in the mood to give one. Not that it was right to take out her anger on Carly. It wasn't her sister's fault that some woman had called Gary, not that it meant anything. Gary had women clients and female friends. So what?
She heard the front door close and got to her feet. She had to get dressed and meet Dylan. She didn't have time to worry about a few mysterious phone calls. But as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, she found herself going into the study, past the desk and straight to the filing cabinet. Inside the top drawer was a folder marked "Phone Bills." She removed it, then paused.
She had a feeling she was about to open Pandora's box. And once it was open, would she ever be able to get it closed? But it wasn't like she had to do anything. Just looking wouldn't hurt, would it?
* * *
It hurt just to look at the damn house, to think about the man who had dreamed it up, about the family who would never live here together. Dylan leaned against his car. He'd seen a lot of buildings in his time, but none that affected him as deeply as this one did.
Dylan had once lived in a house like this one – before Jesse died, before his mother's second marriage. After that they'd moved into an apartment building in San Francisco. His stepfather had three girls of his own, one only two years old. The apartment had three bedrooms. His mother and stepfather took one room, the two older girls had another and the baby had the third. He had slept on a cot in the baby's room for a couple of years. Then he'd moved onto a pullout couch in the living room. They'd never made a room for him. Boys could sleep anywhere, his mother always said. They didn't need nearly as many things as girls.
Gary had lived a few streets over in another apartment building. His had been more run-down, with peeling paint on the walls, cockroaches in the hall and a cigarette smell that never went away. They'd spent most of their time together outside on their skateboards. They'd gone all over the city. Sometimes when they'd cruised through the richer neighborhoods and looked at the tall, stately houses, they'd peek in the windows and wonder what it would be like to live in such places.
Dylan shook his head at the memories. He'd been so good at forgetting. Now it was all coming back. He straightened up and looked around, wondering where the hell Rachel was. It was almost an hour since he'd spoken to her. He didn't want to stand here thinking about the past; he wanted to get going, study the plans, figure out what he wanted to do himself and what he wanted to hire out.
His cell phone rang and he opened it, relieved by the distraction. "Hello?"
"Dylan? Mike Connolly. How are you?"
"Good. Thanks for calling me back."
"No problem. You wanted to ask me something about Gary?"
"Right." Dylan paused, not sure exactly how to broach the subject. Mike was an architect at Gary's firm. If Gary had gone to a bachelor party in Lake Tahoe for an associate, Mike would have been invited. But Dylan didn't want to share any suspicions with Mike. He had to be careful or rumors would be flying. "I'm going to help Rachel finish the house that Gary started to build for them," he said.
Mike let out a low whistle. "The house. I'd forgotten about that. It wasn't completed, huh?"
"No, just the framing. I wondered if Gary had left anything at the office on the project."
"I think his assistant boxed everything up and shipped it to Rachel right after the funeral."
"I'll check with Rachel, then. By the way, she mentioned that Gary had gone to Tahoe for a bachelor party. So who got married -- Jacob?"
Mike laughed. "No way. Jacob likes to play the field."
"Following in your footsteps, huh?"
"He's a smart man. What can I say?" Mike paused. "But Gary had told me he was going to Tahoe to meet an old friend."
An old friend? Those were the same words Connie had used. Why hadn't Gary told him about an old friend? And who was this person? It would have to be someone Dylan
She heard the front door close and got to her feet. She had to get dressed and meet Dylan. She didn't have time to worry about a few mysterious phone calls. But as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, she found herself going into the study, past the desk and straight to the filing cabinet. Inside the top drawer was a folder marked "Phone Bills." She removed it, then paused.
She had a feeling she was about to open Pandora's box. And once it was open, would she ever be able to get it closed? But it wasn't like she had to do anything. Just looking wouldn't hurt, would it?
* * *
It hurt just to look at the damn house, to think about the man who had dreamed it up, about the family who would never live here together. Dylan leaned against his car. He'd seen a lot of buildings in his time, but none that affected him as deeply as this one did.
Dylan had once lived in a house like this one – before Jesse died, before his mother's second marriage. After that they'd moved into an apartment building in San Francisco. His stepfather had three girls of his own, one only two years old. The apartment had three bedrooms. His mother and stepfather took one room, the two older girls had another and the baby had the third. He had slept on a cot in the baby's room for a couple of years. Then he'd moved onto a pullout couch in the living room. They'd never made a room for him. Boys could sleep anywhere, his mother always said. They didn't need nearly as many things as girls.
Gary had lived a few streets over in another apartment building. His had been more run-down, with peeling paint on the walls, cockroaches in the hall and a cigarette smell that never went away. They'd spent most of their time together outside on their skateboards. They'd gone all over the city. Sometimes when they'd cruised through the richer neighborhoods and looked at the tall, stately houses, they'd peek in the windows and wonder what it would be like to live in such places.
Dylan shook his head at the memories. He'd been so good at forgetting. Now it was all coming back. He straightened up and looked around, wondering where the hell Rachel was. It was almost an hour since he'd spoken to her. He didn't want to stand here thinking about the past; he wanted to get going, study the plans, figure out what he wanted to do himself and what he wanted to hire out.
His cell phone rang and he opened it, relieved by the distraction. "Hello?"
"Dylan? Mike Connolly. How are you?"
"Good. Thanks for calling me back."
"No problem. You wanted to ask me something about Gary?"
"Right." Dylan paused, not sure exactly how to broach the subject. Mike was an architect at Gary's firm. If Gary had gone to a bachelor party in Lake Tahoe for an associate, Mike would have been invited. But Dylan didn't want to share any suspicions with Mike. He had to be careful or rumors would be flying. "I'm going to help Rachel finish the house that Gary started to build for them," he said.
Mike let out a low whistle. "The house. I'd forgotten about that. It wasn't completed, huh?"
"No, just the framing. I wondered if Gary had left anything at the office on the project."
"I think his assistant boxed everything up and shipped it to Rachel right after the funeral."
"I'll check with Rachel, then. By the way, she mentioned that Gary had gone to Tahoe for a bachelor party. So who got married -- Jacob?"
Mike laughed. "No way. Jacob likes to play the field."
"Following in your footsteps, huh?"
"He's a smart man. What can I say?" Mike paused. "But Gary had told me he was going to Tahoe to meet an old friend."
An old friend? Those were the same words Connie had used. Why hadn't Gary told him about an old friend? And who was this person? It would have to be someone Dylan
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