

“Good, I’m happy to hear you’re enjoying it.”

The elevator beeps twenty-seven floors down before opening to a white marble lobby. Emily greets Paula, the receptionist, and heads out of the grand revolving front door toward her shiny blue Mercedes SUV.

She’s had it for over a year and has driven less than 2500 miles, opting more often for a chauffeur, or occasionally public transportation, but that’s only when she’s itching to feel more like the average thirty-seven-year-old city dweller.

Emily was never hunting for a vehicle, but when Mrs. Rebecca Langley, a good friend of her father’s, opened a Mercedes dealership, she and her brother, James, were eager to support the new endeavor.

James was instantly hooked on what Mrs. Langley referred to as their “off-road icon.” It mirrored a Bronco but with the class of a Mercedes: rugged, yet sophisticated. When he said, “That’s the one,” Emily had responded, “Make it two.”

James was adamant about his black leather interior and matte black exterior, the grandest souped-up sound system, elaborate LED mood-tailoring interior lighting, and custom rims. Emily didn’t share the same enthusiasm, so she leaned on Mrs. Langley.

“I think you’ll be pleased with this light-tan interior, and this may be out of your comfort zone, but how do you feel about this Sea Blue Metallic?”

“I’ll take it.”

The Sea Blue Metallic feels serendipitous this morning as Emily Brynn heads off to the coast.

“You’ll finally be putting some real miles on this baby, huh, Ms. Brynn?” Julian grins as he hands her the keys. Julian parks a lot of nice cars, but he’s verbalized that Emily’s is one of his favorites. “Feels like skydiving,” he once told her.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she shares.

Mike and Julian help her load the trunk with her three large bags. Mike pats the back when he has shut and secured it and double-checked his work. Much like her own father would do if he were here. “Good to go, Ms. Brynn,” he shouts.

She hands them each a generous tip. “Thank you both for the help this morning. Stay well.”

Emily takes FDR along the East River to the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She drives the entire way with the windows down, reintroducing herself to the noises of the city, something she’s long grown numb to. She finds a parking spot right in front of her brother’s 1876 brownstone, takes a deep breath, and heads up the stairs.

“Emmy!” Her two nephews, Clark and Briggs, and her niece, Blake, greet her loudly, slamming into her legs before she’s fully in the front door.

“Come here, munchkins!” Emily hugs them all at once and then each individually. In the kitchen she expectedly finds her mother, Charlotte, and her brother’s wife, Lilly, putting together a gourmet English breakfast spread—grilled tomatoes and roasted mushrooms, thick-cut bacon, baked beans, sourdough toast, and fried eggs with a runny yolk.

Emily gives them both a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze. “Is James in his office?”

She already knows the answer, but she lets Lilly respond. “He’s in there.”

Emily heads back toward the front of the house to her brother’s office. She knocks lightly, turns the intricately designed brass knob, and peeks her head through the large wooden door. When she sees he isn’t on the phone, she finds her way in. She sits comfortably on one of the two oversized leather chairs beneath a massive Arsenal FC pennant that hangs down from the high ceiling.

“I’m leaving the company, James.”

Without looking up from his laptop, he responds, “You can’t leave, you own it.”

They own it together. That was always the plan. Not Emily’s plan, but an implied plan since the moment she was born. James and Emily were destined to take over the family business, and that was that.

Their grandfather William Brynn started The Brynn Company in 1947. It originated as a commercial real estate company, specializing in the purchasing and sale of mobile home lots, a newer phenomenon at the time. By the mid-fifties, William had garnered over a dozen office buildings, small retail malls, and apartment complexes, and by the sixties he had cultivated a brilliant following. He knew where to invest, when to invest, and what to invest in. The real gold mine, though, was in the land itself. In the eighties, when the expansion of cell phones started to skyrocket, the city needed land to build cell towers—William Brynn’s land. He sold off a few plots early on, but as the market kept evolving, he chose to forgo the steep initial buyouts for a lifetime of rent. A hefty, hefty rent. When Emily and James’s father, Barry, took over in 1991, he expanded The Brynn Company brand, branching into accounting, property management, and, in his later years, historical preservation advocacy.

Barry would still own The Brynn Company if he hadn’t died of an aggressive and cruel brain tumor one year and one day ago.

“It’s all yours,” Emily says.

James looks up with confusion in his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I am serious.”

He shoves his computer aside and leans back in his chair, folding his arms against his chest. Emily sighs at how much he looks like their father. His thick head of ashy hair. Soft, welcoming brown eyes. Big hands, perfectly manicured. Broad shoulders always fitted neatly under an ironed shirt. Even on this Sunday morning.

