I considered ignoring it. Didn’t.
“Cole,” she said without greeting. “You missed the Preston dinner.”
“I had work.”
“You always have work.”
I didn’t answer that.
A pause. Controlled. Measured. “Evelyn asked after you,” she continued. “Amelia will be in Chicago next month. I told them you would make time.”
“That was optimistic.”
“Cole.” Her tone sharpened. “You’ve been absent. Distracted. You can’t afford rumors about instability at the top.”
“Dating someone doesn’t create instability.”
Silence.
Then, carefully: “Are you seeing someone?”
I thought about Morgan. “I am.”
“Is she or he appropriate?” And there it was. My parents had never had a problem with my bisexuality, but I never failed to notice it was mostly women they wanted me to meet. All the better for creating the next generation without too much fuss, I guessed.
I watched snow slide off the roof of Guardian Hall. “He’s real,” I said finally.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Then softer, and somehow worse, “Just be careful, Cole. People will assume motives.”
“I won’t let them.”
“I know you won’t, sweetheart, and remember, your father and I just want you to be happy.”
Happily married to someone suitable, I corrected but didn’t say that out loud.
I’d arrived just before lunch, crunching down the shoveled path to the front door. Marcus answered, the blast of warm air from inside hitting me like a wall. “Cole,” he said, letting me in with that calm tone that always made me feel like I was being assessed.
“Swing set,” I announced, way too loudly. He blinked at me. “Alex said you want to purchase a swing set.” A beat. “For the garden.”
“Oh yeah, we thought with the visiting kids it was a good idea, but you didn’t need to come here to talk about it if you?—”
“I absolutely did,” I said, already flustered, which only made it worse. “I need to um… look at the site. Approve the—uh—structural suitability.”
Marcus nodded thoughtfully, but I saw his lips twitch as if he were holding back a grin. “Morgan is in group right now.”
“I’m not here to see Morgan,” I lied. Badly. “I’m here to examine the site of the swing set.”
“Sure,” Marcus said, absolutely unconvinced, and gestured down the hall. “This way.”
He led me through the family area and keyed in the code to the kitchen door. The lock clicked, and we stepped inside.
“There,” he said, pointing straight ahead.
I followed his finger to the patio doors… and the six-foot snow drift pressed against them like a frozen tidal wave.
