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A burst of laughter outside pulls my attention back to the window. Miles has somehow convinced Erica to stand, while Wells is pointing toward something near the far side of the lawn with the serious expression he uses when he thinks everyone else is approaching a problem incorrectly.

The sight catches at me. Ross lives in both of them in ways I can't unsee anymore. I see him in the tilt of Wells's head when he's thinking, in Miles's eyebrows when he's amused, and in the pale blue eyes both boys inherited from him. I chose to protect them. I know why I made that choice. That doesn't make every part of it easier.

A knock sounds against the office door before Erica leans in.

"You planning to work through lunch?" she asks.

"No," I reply. "I'm almost done."

"The boys want to go back down to the beach after they eat," Erica says.

"That's fine," I reply. "I only need another few minutes."

Erica nods and disappears back toward the kitchen. I close the laptop, gather the papers into a neat stack, and follow her a moment later.

***

The Pembroke gathering settles into a rhythm quickly. Over the next few days, I move between private collection viewings, small advisory lunches, provenance discussions, and closed-door conversations with collectors considering sales, acquisitions, or long-term estate planning. The scale stays intentionally intimate. Nothing feels like a public fair or oversized conference. Most of the work happens in quiet rooms, around long tables, or inside homes where the collection itself drives the conversation.

That suits me.

By the second day, it is clear the Whitcombe project has traveled farther through the art world than I realized.

A collector from Boston approaches me after a morning viewing and waits until the group around us thins before introducing himself.

“Blaire Wilson?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“I’m Thomas Avery. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about the Whitcombe project.”

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You handled that privately?”

“With a team,” I say. “There were several people involved.”

Thomas nods. “From what I heard, it was handled exceptionally well.”

“Mrs. Whitcombe was happy with the outcome,” I reply.

“That was the goal.”

He glances toward the adjoining room.

“I may have a client with a similarly complicated family situation,” he says. “Different assets, but the same need for discretion.”

“I’d be happy to talk through it.”

Thomas gives me his card. “I’ll have my office reach out.”

“Perfect.”

After that, the pattern becomes difficult to miss. Other advisors and collectors reference the Whitcombe project in passing, ask whether Mercer & Vale handles sensitive transactions outside California, or request introductions for clients who need the same combination of discretion and strategy. I keep my answers careful and brief. I don’t discuss confidential details, and I don’t need to.

The fact that people are asking tells me enough.

At a late afternoon reception on the third day, I’m standing near an open set of French doors with a glass of sparkling water when Margaret Pembroke finds me.