“What’s going on, Em?”

She takes a note from her pocket and tosses it onto his desk. “This is what Dad wrote me.”

Their father had written James and Emily each a letter before he passed away. It was only four months from his diagnosis to death. A whirlwind of a season, but he managed to scratch out some final thoughts for each of them.

“You want me to read it?” James asks as he holds it up.

James had shared his note with Emily months ago. His was mostly about fatherhood, but there was a paragraph in there that said, “Much of our work comes down to knowing the difference between right and wrong. You are better than I ever was. Pick right. Every time.” James reread it on repeat to Emily back in autumn when they were contemplating a billion-dollar deal that would have required them to relocate a flourishing eighteenth-century historic church.

With Barry’s words as their motivation, The Brynn Company not only decided to decline the deal, but they spent the next four months helping the congregation legislate for protections so that they would never have to encounter a similar situation again.

James carefully unfolds Emily’s note, knowing just how precious the writing on this flimsy paper is. She follows along from memory.

My Dearest Emily,

There’s not a human I’ve met that works harder than you. Not even your brother. But don’t tell him that. Might hurt his ego.

James smiles softly and Emily knows what he’s just read. She’s read it dozens of times since her father passed. Spent small parts of every single day over the last year thinking about these words.

Your work ethic, your natural knack for negotiation, and your brilliant personality are what make you the greatest employee I’ve ever had, and they will be what make you a great boss at The Brynn Company.

If that’s something you want. And I wonder if perhaps that it’s not your dream.

I wanted to share a little something.

I keep thinking of a vacation (your mother would kill me for using the word vacation instead of holiday) we took down to the eastern shore of North Carolina. Wrightsville Beach. You were four. We rented a house on stilts along the intracoastal. Watched every sunrise that week (you’ve always been an early riser!). We all fished. Or rather, you cast and reeled back in and the rest of us fished. You ate blue crab for the first time and way too much strawberry ice cream. To your dismay, it was sunny all week long, but on the very last afternoon it rained, poured, and you were so excited because you’d been wanting to run in the rain in your yellow rain boots and you finally got to! Stomped in all the puddles. Spread your arms and ran figure eights like an airplane.

In my final weeks here on Earth, that is what I think about when I think about the happiest moments of my life. The happiest you. You in those yellow rain boots running in the rain.

James sniffles, and Emily wonders if it’s to stave off the tears starting to well up in his eyes.

I’ll take the blame for your long work hours. For the pressure I’ve placed on you and your brother, which you’ve handled with extraordinary fortitude. It’s hard for me to even believe I am writing this to you, but life, all of a sudden, seems a whole lot clearer when the end is so near.

I am telling you now, as your father (and your former boss!), to take more holidays. Limit those 65-hour work weeks. No more Sunday mornings in the office (remind your brother of this too, please).

Hell, take a whole year off. Why not?

Sure, work is winning and winning is satisfying, (that runs in the Brynn blood), but when was the last time you enjoyed a slow morning with tea? Went on a date?(Your mum made me write this.) When was the last time you played hooky on a Tuesday? Bought yourself a pair of yellow boots? Spent an afternoon jumping around in the rain?

You are great, my Emily Louise Brynn. Time is ticking.

I love you,

Dad

James refolds the letter carefully. “Well, I guess the ol’ bloke confirmed my suspicion that you were the favorite.”

“I can’t believe you still had suspicions. It was so obvious.” Emily winks.

James huffs out a chuckle. “So why now? One year since his death has ya in your feels, yeah?”

James’s accent is much thicker than Emily’s. They were born in London and spent their early years running around the streets of Mayfair in the city of Westminster. Emily hadn’t yet begun middle school when their father packed them up and shipped them over the Atlantic to his hometown of New York City. James, however, was already well into his teenage years, so his lingo and love of Arsenal Football was too far down the aisle to be influenced.

“Probably. Yes. I’ve been thinking about it, though. I was out on my balcony last night and I couldn’t see a single star in the sky. Not one. I’m thirty-seven. I have no kids. I have no life partner. Work is my life. And you know this business has never been my dream. There’s got to be more to all this, yeah?”

James listens intently to Emily as she sinks into her chair, decompressing from the heavy burden she’s just released.

“I actually don’t know why it has taken me so long to pull the trigger,” Emily continues, with a smile unraveling across her porcelain cheeks. “We’re sitting quite well, James. We could buy the Knicks, terrible as they are. We don’t actually need to work. It’s just a bit of an addiction, yeah?”

