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I offer a gracious smile. “It’s more like the other way around.”
Redmond’s eyes fill with light. “Is that so? I know my son can be quite the charmer. Can’t, for the life of me, seem to figure out where that came from.”
We share a chuckle, and I decide I adore Redmond already, though I’d hardly call Burke a charmer.
Burke’s father looks much older than I anticipated, with his clothes hanging off his gaunt frame and his paper-thin skin covered with deep lines and age spots. If I had to guess, he must be the same age as my grandparents, who are approaching their eighties, suggesting he started his family much later in life since Burke is pushing his midthirties.
On top of that, he seems warm and friendly—a contented-grandfather type—which is far from what I was picturing when Burke mentioned he wouldn’t be allowed to send an email. I imagined some ruthless Succession-esque patriarch, but Redmond reminds me more of the jovial grandfather from Jurassic Park.
“Well, I for one am a sucker for a good love story. Come on, now. Let’s head to the house. Dinner’s almost ready, and you two can fill me in on everything.” Redmond climbs behind the wheel of an idling golf cart and waves for us to hop on the back. After being in the car for so long, I wouldn’t mind walking from here to the main house, but of course I don’t want to be rude.
Taking in the sights along the way, I point at an adorable white cottage with a swing on the front porch and bushes upon bushes of blue and purple flowers in full bloom. Pretty sure I could retire in that house and die happy.
“Caretaker’s cottage,” Burke says. “His name is Maurice. His wife, Yvette, is the house manager. You’ll see them both quite a bit.”
Next, we sputter past a horse stable, where two palomino mares and a miniature painted pony graze on a rolled-out bale of hay. In the distance is another house—this one larger than the cottage—with more windows and an ornate roofline. It must be one of the four guesthouses on site, though in my hometown of Prairie Grove, Nebraska, a place like that would qualify as a mansion.
When we arrive at the sprawling coastal estate house a few minutes later, Redmond steers us up the circular drive, past a bubbling marble fountain with clear blue water, before parking mere meters from the weathered oak double front door.
A silver-haired woman in khaki shorts and a crisp white button-down waits to greet us with curious, observant eyes and a cautious smile directed toward me. She folds her hands in front of her hips and stands as still as a statue.
“That’s Yvette,” Burke tells me, though I’d guessed as much if only because she exudes an air of quiet authority, like someone who runs a tight ship.
Cane in hand, Redmond descends from the cart with a jubilant expression. It’s clear that having his son around puts a pep in his step—a bittersweet detail when juxtaposed against Burke’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Let me be the first to officially welcome you to Driftway, Briar,” Redmond says as he extends a bent elbow and leads me inside. “For the next eight weeks, our house is your home.”
One step past the front door, I’m met with the heavenly scent of salted air, sunshine, and line-dried linens. Yvette waits for the men with the bags, directing them to a bedroom upstairs, before disappearing into some pocket of the house.
A gentle breeze floats through the open foyer, wrapping me in a warm, welcoming hug. Turning my attention to a wooden console against the wall, I find it covered in so many photographs I can hardly see the tabletop beneath them.
“May I?” I point to the frames.
Redmond’s eyes glow with pride. “Absolutely, my dear.”
Scanning the pictures, I note that most of them are older candid shots—some grainier than others. There are a handful of sepia-toned images as well as some black-and-white shots peppered in.
A girl in riding gear on a chestnut-colored horse.
Two shirtless boys fishing off a dock.
Three suntanned kids building sandcastles.
I can’t locate a single recent-looking image in the mix, but it isn’t hard to identify Burke with his hair the color of a midnight sky and his perma-frown. An image of him with a tall, skinny girl and a cocoa-haired boy half his size takes center stage in a large gold frame. They’re standing on a beach, their arms linked around each other, as the sun sets behind them. To the right is a wedding photo—a younger Redmond feeding cake to a beautiful, laughing blonde. The bride reminds me of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, with her elegant, striking features and classic white off-shoulder dress.
To the right of that, however, is another image—an even younger Redmond holding hands with a little girl sporting gingerbread tresses all the way down to her waist. Behind them is a woman with matching curls and a baby on her hip. It’s the only photo like it among all the others.
