but you’re probably right.”
“You ever hear from Nicole at all?”
“Not since the divorce came through. I see her in a magazine every now and again.”
“It’s been, what, four years? How long since you’ve had a date?”
“It’s been, what, four years?” Christopher gave a faint smile. “The goats are beginning to look really good.”
“Sick bastard,” Gabe said. “How is life on the farm, anyway?”
Christopher took a swallow of beer. “Hey, how about those Red Sox?”
“I take it that means not so good?”
“There’s a reason they call it subsistence farming. Although I’m not doing all that well on the subsisting side.”
“That’s because you blow all your money on hay parties.”
Once, money hadn’t been a problem, back when he’d been working in D.C., living in the corridors of power with a glossy model wife, an architecturally notable condo on the water, a Manhattan apartment and a stock portfolio that was the envy of any broker. What did it mean that he’d spent a dozen years in pursuit of a goal, only to realize it was the wrong goal, a dozen years in pursuit of the perfect life, only to realize that it was the wrong life?
It had taken him only a few weeks to be sure that farming was what he wanted. He couldn’t say how long it had taken Nicole to know it wasn’t. The drift had been gradual. A modeling job here and there. Weekends in Washington and New York with her friends, then full weeks. Then more.
It had taken a while for him to clue in enough to call it quits. Of course, by that time it had become pretty clear that without the endless round of parties and receptions and dinners, there was little between them. As with a juggler, it had been the furious motion that had given the illusion of substance. Once the motion had stopped, there were only a few small balls on the ground. Or knives, more like, he thought, remembering the acrimonious end.
“So how serious is it?”
Christopher looked out at a hawk circling over a stand of pines on a passing island. “Pretty damned. When I get back, I brush up my resume and start getting the place ready to go up on the block.”
“What the…But what about that deal with Pure Foods you were working on?”
“I’m still working on it. A year and a half into it and we’re no closer to inking a supply agreement than we were at the start.” He rose and walked to the rail. “Their northeast division has twelve grocery stores across New England. I doubled the size of my herd to be able to supply them with the amount of product they wanted. I’ve got chèvre coming out of my ears, but now they’re dragging their feet and telling me I need to be certified by some sustainable agriculture group before they’ll start buying from me. That’s going to cost a few grand and take at least another six months. In the meantime, the money just keeps bleeding away.”
“Get a loan to tide you over.”
“Gabe, don’t you get it?” he said sharply. “I can’t. I’m cut off at the bank. The money’s gone, all of it. Even if Pure Foods comes through, it still might be too little, too late.”
“Borrow money from the family.”
“From who? My mom and dad are retired. Molly and Jacob are just barely running in the black after they lost all those trees. You and Hadley are still paying off the note on that national historic landmark you run.” He shook his head. “I’m out of options, Gabe. Face it. I have.”
“What about—”
“Give it a rest,” he snapped. Letting out a long, slow breath, he counted to three. “Look, I just want to have a week here to relax and not think about it, okay? Not worry about how to pay the feed bill, not wonder if my payroll checks are going to bounce. Just forget it all and…chill.”
Gabe stared at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly. “You got it, Vanilla Ice. Just one more thing.”
“What?”
“I think it’s going to take a few more beers to do it right.”
Christopher relaxed and dredged up a smile from somewhere. “You know, you’re probably right.” He came back to his chair and picked up his beer to take a drink, then stopped. “Vanilla Ice?”
Gabe smiled broadly. “I’m thinking somewhere inside you there’s a blonde.”
Chapter Two
“So how did you manage to get them to let you on?” Larkin asked Carter as a white-jacketed waiter appeared from behind them to top off their wineglasses. The main dining room filled the stern of the ship. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, crystal gleamed by candlelight. A wall of windows ran around the edge of the room, revealing the rocks and pines of the Alaskan coast in the preternatural 9:00 p.m. daylight.
“How did I get on? I had to run for it. Paid a couple of stevedores a day’s wages to carry my bags. A bargain, if you ask me.”
“And they let you through security and customs?”
He raised his glass. “Amazing how a few tips will grease the skids. I paid, we all ran and I got there just as they were starting to pull the gangway in.”
It was impossible to miss the gleam in his eyes. “You enjoyed it.”
“Anyone can do things the easy way,” he said by way of answer as their waiter set appetizers of saffron langoustine in puff pastry before them.
Larkin’s lips curved. “So where were you coming from this time?”
“Shenzhen, China. There’s a factory out there I wanted to get a look at.”
“A factory? I thought you worked the market.”
He forked up a langoustine. “I’ve been dipping into a little bit of venture cap activity the past few years. I’m looking at funding a company with operations out there.”
“You’re dealing with actual companies now? I thought you said hands-on stuff was for suckers,” she said, cutting into her puff pastry.
Carter shrugged. “Everything gets boring after a while, even making money.”
Fork in hand, Larkin stared. “Wait a minute, you can’t be my father. You must be an impostor.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I still like working the market. That’s never going to go away. But I need a change of pace. Something different.”
“And was the factory different?”
“That’s one word for it,” he said in amusement.
“I take it you’re going to hold on to your money for now.”
“You take it right.” He took a swallow of wine. “Speaking of money, I talked with Walter a couple of weeks ago.”
At the name of her father’s lawyer—and her trust-fund administrator—Larkin glanced up. “Is that how you knew where to find me?”
Carter nodded. “He tells me your fund is getting pretty low. Says you’ve been tapping into the principal.”
She flushed. “Not much. I’m doing all right.” Okay, maybe that was overstating the case a little. The fund she’d come into when she’d turned eighteen hadn’t been enormous, and she could have been smarter in the way she’d managed it. She’d spent the better part of her early twenties living in one city after another, until one day she’d realized that she wasn’t looking for a home, she was looking for herself. That hadn’t made what she was looking for any easier to find, but it made it easier to stay in one place.
“You