Once, in what now seemed like another life, before youthful illusions had been snuffed out by the cold harsh winds of reality, he’d run every morning on this very same beach and daydreamed of bright lights and big cities. The Olympic Peninsula town founded by one of his ancestors had always seemed too provincial, too confining, for someone of Dan O’Halloran’s lofty talent and ambition.
The only son of a Coldwater Cove commercial fisherman and homemaker turned charter boat cook, by the time he’d entered junior high school, Dan had a very firm future in mind. The plan, laid out with all the care and precision of the Joint Chiefs preparing for invasion, was to get a prestigious law degree, work for a few years in a high-profile job—prosecution, perhaps—which would set him up for partnership in a respectable big-city law firm.
Rounding out the mental picture was a Tudor-style house like the one belonging to some Wall Street wizard he’d seen profiled in a glossy magazine while waiting for the orthodontist to tighten his braces. The house would boast acres of rolling emerald lawn someone else would mow, a blue tiled swimming pool and a tennis court—red clay, rather than the more pedestrian concrete the public courts at Founders Park were made of, because that’s what the mutual fund titan had chosen.
At twelve he wasn’t really interested in the family part of his dream, yet from those magazine pages he’d unconsciously absorbed the idea that living in this dream house with him would be a gorgeous, intelligent trophy wife from a good family and their equally attractive, brilliant children.
Dan’s laugh was directed inward as he considered how close he’d actually come to achieving his youthful dream. Including the Tudor which had been filled to twelve-foot-high ceilings with pricey Oriental porcelain he’d always been terrified of knocking off those marble pedestals. Befitting his upwardly mobile position and his wife’s lofty social status, he dutifully subscribed to the symphony, the ballet, and the opera, and doubted that any of their Pacific Heights friends would ever suspect that he secretly preferred classic Beetles to Beethoven, Willie Nelson to Wagner.
He’d nearly achieved everything he’d ever dreamed of; all that had been missing was the partnership, and if he’d caved in to Amanda’s pressure to accept the extremely lucrative offer he’d received from that Montgomery Street law firm the day after his sister’s fatal accident, the final piece of the plan would have fallen into place before his thirty-third birthday.
Which just went to show, Dan considered as he yanked off his damp cardinal Stanford sweatshirt and entered his house by the kitchen door, that a guy had better be careful what he wished for.
The house was silent, revealing that John had already taken off on his summer morning gardening rounds. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee enticed; Dan filled a mug from the Mr. Coffee carafe and took it into the bathroom to drink after his shower.
Ten minutes later he was sitting out on his redwood deck, surveying his domain. The mist had already been burned away by the rising sun.
The moment he’d first seen this house perched on the edge of the cliff, Dan had found it perfect, much preferring the open floor plan and vast expanse of glass that looked out over heart-soaring views to the gloomy San Francisco mansion with its dark silk walls and windows heavily draped in antique brocade that he’d lived in with his former wife. While he still loved the place and figured nothing short of dynamite would ever get him out of it, he’d begun to sense that something was missing. But he hadn’t quite gotten a handle on what, exactly, it could be.
When a sporty red BMW convertible pulled up in front of the lighthouse, Dan put the puzzle aside and decided to pay a call on his new neighbor.
Savannah was sanding the dining room chair rail when she realized she was not alone. It was not
The only son of a Coldwater Cove commercial fisherman and homemaker turned charter boat cook, by the time he’d entered junior high school, Dan had a very firm future in mind. The plan, laid out with all the care and precision of the Joint Chiefs preparing for invasion, was to get a prestigious law degree, work for a few years in a high-profile job—prosecution, perhaps—which would set him up for partnership in a respectable big-city law firm.
Rounding out the mental picture was a Tudor-style house like the one belonging to some Wall Street wizard he’d seen profiled in a glossy magazine while waiting for the orthodontist to tighten his braces. The house would boast acres of rolling emerald lawn someone else would mow, a blue tiled swimming pool and a tennis court—red clay, rather than the more pedestrian concrete the public courts at Founders Park were made of, because that’s what the mutual fund titan had chosen.
At twelve he wasn’t really interested in the family part of his dream, yet from those magazine pages he’d unconsciously absorbed the idea that living in this dream house with him would be a gorgeous, intelligent trophy wife from a good family and their equally attractive, brilliant children.
Dan’s laugh was directed inward as he considered how close he’d actually come to achieving his youthful dream. Including the Tudor which had been filled to twelve-foot-high ceilings with pricey Oriental porcelain he’d always been terrified of knocking off those marble pedestals. Befitting his upwardly mobile position and his wife’s lofty social status, he dutifully subscribed to the symphony, the ballet, and the opera, and doubted that any of their Pacific Heights friends would ever suspect that he secretly preferred classic Beetles to Beethoven, Willie Nelson to Wagner.
He’d nearly achieved everything he’d ever dreamed of; all that had been missing was the partnership, and if he’d caved in to Amanda’s pressure to accept the extremely lucrative offer he’d received from that Montgomery Street law firm the day after his sister’s fatal accident, the final piece of the plan would have fallen into place before his thirty-third birthday.
Which just went to show, Dan considered as he yanked off his damp cardinal Stanford sweatshirt and entered his house by the kitchen door, that a guy had better be careful what he wished for.
The house was silent, revealing that John had already taken off on his summer morning gardening rounds. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee enticed; Dan filled a mug from the Mr. Coffee carafe and took it into the bathroom to drink after his shower.
Ten minutes later he was sitting out on his redwood deck, surveying his domain. The mist had already been burned away by the rising sun.
The moment he’d first seen this house perched on the edge of the cliff, Dan had found it perfect, much preferring the open floor plan and vast expanse of glass that looked out over heart-soaring views to the gloomy San Francisco mansion with its dark silk walls and windows heavily draped in antique brocade that he’d lived in with his former wife. While he still loved the place and figured nothing short of dynamite would ever get him out of it, he’d begun to sense that something was missing. But he hadn’t quite gotten a handle on what, exactly, it could be.
When a sporty red BMW convertible pulled up in front of the lighthouse, Dan put the puzzle aside and decided to pay a call on his new neighbor.
Savannah was sanding the dining room chair rail when she realized she was not alone. It was not
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