Page 78 of Blind Prophet

“No. I’d say he’s...mid-sixties? Met my dad in New York. They bonded over chess—both grandmasters. Now they play checkers.” I navigate the cart around the winding path. “Geoffrey’s not only a friend. His investment picks outperform the top funds every single year. That’s why Dad trusts him.”

A light dusting of snow covers the trail, but the tires easily roll through the virgin layer.

“Why the questions about Geoffrey?”

“He wears a suit to visit your father?”

“If he didn’t, Dad might not recognize him. Besides, old habits die hard. Especially with their generation.”

She slips her thumbnail between her teeth, thoughtful.

“What is it?”

Is she still on Geoffrey, or is she thinking about what I said back there? Does anything I say make a difference?

I pull into a garage bay and park.

“You stood up for me.”

“Always.” But even as I say it, I know that in the past, I didn’t do it enough. Or I didn’t do it well.

CHAPTER18

CAROLINE

“Always.”

The absence of truth in that one word echoes through my chest cavity.

The garage wall blurs as I’m swept back to the decisive day I stood in the dining room of our Manhattan townhome—wasted square footage—decorated by a designer his father insisted we use.

You might need to entertain, and you need to make the right impression.

Those had been his father’s words, uttered on one of his first visits to our home when we first moved in together, but before we’d married.

The big rumor at the time had been that I was pregnant, and that’s why Dorian proposed. I wanted to laugh it off like Dorian had, but I began to check my profile in the mirror before leaving the house, looking for any hint that might be misconstrued as a baby bump.

When Halston came to visit, I attempted to assure him, but he threw a hand up in the air, insisting it was fine. He believed the lie, I think, even though I made it a point to always order an alcoholic drink when dining with him, even at lunch. He didn’t seem to care about my pregnancy status, as long as we complied with his wishes.

In retrospect, Halston’s insistence on a formal dining room was one of many warnings I ignored. Dutifully, after our wedding, we decorated the dining room and entry to ensure we could entertain business associates. We never used that dining room. Not once. Halston’s generation may have required entertaining at home to rise in the ranks, but our generation met in restaurants. Or at least, Dorian scheduled his social business arrangements in restaurants or clubs.

Your prenup is ironclad, right?

The question I overheard while staring at the pretentious foyer chandelier rings through my mind. My throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. I waited, en route to the kitchen to fetch their drinks, to hear Dorian’s response. The two men were across the hall in our small den.

His father had observed a disagreement. We didn’t yell, but it was tense. Dorian asked me to reschedule his dinner plans to accommodate his father, treating me like an assistant. It hit me wrong, and I responded with a sarcastic,“As you wish, dear.”

Dorian picked up on it, rolled his eyes, and said,“Don’t start.”He glowered, and the unspokengo get us drinks nowhung in the air. It was a side of Dorian that his father brought out. But at that point, I was suffocating. I’d been isolated too long, made to feel like my purpose was to assist Dorian, that what I wanted and who I was didn’t matter.

Years later, a therapist helped me understand I’d been experiencing many of the symptoms of depression. Perhaps I was depressed, but I believe I was mourning our marriage and the man I fell in love with, because that man… he disappeared.

The sense of being reprimanded clings to me, the sensations of that moment wrapping around me with the full force of reliving a moment with all five senses. The sharp sting of air conditioning through crisp linen, the lingering pine scent from the polished floors, cleaned earlier in the day in preparation for dinner with Halston, the cloying sense of the walls and ceiling coming in around me, closing me into a self-made prison.

I wanted Dorian to stand up for me, for us. I needed him to tell his father that comment was uncalled for and that our young marriage was strong. I needed his response to soothe my worries that we might be facing the end of a marriage that had just begun.

Yes.

That was the one-word response he gave his father. If I close my eyes, I can hear his gravelly voice.

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