Page 58 of Coram House

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sure it wasn’t your best moment, but we’ve all had those.”

He tugs on the strings of his hoodie, looking so uncomfortable that I actually feel better. At least I’m not the only one.

“Look, the last couple days haven’t been great for me either. And this wine is delicious, and I really don’t want you to spend the whole evening apologizing. Can we just—can we consider that part done?”

I can see the relief on his face. “Deal.”

“So how long have you lived here?”

I don’t know if it’s the wine or the setting, but everything about this place feels unreal.

He shrugs. “On and off for a couple years. It took two years to build the house, so I’d come back and forth from San Francisco to check on things. I meant it to be more of a retreat, but after the IPO flopped, things got kind of messy.”

He says it like I should know what he’s talking about. “The IPO?”

“Videara. It was—is—a video-sharing platform. I founded it, but exited last year after we took the company public. It wasn’t, well, it wasn’t great. I mean, I made shitloads of money, so it’s not like you should feel bad for me or anything.”

He says it reluctantly, like it’s the last thing he wants to talk about, but also like it somehow explains him, so he needs to get it over with. A feeling I know something about.

“At least they let you keep the hoodie.” I point to the logo on his chest, a bright-purpleV. His laugh lights up his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s that. Anyways, after I left, this seemed like a good place to regroup, you know? Wait for the next big idea to find me.”

“And has it?” I mean it as a joke, but he looks down at the ground with a mournful expression, as if the thought that he might not jump from one success to the next had never occurred to him.

“I have some ideas,” he says, “but nothing solid yet.”

“Well, there are worse places to live out an early retirement.”

His eyes widen. “It’s a break.”

“Of course. Sorry, bad joke.”

I take a sip of wine. A big sip. I’m not used to being around someone who shows exactly what he’s thinking. It’s like he’s managed to get through life without any of his edges being filed to sharpness.

“No, wait.” Xander rubs a hand through his hair, making it stand up like a hedgehog. “It’s just—you really saw me at my worst the other day. This was supposed to be my apology for all that. And I’m being a shitty host.”

The evening is balanced on a knife’s edge. I feel lightheaded, drunk not on wine but on knowing that whatever I do or say will topple us one way or the other. And not caring.

I hold up my empty glass for a refill. “Well, at least the wine’s good. Let me guess—it’s from your vineyard in France?”

His face goes bright red. “It’s in Napa,” he says quietly.

It’s not that funny, but suddenly I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. “Of course it is,” I gasp.

At first, Xander looks uncertain, then he too starts laughing with the kind of unhinged hilarity that comes from releasing tension. I feel like an empty balloon.

Behind us, a door opens to reveal a tall woman in a white chef’s jacket. She frowns down at us, laughing like kids. “Dinner is ready,” she says.

“Yes, sorry, Cara,” Xander says, getting ahold of himself. “We’ll be right there.”

We both wipe our eyes and go inside.

The dining table looks like something a medieval king would sit at—rough-hewn wood and long benches, high-backed seats at the end like thrones. Cara enters, somehow balancing six dishes on her arms at once. Oven-warm pita served with whipped feta and nutty muhammara. Chicken sticky with a honeyed brown sauce and a salad overflowing with roasted sweet potatoes and crunchy radishes. After weeks of living on cereal and frozen burritos, every bite is like an explosion. Dinner is nice. The food, yes. But it’s also surprisingly nice to be eating with a real live human, someone who doesn’t know me at all. I could be anyone.

While I eat, Xander tells me about Silicon Valley like he’s summoning memories from a past life. There’s something adrift about him. Like this estate is Avalon, unmoored from time and space. He asks about my life in New York, which I don’t want to talk about. So I tell him about the book: Coram House, the case against the church, how I’m here to shape it all into a story. History for true-crime fans, I say, trying it out and hating how it sounds. I’ve never been good at marketing-speak.

He nods as he refills our glasses, looking politely interested. But when I mention the condo development, his eyes light up. “You know,” he says, “there’s something about the project that draws you in. When Bill first took me to the site, I could see it. It was such a blank slate. So much possibility.”

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