Page 54 of Conrad

“It’s beef Wellington night. Garlic potatoes. Homemade bread. Crème brûlée?—”

“Yes.”

She laughed then, and he smiled, and it took the sharp edge off today’s events. The Uber drove them to her house, and she picked up her car and he wedged himself into her passenger seat, and forty-five minutes later, she pulled up to her parents’ lakeside home.

Er, estate.

She entered the code at the gated entrance, drove up the long drive, and seeing him sit up as he took in the house elicited a pride she hadn’t felt in ages.

The house rose, striking under a starry winter sky. It looked like something out of time that always made her pause, consider the generational wealth that had gone before her. The Georgian-Tudor style, with the steep, slate gable roof, gave it a stately aura, and why not?—the entire house spanned over thirty-thousand square feet. Lights arrayed over the front revealed the half-timbering of the exterior, especially along the wing, the rest of the house a herringbone brick. A two-story portico jutted out from the house into the cobblestone driveway, and electric candles flickered in the tall, narrow windows.

“The main house was built in 1887, with the wing added right after World War I. It’s old and beautiful, with tall windows that overlook the lake, and sleeping porches off every bedroom—of which there are eleven—and a great room that my entire house would fit inside. A three-story zinc fireplace and even a third-floor ballroom, sort of like your parents’ inn.

“This is nothing like my parents’ inn,” Conrad said as they pulled up. “But it is gorgeous and reminds me a lot of old money. What does your dad do?”

“Now—he manages our investments. But my great-great-grandfather was in lumber. And then, of course, paper. We’re the Paper Peppers.”

They stopped under the portico and she got out.

Conrad came around. “I feel this might have been a bad idea. I don’t think I shaved today.”

She glanced at him. “You haven’t shaved in ten years.”

“What do you know? I shave every year after the Stanley Cup.”

Felix came out of the building in his usual suited attire, hair freshly cut, a dark expression aimed at Conrad.

“Keys are in the ignition.”

“I’ll park it in the garage, ma’am.” He got in.

Conrad shot him a frown. “Valet?”

“Security. My dad went a little crazy after the kidnapping. I had a bodyguard in college.”

She opened the scrolled-oak door. “Usually we use the side entrance, but . . . it never hurts to show off the entry.”

“Holy cannoli,” he said as he stood in the two-story vaulted entrance. It led straight through to the great room and then beyond, to the solarium.

Yes, it was impressive to the first-timer. On either side, a hallway lined with black brick led to the living areas and the bedrooms respectively. “When I was a kid, I would ride my bike in the hallway. It’s nearly the length of a football field.”

“I feel like shouting or something, seeing if my voice echoes.” He took off his jacket.

A man, blond hair, well-built, always reminded her of a Nordic Viking, walked up. “Ma’am.”

“Geoffrey. This is Conrad Kingston.”

“Yes, ma’am, we know.” He took Conrad’s coat.

Of course they did.

“Thanks,” Conrad said as Geoffrey collected hers as well.

“Ma’am, your family is gathering in the small dining room.” He offered a tiny bow, then moved away to stow the coats in the nearby closet, secreted behind an oak panel.

They walked into the great room. “Okay, when Harper said you were . . . you know . . .rich. . . I thought maybe one of those nice homes on the lake. I didn’t realize it was”—he cast his voice down—“like, own-your-own-country rich.”

“And that is why I don’t tell anyone. Don’t act weird.”

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