LITMIR.BIZ

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of trouble, he’d have even felt a bit of anticipation at seeing his mother again. Curiosity, at the very least. But there was trouble, he’d known it instantly by the tone of her voice. All she’d had to say was—

      “Trey?”

      She stood at the open door, staring at him. Twelve years had added some lines, but otherwise she looked the same, still trim, still stylish. Still richly, discreetly brunette—Olivia Alexander wasn’t the type to give in to the gray. Except for his father, Olivia had always remained firmly in control of her world. Or maybe not, Lex realized as he kissed her smooth cheek and felt the slight tremble in the hand he held.

      And then she was wrapping her arms around him, hard, in the warmest hug he could ever remember getting from her. “You came,” she murmured. “I wasn’t sure you would. It’s been so long.”

      He hadn’t been sure, either, just found himself on a plane without ever having made a conscious decision. He’d always scoffed at people’s notions of family, at least when it came to his family. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so foolish after all.

      When she stepped away from him, he saw the sheen of tears before she blinked them back.

      “Hey,” he murmured.

      “I thought I’d never see you again,” she said quietly. “Twelve years without a word.”

      “I’m here now.”

      “You’re here now,” she agreed.

      He’d been the one to finally break the silence two years before. Stuck at a godforsaken Somali airfield, flipping through an out-of-date English news magazine, he’d turned the page to see an obit on his father. “The financial world mourns,” the headline had trumpeted.

      Lex hadn’t, not a bit. But he’d spent a long night brooding over a bottle of whiskey and when the day had dawned he’d placed a call to his mother. Granted, three-month-overdue condolences weren’t exactly timely, but better late than never. After that, he’d found himself with a strange compulsion to check in a couple of times a year. The conversations were awkward at times, full of silences during which they both groped for conversation, but he always found himself picking up the phone again.

      And when the time had come, she’d figured out how to find him.

      “Put your bag down and come sit,” she said. “I’ll have Corinne bring us something to drink.”

      It looked different, was his first thought as they walked through the house. Lighter, brighter. There was less of the oppressive heaviness the rooms held in his memories. Perhaps it had been his imagination. Or the shadow of Pierce. “The place looks good,” he said as they walked into the living room, now inviting and airy.

      She hesitated. “I changed a few things after your father passed away.”

      Interesting. Pierce had always insisted that his family home be kept as it had historically been—dark, ponderous furniture, ornate wallpaper, heavy drapes. Left to her own devices, Olivia had recovered the dark walls with pastels, pitched the dark green velvet window hangings of his youth for something softer. Luxurious, sure, and still traditional, but there was an inviting feel to the room, an openness it hadn’t had before.

      “I like it,” Lex said as they walked to the chairs that overlooked the grounds. “You’ve done a nice job.”

      “It was time for something new.”

      Boy, wasn’t that the truth? Too bad the something new involved legal action.

      The maid brought coffee and for a few minutes the conversation was taken up by the safe and easy questions of cream and sugar; no, for him, in both cases. Then the maid bustled away and they settled back, watching one another in the silence.

      “So.” Olivia took a sip of coffee. “How was your flight?”

      He gave a wry smile. “Which one? There were four.”

      “Any. All of them, I guess.”

      “Uneventful. Which is a fine thing in a flight.” Especially the kinds of flights he habitually took. It had taken him days to work his way from the bush to Chilton, just one of the prices he paid for the life he led.

      So different than here. He stared at the grounds outside the window, now covered with a light dusting of snow. “When did you get this?” He nodded at the drifts.

      “A couple of days ago. A nor’easter. I lost two rose bushes. The gardener didn’t get them properly mulched in time.”

      “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

      She blinked. “What?”

      “Maybe they’ll come back in the spring,” he said instead.

      “Perhaps. In the meantime, we’ve got all this snow. I don’t know how much of it will stick, though.”

      “Why, is it supposed to warm up?”

      “For a few days.”

      They both stared out at the snow as though it were the first time they’d seen it. The truth was, they didn’t know how to be with each other after all these years. It was worse than being with a stranger—with a stranger, what he said wouldn’t matter. Here, every word had resonance. The seconds ticked by. The silence stretched to the breaking point. Lex cleared his throat. “This is—”

      “Is your—”

      They stopped. “You first,” Olivia said.

      He nodded at his cup. “Good coffee.”

      “I’m glad you like it.”

      “One of the things they do well where I go is coffee.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t know why you insist on going all these dangerous places.”

      “You can get in worse trouble in some neighborhoods in New York.”

      “I don’t know why a person would go there, either.”

      He resisted the urge to say the obvious. Instead, he cleared his throat. “So how is the DAR?”

      “Fine. We’re working on the Christmas gala. It’s only two weeks away.”

      “A lot to do.”

      “Oh, there is. Flowers, seating charts, music.”

      “Sounds like a lot of meetings.”

      “Always. I’ve had more cups of coffee in the past two weeks than you’d believe.”

      “Coffee can be good.”

      “It can. You always liked it, even when you were young. It’s so strange to have you here,” she blurted.

      Out in the open, he thought. “It’s strange to be here.”

      “You’re a man.” She shook her head. “When you left, you’d barely started shaving.”

      “Once a week, whether I needed to or not,” he said ruefully, brushing his knuckles over his shadowed jaw.

      “I guess time has a way of changing things.”

      “Generally,” he agreed.

      “I’m talking around it, aren’t I?”

      “You’re allowed.”

      “Not when you’ve come all the way from Africa to help me. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know who else to call.”

      “So where do things stand?”

      “I assume you’re referring to Bradley’s legal troubles.”

      “Actually, I’m referring to yours.”

      It took her a moment to reply. “We have an appoint ment tomorrow at two with Frank Burton, to discuss the details.”

      Frank Burton,

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