Page 167 of Lorenzo

This is unusual enough that I find it irritating.

I sit at the conference table with a financial report open in front of me while one of our division managers explains why renovation costs on a recently acquired property have exceeded projections.

There are twelve people in the room.

Mario sits to my right, listening with a stillness that often makes people nervous. Ricardo is across from him, one hand resting beside his untouched coffee. Diego is bored and wishing he were anywhere else.

I should be paying attention.

Instead, I am thinking about Donna standing in her kitchen, her fork moving through food she had lost all interest in eating.

There is always another house.

She said it with a small smile, as though we were having a light conversation. As though being sent from one relative to the next was merely an odd feature of a large family.

I recognized the deflection at once.

Donna uses humor the way other people use locked doors.

It does not keep anyone from seeing the house. It simply tells them they are not welcome inside.

“Lorenzo?”

The room has gone quiet.

I look toward the division manager. Jeremy.

He stands beside the screen with one hand resting on the back of a chair. The figures behind him show labor costs, revised projections, and a completion date that has slipped by three weeks.

“What caused the delay?” I ask.

No one reacts to the fact that the question was likely answered while my mind was elsewhere.

Jeremy does not embarrass me by pointing it out.

“The electrical work,” he says. “The original inspection missed damage behind the west wall. Once the contractor opened it, they found the wiring had to be replaced through most of the floor.”

“Was the inspection performed by our people?”

“No. It was completed before acquisition.”

“Have legal review the inspection agreement. If the damage should have been discovered, I want to know what remedies are available.”

He nods and makes a note.

The discussion resumes.

I lower my gaze to the report.

For nearly thirty years, I have been able to divide my attention without effort. Business remains business. Family remains family. The work requiring discretion is kept separate from both.

But Donna does not remain where I put her.

She enters every part of my thoughts without permission.

I see her in bed, leaning over me, hair covering us like a curtain while she rides me.

I see her on the porch in her robe, wine in hand, watching me throw a filthy ball across her yard for Mocha.