James gags, and Emily knows it’s because of her exaggerated buy the Knicks comment.

“Oh, stop it. You don’t think I could negotiate us a fair deal?”

He nods in contemplation before laughing. “If anyone could, it’d be you.”

Emily grins at the compliment.

“Well,” James begins his rebuttal. “I’d argue that our company is not just work. We’ve been a part of building and protecting the greatest parts of New York City since the forties. We provide excellent jobs to over a hundred and seventy-five employees. We’ve started an incredible foundation, given millions to this city. And to top it off, you’re amazing at what you do.”

Emily has heard James give this exact same elevator pitch a hundred times. Even he can’t stop himself from chuckling at how predictable his poor attempt at altering Emily’s decision is. She laughs with him. “You’re right. I do love this company. I’m proud of it. All we’ve done. But I’m still leaving, James. I need to.”

James stares for a moment, clearly reflecting on the last year of work with Emily. She’s never loved it the way he has, but she’s always been very successful with it. “I get it.” His thick eyebrows furrow. “You had me fooled, though. I thought burning the candle at both ends was your thing, no?”

“It was for a while, sure. Who doesn’t like partying on the High Line with beautiful women and top-shelf cocktails?” They both chuckle, and Emily recalls one specific event, before James’s kids were even born, when the two of them were the last standing, left to enjoy the sunrise on their walk home. “But when I think about my life,” she continues. “I don’t feel fulfilled. I want a family, like you have. I want something simpler. Smaller town, smaller projects, smaller impacts.”

“Well, to touch on the love component, you could have had it with Parker, no?”

“She cheated on me, James. With a man.”

He wants to burst into laughter. It’s obvious in his beet-red cheeks and his clenched lips. “Oh, that was just a phase.” He waves off his comment with a flick of his hand. “She’s totally into ya, Em.”

“No, James. She’s not.”

“Well, what about that movie star’s daughter? Adam Kraves, is it?”

Emily’s eyes widen. “Romi?”

“Yeah, weren’t you shaggin’ her?”

“How the hell did you know about that?”

He winks. “Word gets around, Em.”

It does. The circle of wealth is small and quite loud. Everyone is sleeping together. Everyone is at the same parties, the same courtside suites, buying up properties on the same islands in remote areas of the Caribbean.

“Okay, so Kraves isn’t the one. What does Maya think of all this?” He leans back in his chair, evidently giving up for now. “I frankly don’t know how you’ll live a day without her.”

Maya has been Emily’s best friend since she handed her a sharpened No. 2 pencil during a sixth-grade language arts class at St. Mary’s Private Catholic School. Emily was the new girl with the weird British accent and Maya was the confident, kind, and beautiful best friend she needed.

“I haven’t told her. I’m going to call her on my drive.”

“Your drive? When are you leaving?”

“Today.”

“Today!” James nearly knocks over his cup of tea. “You can’t be serious.”

Emily nods toward the window and he glances that direction to see her car parked out front, bags built up behind the back windows.

“You are serious.” There is a sudden look of worry on his face. Likely deriving from the amount of work he’s about to acquire.

“I am serious, but listen…” She reaches across his desk and grabs his hand. “I won’t leave you in the lurch.” She squeezes his hand to assure him further. “You know that. I will work remote as long as you need me to. There is nothing of importance that I can’t do from North Carolina.”

His tense glare relaxes a bit. Everything Emily does is calculated. It’s certain. She is absolutely, one hundred percent not going back on her decision to leave and she will absolutely, one hundred percent not leave him to clean up any messes.

“You’re going to Wrightsville Beach, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure. A year maybe?”

“One year. And then you better come on back up here, ya hear?”

Emily offers a tender smile. James reciprocates.

“I can handle everything,” he assures. “Mark is up to speed on your files, right?” Under Emily’s leadership, The Brynn Company has implemented more rigorous checks and balances to seamlessly handle vacations and any dire situations that may arise. Like one of the owners jumping ship.

“He’s completely up-to-date,” Emily assures. “There shouldn’t be any hiccups. And he’s excellent. I have complete faith in him.”

“He’s no Emily Brynn.”

“I trained him. He’s excellent.”

James stands from his chair and stretches his arms up toward the ceiling. “Fine. Let’s go tell Mum. She’ll probably be excited. She’s been telling me for years that you need to stop obsessing over work and find yourself a partner.”

“Oh, I know.”