I sighed. “Not much good news here either. Do you know anything about a merger?”
“A what?”
I felt horrible the minute I said it. “It’s nothing really. Sunny is getting together, I mean— merging our office with Dale Wolf Brokerage.”
“Why does that name sound familiar? Wait, is Dale Wolf the handsome man who was holding you close during those televised interviews after that accident at The Nest? He’ll be your broker?” Did I sense some personal concern in Tristan’s answer? Ah!
“Yes, that’s him...” I let my voice trail, but I just couldn’t fake it. “He’s a nice man, and he’s married,” I added, totally forgetting how touchy and unsettling the word married was between Tristan and me. Then I remembered the gray-haired woman. Shoot, I’d left the ripped business card in my car. I had to say something. “Tristan...” I hesitated.
“Yes? What is it? Sweetie, if you don’t want to work for the new company, you don’t have to. Right?”
“What? You sound just like Kassandra. No, it’s not that, it’s... I had to go to your house today.”
“You did? Why? Is everything okay?” A pause. “Tache is at the ranch.” His first thought was for his horse? Sort of sweet. “Angelique asked me to go pick up the mail. She was concerned the mailbox was full. Anyway, I was only there maybe five minutes, and this woman comes ringing the doorbell and wants to talk to you.”
“While you were there? What are the chances?” He laughed softly. “What did she look like?” Now I understood. He assumed I was jealous?
“Huh, old. I mean, older, gray hair, a little taller than me. She didn’t tell me her name, and there was such a sense of sadness about her, coming from inside... like, sadness spilling over, yes, that way. She said she wanted to see Tristan Dumont. Then she asked if Angelique was home and if I was Angelique’s assistant.”
“She’s probably an old friend of Angelique’s. Don’t worry about it. You can call her down at the ranch.”
“The sad woman didn’t leave her name. She scribbled a phone number on the back of my business card, and—” I choked on my own words. What was wrong with me? “Tristan’s father.” There, I said it.
“What about my father?” His voice a mix of curiosity and sadness.
“I don’t know, that’s what she wrote. I forgot the card in the car. Should I go get it?”
“No, it can’t be that important if she didn’t even tell you her name. Besides, she may be an old friend of dad’s. Who knows?”
Then his voice morphed, smooth and sweet, like butterscotch frosting on red velvet cake. “Do you miss me as much as I miss you?” Something about his intimate, luscious tone sent shivers down my spine. If only we could touch. We had never really kissed like lovers do; still, I felt loved in a way I had never experienced before, not with any man. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “It’s already tomorrow here, but I hope to get things settled within the next twenty-four hours and catch a flight home. I miss you and the Arizona sunshine. And everything that’s part of you. I want to hold you and let the world know how much I love you.”
I kept quiet, afraid to talk, afraid of my own emotions. My good night to the love of my life sounded more like a whimper than the deafening cry of overflowing desire I had been holding inside since we first met.
Another wasted evening. After talking to Tristan I ended up thinking of all the things I hadn’t said to him. And now I brushed away the crumbs, all that remained of my miserable improvised grilled cheese dinner that had landed in the folds of my chenille robe. Brenda had no idea how much I missed her, and Dior, and of course, the food. But my glass of wine was the same as Brenda’s, chilled pinot grigio. What a combination, cold wine and burning tongue thanks to the melted cheese. Yeah, a gourmet meal it wasn’t. But I considered Tristan’s call the most delicious dessert. I stretched and yawned, waiting for sleep to come.
In front of me, flashes of light and darkness cavorted in a silent dance on my television screen. I had muted the sound at the end of the local ten o’clock news. Now the shadows leaped from the screen to the framed pictures on my night table, the spot Tommy, my ex, had named the graveyard because back while we were still married, most of the framed photos had been of my dead relatives. All that had changed.
Okay, the dead were still dead, but my favorite silver frame showcased a lovely picture of a young Tristan with his first horse on a grassy field with tall trees in the background. And next to it, I placed the miniature pink Fiat 500 all shiny and pretty, the last Christmas tree ornament waiting to be stored away. It made me happy to look at it.
With the real Fiat now sitting in a dark, cold repair
