Page 9 of Sunburned

“I work for a company that manages many houses. His is one of them.” He made a hairpin turn off the main road, down a steep one-way street that hugged the side of the mountain. “I handle his house when he is in town because I understand his needs.”

“Which are?”

He flashed a smile. “Many.”

“Sorry,” I returned. “I just don’t know what to expect. It’s been a while since I last saw him.”

“Yes,” he said. “He told me.”

“What else did he tell you?”

He pulled through a modern wooden gate emblazoned withLE RÊVEin sleek silver capitals and parked the van, turning back to talk to me over the seat. “That I’m to help you with whatever you need.”

I considered him, gauging what I could say. “Did he…say anything else?”

“He’s in a meeting now, but asked to see you in his quarters at seven.”

I nodded. So either Laurent didn’t know why I’d been called here, or he’d been instructed not to share whatever he knew with me. “Who else is here?”

“His wife, Samira, her friend Gisèle, his business partner, Allison, his brother, Cody, and Cody’s girlfriend, Jennifer.”

So, seven people, including Tyson and me, only four of whom I hadn’t met. That wasn’t so bad. And I was glad Cody would be here. No matter what had happened between us, Cody had always been kind to me.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I placed my hat on my head. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Eleven Years Ago, June

“I’m sorry I don’t have better news,” my mother’s doctor said.

The slanted afternoon light through the window caught in Dr. Weisman’s blond bob, illuminating it like a halo.

“Six months,” my mom echoed softly.

Death hovered in the corners of the room as I squeezed her cool hand, forcing back tears. “Is there anything we can do?” I asked.

The doctor’s eyes were full of compassion as she leaned her elbows on her desk. “There is an experimental new treatment—”

“Yes,” I said immediately, glancing at my mom’s gaunt profile.

“Experimental, meaning it hasn’t been proven,” she said carefully, her face solemn. “And it also isn’t covered by insurance.”

“But it could save her?” I asked.

Dr. Weisman shook her head, focusing on my mom. “It might give you more time.”

“A year?” I asked. “Ten years?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s at a hospital in Naples, but I could refer you. They’ll have to determine whether you’re a good candidate.”

“Okay,” I said. I knew my mom was a good candidate; she was only forty-nine, and she’d beat this hellish diagnosis once before. If anexperimental treatment could work for anyone, it could work for her. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” my mom said, patting my hand. “How much does it cost?”

The doctor slid a folder across the desk and I grabbed it, rifling through the pages until I located the printout of the costs on the very last page. My heart sank. “Each treatment is $146,000?” I asked, incredulous.

“I know it’s a lot,” Dr. Weisman said.

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