One more thing I had to do before I left. Something I should have done myself instead of leaving it in my mother’s hands or Matt’s.
I was the man of the house now, for better or worse.
I left my car around the corner. His Range Rover wasn’t in the driveway, but another car was: a white Lexus. I walked up the smooth, clean stairs, knocked on the glass door.
I asked the woman who answered if Bear was home, and she said he was golfing and would be back at dinnertime. She wore no makeup or shoes, and her sleeves were rolled up. Probably his personal chef or florist.
“If you’d like to come back then perhaps?” she said politely.
“I’m leaving on the four o’clock boat,” I said. “If you’d just tell him that… Um…” My own name caught with shame in my throat. “That Tom Warner stopped by.”
“Oh my goodness,” she said, her hand going up to her heart. “I’m so sorry about your father, about all of it, really.”
“If you’d tell him I just wanted to introduce myself. Extend…an olive branch. Or an olive in a martini. Something.”
“Well, I’ll tell him we met. I’m Binky.”
“Binky?”
“His wife.”
“Binky Brownstein?” I said, suddenly worried I had the wrong house. This woman was blond and wearing a sweater with patched elbows.
“Oh, I go by my maiden name. Binky Vanderbilt.”
I swallowed hard, coughed uncontrollably. She offered me a tissue, a glass of water. But that wouldn’t help. What helps when you are trying your damnedest not to burst out laughing?