“We drifted. He chose a different life. I chose mine. Last I heard, he’d moved to Tuscany.”
“You never tried to reach him? Write? See him?”
“No.” Cold and flat. “I don’t have time for friendships.”
“Nonsense. You make time. And your brother? Tell me about him.”
“Christopher. Eight years older. He walked away from banking. Lives with his wife on an estate in the Catskills. Quiet life. He takes small jobs from home.”
“Are you close?”
“We are. Different people.”
“Does he have kids?”
“Two. Both at university in New York.”
“Beatrice said you have a sister.”
“Veronika. Artist. Runs a gallery in Paris.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“We write now and then. I visit sometimes.” Saying it felt exposed. Closeness meant surrender. I pushed the spotlight back to her.
“Do you have siblings?”
“No.”
“What’s your mother like?”
“Free spirit. A rancher of sorts. You’ll see. Her boyfriend, Chase, is great.”
“Sounds like the next two days might be interesting.”
We turned onto the long drive. The ranch unfolded: a sprawling wooden house, wide pastures, an old barn, a front garden spilling with color. I parked. Daisy stepped out, breathing the air like she’d been starving for it. I scanned the property. Before I could lock the car, a woman was already striding toward us. No question—her mother.
Her hair shimmered gold and brown, dreadlocks threaded through, catching the sun like liquid amber. A flowing dress clungloose to her frame; bare feet pressed into the earth. Sun-warmed skin. Wheat-brown eyes that radiated a natural warmth.
“Daisy, my darling!” she called, sweeping her daughter into a fierce hug.
“Hi, Mom.”
She turned to me, curious, assessing.
“This is Damian Miller,” Daisy said. “My boss and—”
“Daisy’s boyfriend,” I finished, extending my hand.
“I’m Claire,” she said warmly, taking it. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller.”
Daisy shot me a sharp sidelong glance.
“You never told me you two were together,” her mother said.
A tall man stepped out of the house—bronze skin, long black hair, features carved, eyes soft with welcome.
“Hello, Daisy,” he called, raising a hand. “Be right with you. Folki’s stuck her head in the fence again.”
