LITMIR.BIZ

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oatmeal because of the huge dinner ahead of them at Clara’s. Paige and Dawn came down together as he was turning off the fire under the oats.

      Through breakfast, Dawn chattered away as usual about the afternoon dinner at Clara’s, about how she and her best friend, Molly D’Abalo, were going to the movies with friends in the evening.

      Dawn was a great kid. Not an ounce of bitterness in her, though she’d lost her mom and dad suddenly when she was only ten. Erica and Jerry Kettleman had been buried in an avalanche while off on a twenty-fifth anniversary skiing trip. Paige had come home from college to take care of her little sister. Together, they’d made it work. And now, at eighteen, Dawn had boundless enthusiasm and a smile for everyone. She was an A student and first chair clarinet with her high school band.

      Babbling away happily between bites, Dawn inhaled her oatmeal. Once her bowl was empty, she jumped up, carried it to the sink, ran water in it and rushed off upstairs to get dressed.

      Carter turned to Paige, who wore her heavy plaid robe, with her brown hair loose and uncombed on her shoulders. Her eyes looked kind of puffy. She’d hardly said a word since she came downstairs. “You okay?”

      She blinked and seemed to shake herself. “Uh. Fine.”

      “Sure?”

      “Positive.”

      He couldn’t really get a read on her, couldn’t decide whether he ought to keep pushing her to tell him what was going on with her or let it go. It was odd. As a rule, he never had to push her to tell him if she had a problem. She always came right out with it and asked his advice.

      Okay, so maybe this time she needed a little encouragement. He was just about to try that when she jumped up. “Thanks for the breakfast, Carter. You’re the best.”

      “Gotta keep my girls fed.” He watched her bustle to the sink, rinse out her bowl and bend to stick it in the dishwasher.

      “Well.” She shut the dishwasher door and straightened. “Better get after it. The day’s not getting any younger. Leave everything. I mean it. I’ll clean up.”

      “Will do.”

      “Quarter of three?”

      “I’ll be here.”

      And then she darted to the door and took off down the hall.

      He didn’t get it. They always spent a few minutes together in the morning after Dawn went back upstairs. But today—and for the past couple of days, now that he thought about it—Paige couldn’t get away fast enough.

      Her rush to leave the kitchen right after breakfast hadn’t bothered him much yesterday or the day before. Today, though, he’d really wanted to tell her about the weird call from his mother. He wanted to get her take on Willow suddenly asking him to come to the Bravo Mansion and have a drink with her, alone.

      But so much for wanting Paige’s input.

      “So, okay, then,” he said to the dogs, because there was no one else there to hear him. He rose. “Come on, Sally. Time to go.”

      * * *

      Built less than forty years ago on top of a hill at the west end of Grandview Drive, the Bravo Mansion seemed a product of a much earlier age. Georgian in style, with big white columns flanking the front door, the mansion bore a striking resemblance to the White House. Let it never be said that Frank Bravo didn’t dream big.

      The housekeeper, Estrella Watson, must have been told to watch for him. Before he was halfway up the front steps, she pulled the wreath-hung door open and gave him a big smile of greeting. “Happy Thanksgiving, Carter.” She reached for a hug.

      He wrapped his arms around her. “Good to see you.” He’d always liked Estrella. She’d been the mansion’s housekeeper for years, from before Sondra died and Carter’s mother moved in. Well into her fifties now, Estrella kept the house and grounds in great shape, hiring and supervising maids, gardeners and repairmen. She lived in, cooking for Willow whenever his mother was at home. She seemed to enjoy her job and treated everyone kindly.

      A jumble of boxes filled the front hall, most of them opened, bright decorations and shiny ornaments spilling out. “It’s a weeklong job, getting the house ready for the holidays,” Estrella explained. “And I’m not preparing Thanksgiving dinner this year, so I thought I might as well get a head start.”

      What for? he couldn’t help wondering. Only she and his mother lived there, and his mother was leaving for California. But Willow liked the mansion just so, whether she stuck around to enjoy it or not. And Estrella had a gleam in her eye, as though nothing pleased her more than decking the halls of the big, empty house.

      She took his coat. “Your mother’s in the library.”

      He thanked her and went on through the formal living room to the large book-lined room behind it, where a fire crackled in the ornate fireplace and the mantel was already done up in swags of green garland studded with shiny ornaments and twinkling lights.

      “Carter.” His mother rose from a silk-covered chair. She looked beautiful as always, in snug black slacks and a fitted green cashmere sweater, her chin-length blond hair combed back from the classic oval of her face.

      He kissed the smooth, pale cheek she offered. “Ma. How are you?”

      She fiddled with the diamond stud in her left ear. “Perfect. Thank you. How about a martini?”

      He looked at her patiently. “Got a beer?”

      She sighed. “Of course.” She had a longneck waiting in an ice bucket on the fancy mirrored drink cart, right next to the Bombay Sapphire and the Vya vermouth. She also had a chilled glass for him.

      “Just give me the bottle.”

      Another sigh. His mother had been born with nothing. Her own mother ran off when she was three weeks old and Willow grew up in a double-wide, just her and her father. Gene Mooney, deceased before Carter was born, had had trouble holding a job and drank too much. It probably wasn’t all that surprising that, over the years, Willow had developed a passion for elegance and gracious living. The way Willow saw it, if a man insisted on drinking beer, he should at least use a glass.

      Too bad. Carter took the beer, sat in the chair across from hers and watched as she skillfully whipped up her martini—stirred, not shaken.

      Willow took her seat again and raised her glass. “To happiness.”

      Happiness? His mother had never struck him as a person who put a lot of store in happiness. She’d wanted Frank Bravo and the good life he provided for her. And she’d fought tooth and nail to get both.

      But hey. She was getting older. Maybe she missed the happiness that had never seemed all that important to her while Carter was growing up.

      “Happiness it is.” He lifted his bottle in answer to her toast and resisted the urge to come right out and ask her why she’d summoned him here. It wouldn’t kill him to try a little friendly conversation. “So, what’s happening in Palm Springs?”

      “The usual. Shopping. Spa time. And the weather is lovely there now.”

      “Well. Have a great time.”

      “I will, darling.”

      Ho-kay. So much for cordial conversation. He took one more stab at it. “We’ll miss you at Clara’s.”

      She smiled her cool smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”

      Annoyance gnawed at him. His half siblings had made it more than clear that they wanted to forgive and forget. Her decades-long love triangle was seriously old news. “You’re wrong. We will miss you.” He took care to say it gently. “And I think you know that.”

      She sipped her drink. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about dinner at Clara’s.”

      “Well, all right. What’s going on?”

      Willow

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