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had to know, and the sooner the better.
    The house was impressive, a two-story walk-out, built of eggshell and gray brick with an irregular roof line and a triple garage. It sat on a crest of land, with the driveway climbing at a rather steep angle.
    Tom parked at the bottom of the drive and got out slowly, pausing with his hand on the open car door, looking up at the house. The lot had not been sodded yet, but the finish grading was done and already new trees and shrubbery had been planted—a lot of good-sized trees and shrubbery that cost dearly to have brought in. The driveway was made of concrete and shone white in the sun while a freshly laid sidewalk curved upward, connecting it to the front door.
    Monica Arens did very well indeed.
    He slammed the car door and approached her house with his every instinct urging him to return to his car, drive away, and leave well enough alone.
    But he could not.
    He rang the doorbell instead, waiting with his key ring caught over an index finger, dreading the moment when she’d open the door, realizing that the next hour could change his life forever.
    She opened the door and stared at Tom in stunned surprise. She was dressed in canvas shoes and a loose-fitting jumper-style dress clear down to mid-calf, a shapeless style he’d never learned to like, one that Claire had bypassed not because of his dislike, but because of her own.
    â€œHello, Monica,” he said at last.
    â€œI’m not sure you should be here.”
    â€œI thought we should talk.” He kept his keys handy in case she slammed the door in his face. She looked less than pleased by his appearance, and stood with her hand on the doorknob, moving not a muscle, her face devoid of anything resembling welcome.
    â€œDon’t you think we should?” he asked, the words nearly snagging on the lump of apprehension in his throat.
    She released a breath and said, “Yes, I suppose so.” When she stepped back he knew she resented having to do so.
    He entered her house and heard the door close behind him, sealing him into a foyer that segued into a vast combination living room/dining room. The west wall was dominated by a center fireplace flanked by two sets of French doors, which were thrown open onto a redwood deck spanning the entire sunset side of the house. The place smelled of fresh paint and new carpet, and though its windows were bare, it held the promise of future richness. North American Van Lines boxes filled much of the space between the furniture. Monica led the way to the left end of the room, where a dining room table and chairs created the largest island of cleared space. The table appeared to have been freshly polished, for the lemony scent of furniture wax lingered in the room, and the faint swirl of rag marks was exposed at an oblique angle by the light cascading through the nearest pair of French doors. Beyond them, the deck overlooked the unsodded backyard and a new house still under construction a good acre away.
    â€œSit down,” she said.
    He pulled out a chair and waited. She moved around the corner of the table and took a place, leaving plenty of distance between them. When she sat, he did the same.
    Tension pervaded the room. He felt himself struggling to frame the correct words, to suppress his embarrassment ateven being here. Monica—it appeared—had her mind made up to fix her eyes on the bare tabletop and leave them there.
    â€œWell . . .” he said. “I guess I’ll just ask it straight out. . . . Is Kent my son?”
    She turned her head away. Staring across her tightly joined hands at the rolling backyard, she offset her jaw, righted it again, and answered quietly, “Yes, he is.”
    He let his breath out in a ragged gust and whispered, “Oh, God.” With his elbows propped on the table, he covered his face with both hands. Adrenaline shot through him like an electric current, leaving his skull and armpits