Too Close to the Sun by Diana Dempsey

or
have you lost weight?" That wasn't all that had changed in the two
months since he'd last seen her. She'd cut her hair fashionably
short and streaked it, and was wearing more makeup than usual. Her
sleek navy-blue suit was also a departure from her former
preference for spring-bright colors. "You look great," he told her,
though he wasn't fully convinced he liked this chic new version of
his only sibling.
    "Ah, I was getting sick of the same old, same
old." She pulled away. "How are you? You look a little tired."
    "No more than usual. Sit down." He waved her
toward his cocoa-colored leather sofa. "Do you have business in
town?"
    They both sat. "A few meetings," she said. "I
had some this afternoon and I've got a few more tomorrow morning.
Then I head back."
    "Quick trip."
    "Hm." Her gaze skittered away.
    He regarded her. Something else was
different, beyond her appearance. Was the workload getting to her?
Well-established as Henley Sand and Gravel might be—their
grandfather had founded it sixty years before—running a sizable
construction-supplies business was no cakewalk. Especially not
while raising two boys, aged seven and five, though her husband,
Bob, more than pitched in with the childrearing.
    "Are you hungry?" he asked her.
    "I could eat."
    Will chatted about this and that on their
ten-minute walk along the Embarcadero, Beth remaining
uncharacteristically quiet. Once they arrived at the waterfront
restaurant where he'd booked a table—which boasted killer bay views
and even better seafood— "You order," she told him, without even
glancing at the menu.
    This was not Beth's style, either. Will set
his own menu aside and leaned close across the linen-draped table.
"What's wrong?"
    She hesitated.
    "Come on, Beth. I can see something's
bothering you."
    "All right. This is why I really came out
here, anyway." She threw up her hands. "It's Bob. He wants to move
back to Philadelphia."
    Will frowned. "That's where his family's
from, right?"
    "And now his father's got some health
problems. They're getting older, but aren't we all?" She shook her
head. "He says that after nine years of doing what I want, we
should do what he wants for a change."
    "I didn't realize he wasn't doing what he
wanted in Denver."
    "It was news to me, too."
    Will was silent for a moment, pained by the
hurt in his sister's carefully mascaraed blue eyes. "Is he
serious?"
    "Very." She gave a short, harsh laugh, with
no hint of humor in it. "He already sent out resumes. He wants to
make the move this summer, before the new school year."
    "Do the boys know?"
    "No. I'm praying it just goes away. I'm
actually hoping the economy stays sucky so maybe he won't get any
offers." Her eyes teared up then. She made a choking sound and
tried to hide her face with her hand. "And I'm afraid that if he
does get an offer, he'll go without us."
    "Oh, Beth, he wouldn't do that." Will reached
a consoling hand across the table, but his sister just shook her
head and dug in her handbag for a tissue.
    So this was why Beth had come into town—to
tell him this. It must be serious. Yet if a tornado had cut a swath
from Kansas to San Francisco, Will couldn't have been more
surprised. Beth and Bob's marriage had always seemed rock solid to
him, like his parents'. From the moment Bob had appeared on the
scene Beth's senior year in college at Boulder, he and Beth had
seemed made for each other. Both engineers. Both skiers. Both
kid-lovers and eager to start a family. They even looked the same,
like brother and sister, blond and athletic and outdoorsy. When the
boys came, the picture was complete. Both had everything they'd
ever wanted.
    A waiter swept past and laid a basket of
bread on their table. Beyond the windows, the bay waters did their
ceaseless dance. Puffy clouds scudded across the twilit sky, while
white lights began to shiver on the opposite shore as Berkeley's
bohemian night came alive.
    Will watched Beth stare out the windows with
blank eyes. This explained the