Dillon’s response was interesting. He studied the two photographs in silence, holding to a faint smile, nodding to something that remained unspoken. Olivia had the distinct impression her work confirmed a secret he had not shared, at least with her. But as she started to ask what he was thinking, Porter walked up. The chief wore police rain gear, which seemed to double his girth.
“I keep hoping the words are going to come to me,” Porter said. “Find some way to say what I’m thinking.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
He nodded and fumbled with his cap. “This will go a long way to healing our Christmas.”
“I’m glad.” She touched the border of their daughter’s portrait. “If you like, I can go ahead and have these framed.”
“That would be great. You just do what you think works best.” He touched the same point where her own fingers had been. “I’m not going to talk payment. Not now.”
Olivia wished there was a way to make them a gift. A gesture of thanks for all he had done to ease her reentry. If only. In the end, she just nodded.
Dillon waited for the chief to depart, then told her, “Time for round two.”
* * *
As soon as she and Dillon entered the chief’s office, Bailey started before the door was even shut. “I have been placed in an enormously uncomfortable situation.”
“You already said that,” Olivia pointed out.
“When was that?”
“This morning. When you asked for this meeting.”
“Well, it’s true.” She stepped to Porter’s desk, rearranged a couple of items, stepped away. “Berto’s wife is head of the town council and effectively my boss. At least on paper. She is also my biggest advocate. I’ve never needed her help more than now. This is the first time she’s ever asked me for anything.”
Olivia offered Dillon a slow and emphatic nod. He smiled in understanding, and took the lead. “It’s okay.”
“I was addressing Olivia.”
Olivia replied, “Dillon speaks for me today.” The mayor protested, “Olivia . . .”
“That’s how it needs to be.”
Bailey pondered the floor by her feet. “This just keeps getting worse by the minute.”
Dillon drew four chairs into the center of the room. “Bailey, please come sit down.”
“No.”
“We know what Berto wants. This conversation is happening at the right time.” Dillon waited until both women were seated, then continued. “Berto has been after me as well. He can’t make it happen like he wants unless . . .” Dillon spotted the builder through the door’s glass panel. “Here he comes now.”
For such a big man, Berto Acosta carried himself with remarkable grace. His gestures were measured, his voice gentle, his expression sincere. This was a gentleman accustomed to discussing multimillion-dollar homes with people who could afford them. But he was also a builder, with hands large as skillets and a manner that demanded respect.
Soon as Berto was seated, he began almost the identical spiel to what Olivia had heard in LA. Berto sketched out his idea for Olivia’s nearly three-acre property. Four buildings of three stories each, two condos per floor, a total of twenty-four residences framed by sculpted gardens, pool, gym, underground parking. The longer he spoke, the more excited he became. He paused then, and his expression turned somber. “Have you visited your former home?”
Dillon spoke for the first time. “Let’s set that aside for the moment.”
Acosta showed a theatrical surprise, as if he had not noticed Dillon’s presence until that moment. “And who exactly am I addressing?”
Olivia replied, “Dillon speaks for me.”
“Does he.” Berto straightened in his chair. He did not appear the least bit upset. Instead, there was a new light in his dark gaze. A spark of heightened interest. He told Dillon, “Your grandfather was the finest stonemason and bricklayer I ever met.”
“And you were the only builder who could bring him out of retirement,” Dillon said.
“That’s right. I did.”
