All Our Tomorrows. Irene Hannon

business. But since she didn’t have a listed phone number—he’d checked that first—he hoped she’d give him a few minutes at the office.

      “Caroline, it’s Mary. There’s a David Sloan here who would like to see you.” After several seconds of silence, the receptionist spoke again. “Caroline? Are you still there?”

      Shock. That had to account for Caroline’s delayed response, David reasoned. Which did not bode well for the reception he was going to get—if he got one at all.

      “All right.” The woman was speaking again. “Yes, I’ll let him know.” She hung up and gave David a speculative look. “She’ll be out in a sec. Have a seat while you wait.” She gestured to a small grouping of furniture with a coffee table in the middle.

      Relieved, David nodded and moved to one of the modernistic upholstered chairs. He didn’t feel like sitting, but pacing wasn’t an option, either. The receptionist was already casting discreet, but interested, glances his way. He didn’t want to arouse any more curiosity than necessary. With studied casualness, he sat in one of the chairs, reached for a copy of the newspaper from among those fanned on the coffee table, leaned back and pretended to read the blur of words on the page in front of him. He was more nervous about this encounter than any of the high-powered, deal-making sessions he’d once participated in, when hundreds of millions of dollars had sometimes hung in the balance. Maybe because the capital here was emotional, not monetary. And for another reason he didn’t want to consider.

      As the minutes ticked by, David grew more apprehensive. What if Caroline had changed her mind? What if she refused to see him? He’d get the medallion to her somehow, he vowed, find another way to apologize. Perhaps he’d resort to a letter. That would be easier than dealing with her face-to-face. But not as personal. Or as noble. Still, if she didn’t come out, he’d have to conclude that she didn’t want to see him, and he’d be left with no other option. It wasn’t ideal, but he…

      Suddenly, the door to the inner offices opened and Caroline stepped through. He set aside the newspaper and rose slowly, using the opportunity to do a quick assessment of the woman who stood before him.

      She was still gorgeous, no question about it. Michael had always appreciated beautiful women. Just as it had the first time they’d met, David’s heart tripped into double time. Caroline was model-tall, just three or four inches shorter than his own six-foot frame. And slender. Maybe too slender now, he corrected himself. A jade-green silk blouse was tucked into her pencil-slim black wool skirt, and a delicate gold necklace dipped into the hollow of her throat. She radiated the same style, class and poise he recalled from their first meeting, when Michael had brought her home for Christmas to introduce his fiancée to him and their mother. Now, as then, he was struck by her sleek, shimmery hair, which was the color of an autumn hillside—rich brown, laced with glints of gold, bronze and copper. She’d changed the style, though. He recalled her hair being shorter. Her new look was longer, just brushing her shoulders.

      He noticed other new things, as well. Faint, parallel furrows in her brow. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and a deep, lingering sadness in their hazel depths. She’d also aged in some subtle way he couldn’t quite identify. He knew she was a year younger than him. Michael had mentioned it once. And it wasn’t that she looked older than her thirty-five years, exactly. It was just that there was a weariness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A timeless, ancient expression not related to age, but to experience. The kind of look shared by people who’d seen too much, been through too much. But at least the animosity he’d glimpsed at the funeral was gone. In its place was wariness.

      As David stood there, Caroline looked him over as well, though she had a less vivid picture in her mind for comparison. The Christmas they’d come home to announce their engagement to both families, she’d been focused on Michael. And at the funeral, her grief had been so overwhelming that she’d been aware of David only on a peripheral level. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to avoid him as she’d tried to deal with the avalanche of shock, guilt and resentment that had buried her in a suffocating blackness.

      But she had always recognized the distinct differences in the two brothers. David was a couple of inches shorter than Michael, and his hair was dark brown while Michael’s had been sandy and sun-streaked. Their eyes also provided a contrast. Michael’s had been a sparkling, vivid blue, while David’s were quiet and deep brown. Just as their physical appearance differed, so, too, did their personalities. Michael had been an adventurous extrovert. David was a cautious introvert. Or at least that’s how Michael had characterized him. He’d always referred to David, five years his junior, as his kid brother, and called him “the suit” in a good-natured way. He’d told Caroline that David was destined for the corporate world and power lunches, that one day he would be rich and famous while Michael continued to tilt at windmills. And that was just fine with Caroline. It was one of the things she’d loved about Michael. His absolute passion for truth and his zeal for his job were the first things she’d noticed about him. The world needed more people like him. Instead, it had one less. Thanks to her—and, to some degree, the man now looking at her from across the room.

      Caroline had almost refused to see David. But what good would that have done? Any blame he bore for Michael’s death was far less than her own, after all. And Michael wouldn’t have wanted her to be unkind to David. Though the brothers had been estranged for several weeks prior to Michael’s death, she knew that their break had weighed on his mind. Despite their difference of opinion on their mother’s care, Michael had never stopped loving his kid brother. And she suspected the feeling was mutual. She was sorry they hadn’t had a chance to resolve their dispute before Michael was killed.

      But that was in the past. Right now, David was waiting for her to speak, and she forced herself to walk toward him. Michael would want her to be cordial, she knew. Still, she found the whole situation awkward. And unsettling. Not to mention painful.

      “Hello, David.” She held out her hand, and her fingers were engulfed in a warm, firm clasp.

      “Hello, Caroline. Thank you for seeing me.”

      His voice sounded huskier than she remembered, and despite the almost palpable tension between them, he exuded a deep-seated, inner calmness that somehow eased her nerves. Yet another difference between the brothers, she mused. Michael’s dynamic energy had infused those around him with excitement and enthusiasm. David, on the other hand, came across as calm, steady and in control. Someone who planned before plunging. Michael had always plunged first and planned on the fly. That spontaneity was one of the reasons he’d been so good at his job.

      “I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” she told David.

      “That’s okay. I took a chance stopping by without warning. But after I ran into your mother yesterday, I decided I’d put this off long enough.”

      “Mom told me she saw you at the post office. How is your mother doing?”

      “She died a year ago. The Alzheimer’s progressed far more rapidly than anyone anticipated. And her heart just kept getting weaker.”

      Her query had been routine and mundane, and she’d expected the same kind of response. Instead, his reply shocked her. Sympathy replaced wariness in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

      “Thank you. It was a shock, but in many ways I’m glad God called her home. Alzheimer’s is an awful disease. It robs people of everything that made them who they were. In the end, she didn’t know me anymore, or remember anything about the past. The mother I knew had left months before her physical body stopped functioning.”

      So now David was alone. Michael had told her once that they had no other relatives. Both of their parents had been only children, and their father had died years before.

      “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

      He lifted one shoulder. “I survived. My faith was a great comfort.”

      Another contrast between the two brothers, Caroline thought, recalling Michael’s skeptical attitude toward religion in general. Though the brothers hadn’t been raised in a household where faith played a central role,