Page 113 of Share with Me

Chapter Thirty-Six

“You tellEthan Dad wants to talk to him. Go on, Elisa.” A pause. “What do you mean he doesn’t want to? Tell him it’s Dad.”

Brinley stepped into the sunroom. She didn’t smile, didn’t give away what was on her mind. There was no way she could imagine that there could be any truth to Dillon’s accusation. In the two weeks she had been close to Ivan—oh dear, had it only been two weeks?—she didn’t think he could be a thief.

His broken wrist proves it.

Why would any violinist destroy his own career like that?

Dillon shrugged at Brinley. She said nothing. It was sad that Dillon had kids and then couldn’t be with them, for reasons too complex to disassemble.

“Whatever. Tell Ethan Dad loves him. What? Yeah, next week. I’ll pick you up next week.” Dillon nodded into his phone. “Dad loves you too, Elisa.”

He hung up. “I don’t know what Isobel’s been telling the kids. Ethan doesn’t want to speak with me. Not even at Christmas.”

“Growing pains?” Brinley asked, leaning against the doorframe like she usually liked to do.

“Poison is more like it.” Dillon pocketed the phone. On the coffee table was a wine bottle and a glass. He raised the bottle toward Brinley.

“No, thanks,” Brinley said.

“You don’t drink anymore?” He filled half the glass. “You’re getting a little weird, sis. Found religion?”

“I met Jesus and He changed my life.”

Dillon laughed. He got up and stood at the tall windows. It was dusk outside. “This is about Phinn, isn’t it? He drinks too much. You’re reacting to his—shall we say, weakness?”

“Phinn? We broke up. I don’t make decisions based on him.”Anymore.

“I had lunch with him before I flew here.”

“I thought he’s in Courchevel.”

“He’s back in Atlanta. His parents kicked him out of the Alps.”

“For?”

“Overspending. He’s blitzing through his trust fund.”

“I suppose on booze and women.”

“You don’t know that, Brin.” Dillon finished off one glass, then another. “That one’s for you.”

Brinley was unperturbed.

“Phinn wants me to tell you he’s sorry. He has a Christmas present for you. I put it under the tree in the living room. You can open it tomorrow.”

Brinley’s fingers instinctively went to the violin brooch. She touched it, as if to make sure it was still there. “You shouldn’t have brought anything from Phinn. It’s over.”

“He’s a friend.” Dillon pulled out a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. “He’s a very good friend of mine.”

Brinley frowned. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“Dad’s not here. Neither is Mom.” He lit it. “So why not Phinn?”

“You knew we broke up in the summer. He’s history.”

“What’s wrong with him, Brin?”

---