Page 10

Years ago, I finally called a lawyer, determined to put this episode of my life behind me, only to find out his firm couldn’t take my case because of a conflict of interest with one of Dorian’s companies.

I called two more firms and gave up. Told myself I’d wait for the divorce agreement his lawyers drafted, and then I’d find an attorney. The agreement never arrived.

His phone lights up on the dash. In silence, he reads the screen and exhales.

“Let’s get that coffee. I’ll get you situated, then I’ve got to take this.”

Of course, he must handle the business matter.

That’s fine. That’s what I hoped. Expected. I’ll have plenty of time to scope out the property.

“I'll get you set up in a guest room. There’s a swimming pool, a steam room, a sauna, the trails, a theater…an office if you’d like.”

“How’s your father?” Assuming any real conversation will be postponed until after he’s handled his business, it’s best to proceed with cordial conversation.

He exits the golf cart and lifts my suitcase from the seat.

I get out, and he gestures with his arm to a narrow stone path.

My suitcase scratches the ground when it twists in his hand.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters.

I follow behind him along the path. The opening past the trees reveals a modern framed structure with open glass exposures.

It’s not at all what I remember. “Did you rebuild?”

“My father’s still in the main house.”

“Is that far?”

“Not by car. About a twenty-minute walk.” We’d seen multiple buildings on the satellite view, and I assumed they were guest cottages or housing for staff. I suppose it makes sense that he didn’t want to live with his father.

“And he’s doing well?” I ask, repeating my earlier question.

A squirrel up ahead pauses, stares us down, and darts up a tree.

“He’s fine.”

Relations between Dorian and his father were always strained. He opens the door, and I forget all about his father.

Floor-to-ceiling windows open into the woods, giving the sense of being outdoors. Leather furnishings, fur throws, and deep browns infuse the open space with warmth. I bet when it snows, this is stunning.

“Dorian, this is gorgeous.”

“It’s not as big as my father’s place, but…”

“That house could double as a hotel.” No one needs a place that massive.

“How are your parents?”

There’s a Pinterest-worthy open kitchen that faces into the great room, and I take a moment to appreciate the Viking refrigerator and range and the dark green cabinetry and exquisite wood island.

“This is truly beautiful.”

“Your parents?” he repeats.

“Fine,” I say, repeating his word, but the short answer feels unnecessarily cold. “Still working.”

“Really? Aren’t they, what? In their mid-sixties?”

“My father loves his job. They’re debating what’s next. I think once they have a plan, they’ll retire. Mom loves her job, too.”

“Teaching?”

“No, she retired from teaching; she’s a part-time librarian. She loves it. Like really loves it.”

“Will they stay in Connecticut?”

“That’s the debate.”

“Ah. Are they considering moving to California to be closer to you?”

“No.” I stare out the windows to the side of the house, taking in his breathtaking view of the mountains.

“The debate is between Florida, Arizona, or another country. What about your father? Does he spend his time here or in one of his tropical locations? He’s in his nineties now, right?

” Our sources claim his father lives here, but knowing how many properties he owns, it’s difficult to fathom he doesn’t travel to warm locales.

“Ninety-two. But he likes it here.”

Halston Moore was fifty-two when Dorian was born. When his mother divorced his father, she left him behind to be raised by an absent father and a nanny.

“How’s Gloria?”

“She’s good.” His face softens, and he exhales, shaking his head like he’s waking up. He enters the kitchen and pulls out a drawer of pods. “What kind of coffee do you want? Or tea? I have that, too.”

I step up and review his selection, seeking a decaf tea option.

“What’s she up to these days?” Gloria is, in my opinion, the parent who actually raised Dorian.

“She prefers California. She oversees the Montecito property.” I eye him curiously. I would’ve thought she’d want to be near him. “She has one son in LA and a daughter outside of San Francisco.”

“Ah. Perfect location.”

“It is. And I spend a fair amount of time there.”

I skim the drawer. I only agreed to coffee to talk with him, and he’s about to dismiss me.

“You know, I think I’ll take water. I’m dehydrated from the flight. If you need to get to business, I’ll be fine.”

“Right.”

Once again, he squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head quickly, like he’s waking up.

“Are you okay?”

“Didn’t sleep well last night,” he says. “Here, let me show you the guest room. Make yourself at home. I won’t work late.”

That’s something I’ve heard before.

“I promise.”

A younger me would’ve expressed incredulity at his statement, but today, it doesn’t matter if he hides in his office. The longer he’s away, the longer I can explore. Tonight, once he’s asleep, I’ll pop into his office.

Before I leave tomorrow, I’ll ask that he sign the divorce agreement so that I return to California to assist with issues of far more importance.

Dorian leads me to a stylish guest suite that’s close to the kitchen and great room. I assume the primary suite is upstairs.

Out the window, I spy a covered, windowed pathway that leads to another building.

“What’s that?”

“My home office,” he answers.

“Ah.”

Connected by a glass breezeway, it’s stunning architecture.

“Do you need anything?”

“I’m good,” I say, forcing a false brightness.

“Feel free to roam. The temperature might drop, but you can use any of the coats hanging in the entry near the garage. If you need shoes, there are muck boots and snow boots. I’m told it’s well stocked. You should be able to find whatever you need."

“Do you still have the library?”

“In the main house?” he asks.

“I always loved that room.”

“I’ll take you there after dinner,” he says. “It’s best if you don’t visit the mountain house without me.”

That’s curious. But I suppose it makes sense. His father probably has a full staff who wouldn’t recognize me.

“I need to go.” He withdraws his phone from his sports jacket. The screen, as always, is lit.“Make yourself at home.”

I stand by the window, watching until he strides through the glass breezeway, phone held in front, speaking into it. He might be dictating, or he might be speaking to someone. But he’s no longer in this section of the house.

I dial Sophia.

“I landed safely,” I say, purposefully nondescript on the off-chance I might be overheard. We didn’t come across any staff, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t on-site.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes.”

“How’d it go?”

“Fine. He’s working from home today. I’ll stay here tonight and return to Denver in the morning.”

“Was he surprised to see you?”

I reflect on his reaction. “Honestly, I think he expected it.”

“Be careful,” Sophia says.

I understand her concern, but I believe he expected me for reasons entirely unrelated to our plans. After all, we’ve both put this off for far too long.

“What’re your plans?”

“I’m going to explore.”

“Be careful,” she reiterates.

I understand they believe Dorian is dangerous, but they’re wrong. He’s closed off, uncommunicative, and ambitious, but at his heart, he’s a good person. We weren’t a good match, but he’s not evil or dangerous.

I step into the en suite bathroom, change into jeans, running shoes, and a lightweight sweater, grab my phone and the water bottle Dorian gave me, and head off to explore.