Lydia hefted her satchel of files. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Stern.’
‘Call me Warren,’ he said. ‘Mr Stern sounds much too formal, don’t you think?’
Warren? Erin wondered when he’d changed it. Tim’s insistence on being called Timothy might all be for nothing.
As Stern turned to usher them in, she caught a glimpse of his profile, and a wave of something akin to déjà vu ran through her. Could they have met before? Not likely, even in passing. It must be Tim’s features she saw in the man’s face. Though there was little of Tim in Stern’s finely cut jaw and clear aqua eyes, a hint of a common genetic heritage was evident.
The smell of freshly baked bread greeted them in the front hall. After herding them into the spacious kitchen, with its black granite countertops and butter-yellow walls, Stern made straight for a chrome espresso maker on the counter.
‘Can I interest you ladies in a cup of coffee?’ He gave the espresso machine an affectionate pat. ‘Retirement gift from my firm.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘I was a Folgers man for thirty-odd years. Vacuum-packed coffee in a can, that’s what I liked. But then we got one of these babies at the office, and I couldn’t believe how good the coffee was. Can you imagine? My whole life I was drinking owl’s piss – ’scuse my French – when I could have been having the real thing.’ He rubbed away a smudge on the chrome. ‘This little machine does everything but shine your shoes. Espresso, cappuccino, latte. What’s your pleasure? Don’t be shy.’ He waggled his fingers above the controls, like a magician poised to pull a rabbit from a hat.
Lydia lowered her satchel to the floor. ‘We stopped for coffee on the drive up, so I’m fine, thank you.’
Erin considered following Lydia’s lead but decided it would be more interesting to play along. ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ she said. ‘A cappuccino.’
‘One cappuccino, coming up.’ As he pushed buttons and pulled levers, the machine steamed and gurgled. When the noise stopped, he bowed with a flourish and handed her a frothy cappuccino in a glass mug. ‘Ms Belmont, may I tempt you with some freshly squeezed orange juice?’
Before Lydia could answer, a woman appeared in the doorway. Erin started. She’d thought the three of them were alone in the house.
As the woman stared at the threesome in the kitchen, her startlingly youthful eyes, the handiwork of a surgeon with questionable skill, were at odds with the rest of her heavily lined face. ‘Sorry to disturb, Mr Stern,’ she said, ‘but I’m on my way out to do the shopping. Is there anything else you’re wanting that’s not on the list?’
He barely glanced at the slip of paper she showed him. ‘Looks fine to me. Thank you, Mrs Gallagher.’
The woman retreated and tapped smartly down the hall. Stern waited until they heard the front door close before showing them into a spacious sitting room, where a fire was lit in the hearth.
‘My housekeeper,’ he said, gesturing for them to sit on the pale suede sofa. ‘Couldn’t keep this place shipshape without her.’ Grasping an iron poker, he prodded the smouldering logs until they burst into flame.
Erin briefly closed her eyes, trying to catch hold of the distant memory triggered by the smell of burning apple wood. A camping trip at the height of summer, before her father died. A cabin in the woods, the crinkle of pine needles.
Over the rim of her glass, she discreetly inspected the room. Polished oak floor, damask drapes, a Persian carpet in pale blue and grey. A distinct absence of family photos or other personal effects. Not terribly surprising, considering Stern’s history. Perhaps Mrs Gallagher was responsible for the décor and believed in a light touch. Somehow, Erin couldn’t picture Stern selecting throw pillows and window treatments from a shop.
A log collapsed into coals, sending up a shower of sparks. Stern sat in the slate-grey wingback chair by the fireplace, while she and Lydia settled on the brushed suede sofa.
‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Dr Cartwright,’ he said, after a lengthy pause. ‘Why would I, after such a terrible tragedy, offer to take in my son? A man most people view, I imagine, as some kind of monster.’ He held Erin’s gaze. ‘Since I’m not one to beat around the bush, allow me to answer your question.’ Stern leaned forward and clasped his hands. ‘Do you believe in God, Dr Cartwright?’
She stiffened, her cappuccino halfway to her lips. His eyes, lit by an inner fire, were fastened on her own. ‘Pardon?’
‘God, Dr Cartwright. The Great Almighty. Divine creator of this marvellous world, of all creatures great and small.’ He swept his hand towards the window, as if the creator himself might be lurking in the garden.
‘I’m not particularly religious.’
‘That’s a pity now, isn’t it?’ His expression turned to one of sorrow. ‘Not that I’m making any judgements, mind.’ He raised his hands, palms out. ‘In fact, I used to be a non-believer myself, as confirmed an atheist as you’d ever find. But then, a few years ago – seven, to be exact,’ he said, pointing his finger at the ceiling, ‘I was awakened one night from a deep sleep and the Almighty appeared before me in a ray of light.’ He looked searchingly into their faces. ‘Ever since that miraculous occurrence, I’ve given myself over to His will.’
Erin cast a sideways glance at Lydia. Ever the professional, her face was impossible to read.
‘And let me tell you what a transformation it was,’ Stern was saying. He stood and approached the window. When he spoke again, his
