Looking for home

News.

This is what you want. This is what you want.

What? If she repeated it enough times, she'd actually believe it?

And besides, this wasn't what she wanted, but she needed to do this in order to get what she really wanted.

M hadn't talked to her sister in nearly two years, but she stood at the base of an impressive staircase leading to the mansion her sister called home.

Since arriving in Toronto earlier in the day, she'd been questioning her sanity. She and Summer - her sister - hadn't been close since they'd hit their early teens. M had barely had any contact with the whole famdamily since leaving the nuthouse at eighteen. Then out of the blue, Summer had called, bragging about the rich old man she'd bagged. And his awesome, humungous house in Rosedale - one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in Toronto, dontcha know. The only tarantula in her sister's perfumed body lotion was the fact she'd have to take care of the old man's bratty kid as well.

Summer's parting shot before hanging up on her sister had been that if M ever needed a place to stay, and well, of course she would, Summer might consider putting her up for a day or two. Maybe.

All right. She could admit to being a vagabond. So what? At least she had morals. Scruples! But if you asked her, Summer sorely lacked both.

Yet here she was, about to beg her sister for room and board.

She heaved a sigh, picked up her ratty - uh, well-used - old bags, and walked up those majestic stairs.

But it's a step in the right direction. Just one step - okay, it looks like at least ten steps. Oh well. It doesn't matter. You can do this.

Finally standing in front of wide double doors with incredible stained glass inserts, she rang the bell.

Waited.

Checked out the huge planters on either side of the door that probably cost more than her car. Well, if she still had a car, these would probably cost more. She'd sold her car so she'd have extra cash for her new venture.

Waited.

She was about to turn away when the door forcefully opened.

By a...she searched for the word that could describe someone this gorgeous. Was there one? She didn't think so, and years of reading anything she could get her hands on had provided her with an excellent vocabulary. Pity she rarely had a chance to use it.

Yawzah! Wouldya catch a load o' him!

His face was perfectly - perfect. Everything about it. Bone structure, skin, and proportion. His wavy hair fell somewhere between blonde and brown - closer to brown. Since blonde men gave her the heebie jeebies, that worked just fine. His green gold eyes reminded her of a beast of prey. Aquiline nose and a strong square jaw. All sitting on top of six plus feet of hard body. On the whole? She could sum it up quite easily. Yum yum!

Oh, oh. He was checking her out as well.

She tensed. Here it comes.

How can a face be totally devoid of expression and yet speak volumes at the same time?

She watched as his eyes rested first on her ancient Birkenstocks and then traveled up to her stick straight hair. Back down to her bags.

In a voice that reeked with long-suffering, he said, "Look, I'm sorry. I really am. But I don't hand out money at the front door."

Excuse me? What, he thought she was a peddler or something? Begging for a handout?

Why do rich people instantly think they're better than you? It made her sick.

Okay, to be fair, she wasn't looking her best, but still. How about a little respect? He'd look rumpled and sweaty too if he'd spent the last four days as she had.

As he turned away and started to close the door, she found her voice. "I'm here to see Summer."

He froze. Turned back to her. "Pardon me? What kind of game are you playing?"

She picked up her bags and tried to force herself past him. "No game. I said I'm here to see Summer. I'm her sister, and she told me I could stay here if I ever needed a place to crash for a while."

For some reason he appeared speechless.

M dropped her bags again, crossed her arms over her chest, and stuck out her chin. "Look, I know this is my sister's house. Who are you? What're you doing here? Where's my sister?"

"I'm Jonathan Davenport. I live here - for now."

"Jonathan Davenport? Are you related to William Davenport?"

He nodded. "He was my father."

Get outta town! This was the bratty kid that Summer said she had to look after? Uh-huh. Knowing Summer, she'd been "looking after him," all right.

Then something else he'd said sunk in.

"Was your father?"

"Yes." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Look, I don't even know if you're who you say you are. What's your name?"

"M."

"Em? What's that short for? Emily? Emma? And do you have a last name?"

Em worked for her, and it would be easier than explaining it was just the initial M. She just wanted to get this over with and get inside. "The last name is McCallister. Just like Summer's, before she married your father. And it isn't short for either. You don't need to know what it's short for."

"Yes, I do. I don't like using derivatives of names. People have become so lazy they can't even use a full name."

Uh-huh. Figures. He's an uptight weirdo. Such a shame when the packaging was so fine. Not that it really mattered. For a few reasons. One - he'd just looked at her as if she were slime, and two - she'd become a born again virgin. Or revirginated. Neither term really worked for her, but there you have it. Her legs were crossed, and she planned to keep them that way come hell or high water.

Anyway, he'd just have to pretend M - Em - was her full name. Not for anything would she tell him she'd been cursed with the handle Moonshadow Mist McCallister.

Yep. As much as she hated to admit it, her parents were hippies. And by the time she and Summer had been born, they'd sucked back a few too many doobies and fried too many brain cells. At least Summer - Summer Sunshine, actually - could use her first name. But Moonshadow? It made her want to yak.

"All right. If you insist. But I don't tell just anybody my name. Since you're...ah, my nephew - yeah, that's it, I'll tell you. M is short for Em. Call me Em if you must. I'll even answer to it."

She noticed he'd developed an interesting twitch over his left eye. Uptight weirdo with no sense of humour. This just kept getting better. She was relieved that despite his astounding good looks he was the type that left her cold. Her crossed legs, and everything in between, were safe.

"I am not your nephew. Look, I don't know what you're up to, but if you really are Summer's sister, I'm sorry to have to tell you she's dead."