Page 25 of Blind Prophet

In this lighting, beneath the shadow of the building, his eyes are so dark they’re nearly pools of black.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I assume you’re not engaged.”

“There’s no one.” I take in his ringless finger one more time and look ahead through the windshield. “But it is time. You know that, right?” He’s muted, expression unreadable, lips a flat line. “I expected papers to come. And months turned into years. Why didn’t you file for divorce?”

It’s the question I’ve attempted to bury. Less than five minutes with him, and we’re tackling the elephant.

Or I am. He rests both hands on the steering wheel, his expression is pained, which makes no sense.

“I’ve seen photos of you with other women. It’s not like?—”

“We’re legally separated.”

Defensive.

“I’m aware. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. But that’s why I asked the question. Why didn’t you have your legal dream team draw up papers?”

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.

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