Page 22 of Hush Money

One of those heavy brows shoots up. “Of course. We’re not heathens.”

We laugh together. It feels wonderfully normal. Except for the part about not punctuating the laugh with a kiss. That feels like amputating one of my arms.

I clear my throat, my cheeks heating. “So am I looking at the original treehouse, or have you made upgrades?”

“There have definitely been upgrades.” He pops the cork and pours. “The original treehouse was a bit more rustic.”

“Yeah? How long has it been here?”

“Let’s see,” he says, now pouring himself a scotch. “Twenty years, I guess. I’d seen a TV show about do-it-yourself projects. I mentioned it to my dad. I thought we could do it together. But the next weekend, Roman and I came home from visiting our grandparents in Connecticut and here it was.”

My jaw hits the floor. “You’re joking, right?” I watch as he comes over, hands me my fizzing flute and sits next to me. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I take a leisurely sip and feel myself relax another thirty percent. “An overnight treehouse, eh? That kind of took the sails out of your do-it-yourself project, didn’t it?”

He laughs and takes his own sip. “It did.”

“You Winter men have a long history of waving magic wands and getting stuff done, don’t you?” I think about how he engineered a weeklong series of private tours at every port of call for Mrs. Hooper so that he and I were free to spend time together alone on our cruise. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

“I don’t know,” he says, stretching out and propping his feet on the coffee table. “I like to call it efficient.”

“If you say so,” I say, laughing. “Were you disappointed you couldn’t do the project with your dad?”

He hesitates, his smile fading. “I was, yeah. I didn’t really expect him to do something like that with me, though. Let’s just say it wasn’t his wheelhouse.”

“I think that may be the first time you’ve ever mentioned your parents to me,” I say gently. By now, I’ve done enough online reading about him to know that they both died years ago. “That’s something we have in common. But I talk about mine, and you never talk about yours.”

He shrugs, a muscle working in his jaw. “It hurts. I miss them.”

“Indeed.” I already regret mentioning it. I hate the quiet desolation on his face and know what it cost Mr. Strong and Silent to admit to a difficult feeling. “They must have been good parents.”

A sad nod. “Indeed.”

“Quick. Think of a happy thought before you let me ruin the evening with my poor selection of conversation topics.”

“A happy thought? Like what?”

“I don’t know. What did you do with your dad as a kid?”

He sips again, taking his time about thinking it over before a smile creeps across his face. “Swim. Sail. Play chess. Ride horses.”

“That sounds amazing. The only animals I saw were at the Brooklyn Zoo. And the subway rats, of course. What about your mother? What did you do with her?”

“Gardening. I can grow a mean orchid.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“I’m dead serious.” Laughing, he points to a ten-foot potted plant in the corner. “I’ve been growing that Monstera for about fifteen years.”

“Well done. You’re quite the renaissance man, aren’t you? And wait till you get to teach all that cool stuff to your own kids. They’re going to love it. And you’ll have to make sure to do the work yourself if your kid wants you to build another treehouse or a birdhouse or some such.”

He gets the funniest look on his face, probably because he didn’t expect this kind of inane chatter from me when he’s never said one word about wanting kids.

“Sorry,” I say, my ears burning. “I just picture you as a really good dad.”

His funny look deepens. It’s not so much a frown as it is absolute consternation. I don’t know what it’s about, but I know this entire conversation will dry up soon if I don’t change the subject. “So, anyway.” I clear my throat. “Will you show me the greenhouse sometime so I can grow some plants? I love orchids.”

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