I kill the engine and sit for a second, both hands on the wheel, letting the day burn off in the silence. Court days drag something out of me. Cross-examination is a bitch sometimes, and it can follow you home.
The house sits back from the street, tucked behind live oaks and glass. Modern lines, two levels, not a museum. Concrete and cedar, big panes that catch the last light from the bay. The architect wanted drama; I asked for restraint. We met in the middle. Clean lines, warm materials, nothing that screams for attention. Inside is better than outside. That was the agreement from the start.
I step out, pocket my keys, and the side path lights come on at half-bright. The front door recognizes my code with a soft beep. I don’t like obvious security, but I like surprises even less. Sensors in the casements, heavy pins in the sliders, laminated glass. You wouldn’t know it unless you tried to put a shoulder through a panel. Then you’d learn.
The entry opens to a long view: foyer with a console and a walnut bowl for keys, a runner on Brazilian hardwood that leads toward the living room, and the wall of glass beyond. The bay is a sheet of pewter tonight in the deepening sky.
The house smells like lemon oil and clean fabric. The vetted service was here yesterday; I keep the schedule regular so the house doesn’t get that stale, unused feel.
The staff and cleaning crew have strict rules on which rooms they can and can’t go into. Internal security alerts me if they break those rules.
I drop the suit jacket on the hook, loosen the tie, and slide my shoes off. I keep a pair of house shoes by the door; leather, broken in. The relief is immediate.
No voices. No music. No TV. Good.
I move through the house the way I always do: a quiet sweep, not because I need to, but because I like the ritual. Living room first. It’s large without being grand. Built-in shelves flank a limestone hearth that I turn on in winter, more for company than heat.
The furniture is simple. A long sofa, two chairs that face the view, and swivel so I can turn towardthe fire if I want to. The rug is a vintage Persian that someone took good care of before I bought it. It warms the room without turning it fussy.
On the shelves, there’s order. Law books I actually read, not the fake spines that decorators like. Case reporters, bound opinions, a run of New Jersey Practice with pencil tabs left from litigation I won three years ago.
A few jazz records because I do play them, even if not often. A photograph in a small frame—black and white, dock pilings, fog. That’s it. No clutter. No photos of me shaking hands with anyone. The people who need to know already know.
Kitchen next. The heart of the house by layout and tradition. Open to the living room, separated by an island of dark stone with a waterfall edge and a line of bar stools that never look disturbed. It’s a cook’s kitchen because I cook. Not every night, but enough.
The pantry keeps the Italian essentials: good olive oil, sea salt, San Marzano tomatoes, dried pasta, tuna packed in oil, beans. The fridge holds cold water, eggs, greens, a lemon, a piece of Parm wrapped in paper, and a bottle of Barolo that’s been open two days. I prefer it like this. Minimal, but not cold.
I almost press the button on the espresso machine out of habit before I stop myself. No late night tonight. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for that or not.
I open the faucet and drink a full glass of water standing at the sink. The bay pulls the last light of the day into it. A pair of runners moves along the path near the reeds, heads downagainst the wind. They can’t see in. The glass looks flat from out there.
I finish the sweep through the ground floor. My study is all dark wood with a grand desk. There are files waiting in a neat stack. I consider diving into them, but the day was long enough, and tomorrow has its own work.
I take the stairs, slowly, feeling the pull in my legs that says I’ll need to stretch later. Upstairs is private, just the way I like it. The primary suite runs along the back of the house. The bed is simple: a low frame, good mattress, linen sheets, a throw at the foot because I don’t like a heavy duvet. Two nightstands. One holds a lamp and a book with a ribbon in it. The other holds nothing. I sleep on the left. I have for as long as I can remember.
The room is utterly silent. There are no clothes on the chair. No hair ties on the nightstand. No scent in the air but cedar from the closet and the faintest hint of the lemon oil the cleaners use on wood. I built it this way. I keep it this way. It has nothing to do with hospitality and everything to do with control.
I cross to the glass and look out. Boats dot the bay. A single one moves, cutting a line toward the inlet, a white wake that fades fast. The house closest to mine sits a distance away. It’s lower with low lights. A neighbor who keeps to himself. That was a requirement when I bought the lot. Privacy matters. Quiet matters.
In the walk-in closet, shirts hang in a row: white, blue, a few pale gray. Suits on their own line, evenly spaced. Ties rolled,belts hung. Shoes in boxes, labeled. Nothing new unless I can justify to myself why I need it.
The shower wakes the muscles in my back and shoulders. Courtroom chairs punish posture; the memory of a half hour on the bench in the anteroom lingers across my lower back.
The water hammers it loose. I stand under it a minute longer, then cut it off and take the towel off the bar, roughing my hair dry. I shave with the straight razor because I like the ritual. Olive oil in the sink, hot water, steady hand. No nicks. I could do it with my eyes closed.
In the mirror, I see what I always see. A man who looks like he takes care of himself. Clear eyes, a jaw that needed the shave it just got, a line between the brows that used to smooth when she—
No. Not right now. I wash the razor, dry it, put it back in its place.
Downstairs again, barefoot now against the cool floor. I open the fridge and pull the eggs, the greens, and the cheese. I crack two eggs into a bowl, salt them, and whisk with a fork.
The skillet goes on, a slick of oil. I cook without thinking about it: eggs soft, greens barely wilted, a scrape of Parm. I eat standing at the counter, fork in hand. I don’t drink the Barolo. I pour a small glass of water again and set the rest aside.
Everything rinsed, wiped, and set to dry. I keep the kitchen clean even when no one else is around. It’s for me.
I take a short glass of Jameson to the living room and sit in the swivel chair facing the glass. The light is gone now, the bay black and wide. A few red and green pinpricks from boats, a smear of light from the marina to the south. In winter, the air blows hard against the windows. It calms me. Tonight the wind is low.
My phone buzzes on the console. I glance at the screen. A text from Luca: Good in court? A picture under it of Elena holding Alessandra, both of them asleep on the sofa. I look at the picture for a moment, the ache coming swiftly.
