“Twice,” Dillon added.
Berto smiled. “Can’t say I ever learned to appreciate his wine.”
“Did you drink it?”
“Not unless he was watching me.” He straightened the crease to his trousers. “You were in banking, yes?”
“Close. Securities and investment.”
“Of course. Your grandmother told me.”
“When you pitched your development project to my grandparents.”
Another smile, the motion almost theatrical. “I did indeed.”
“Twice.”
“Actually, it was three times,” Berto replied. “But who’s counting.”
Dillon continued, “Let’s say we agree.”
Berto’s response was to go completely still.
“What if we both say yes,” Dillon repeated. “Now. Today.”
“Both of you?”
“We’re talking hypothetical at this point,” Dillon replied. “But yes. All nine and a half acres.”
“But . . . Your grandfather swore I’d never build on his land.”
“That’s right. He did. But my grandmother thought your plan was a good one. And the last time I came home, she gave me her blessing to do with the land as I saw fit. Once they were both gone. Which they are.”
The builder opened his mouth, but no sound came.
“A combined property totaling nine and a half acres,” Dillon repeated. “Zoned for multiple-family construction because you made it happen.”
The chair squeaked a mild protest as Berto straightened. “You’ve obviously come with something in mind.”
“That’s right. I have.”
Berto was all business. “Why don’t you go ahead and lay it out.”
“Joined together you have the largest elevated plot in the central coast zoned for multiple families. That has to be worth—”
“It is my turn to interrupt,” Berto said. “Your pitch is unnecessary. I know the potential.”
“Extend my grandad’s retainer wall to protect Olivia’s acreage from any future storm,” Dillon went on, calm as ever. “Level the vineyard, and you’re ready to build.”
“I’m waiting.”
Olivia’s sense of distance remained with her still. She was able to view their discussion not as a pending loss, but rather as a fencing match. The two men knew their positions and their steps. They circled and watched and prepared. And despite the fact they were discussing the final demolition of her childhood home, Olivia’s calm was maintained.
The change in Dillon was so sharply focused here, Olivia felt as if she could almost photograph the man’s invisible elements. The Dillon she knew in their early years certainly had the sort of cooly gentle streak she saw on display now. But his view of life was mostly shaped by a constant conflict with the world around him. The younger Dillon had met every day with a latent rage, a burning frustration with the cage that held him. And the young Olivia had known how to release that fury. The memory burned her now, watching Dillon fence with the builder. Her ability to manipulate him into fury had held an almost sexual appeal. At times she had even enjoyed it. Because Dillon had raged for her.
“Two penthouse apartments,” Dillon said. “One for each of us. Which I’m guessing will be more or less the value of that land in its current state.”
Berto offered a thoughtful, “That is certainly worth considering.”
