Washington, Connecticut was two hours outside the city. We left on Friday afternoon shortly before four o'clock so that I could stop by my house and pick up my weekend bag before hitting the road. I hadn't wanted to take it to the office with me. Even if most of the staff knew that I was dating Donovan, they didn't need to know what we were doing with our free time. I certainly didn't want to feed their imagination.

We took the Tesla, which was equipped with an all-wheel drive system that made the car exceptional in all weather, according to Donovan. Apparently he was quite proud of his cars and extremely willing to boast about them when prodded, a rather fascinating fact to learn about him. Since he'd brought his driver along, we were both passengers, and the two of us knocked out a bunch of the work that had lingered from the week on the ride up, so by the time we turned down the tree-lined lane, white from snow, I felt relaxed and ready for some social engagement.

The car came to a stop at the end of the long driveway in front of a sprawling two-level mansion. It was gorgeous from the outside¸ a well-kept home with sweeping vistas over hundreds of acres of preserved land. It was private and hard to get to, a real getaway location, and much too big for a family of three–two, now that Donovan was grown.

"Only your parents live here?" I asked, stepping out of the car.

He nodded with an embarrassed sigh. "And only part-time, at that."

"Wow. There's certainly a lot of room." We hadn’t made it inside yet, but I was guessing it was probably ten thousand square feet. I'd grown up in a house that was barely twelve hundred square feet.

“My parents like to have the option to keep as much distance between themselves as possible. You'll see. Let's get out of the cold."

He led me to the door, which opened before we had the chance to knock, and there stood a tall, middle-aged gentleman dressed in slacks and a sweater, too young to be Donovan's father.

"Mr. Kincaid," he said in greeting, eyes cast down. "Welcome back to the Pinnacle House. And welcome to your guest."

"This is Sabrina Lind," Donovan said in introduction as he helped me remove my coat. "I apologize; I don't remember your name."

"No apologies, sir. It's Edward. I can take that for you.” He took my coat and hung it in a nearby closet, then returned to take Donovan's.

The driver entered behind us to drop off our luggage. "Where shall I park the car?"

"The third garage is empty," Edward said. "I'll meet you there in a moment to open it for you. Your mother suggested I put you in the upstairs master, Mr. Kincaid, is that still fine with you?"

"That will be perfect.”

"I’ll bring your things directly if you'd like to go up and wash for dinner. Your mother wishes I remind you it will be served at six thirty precisely."

I watched the exchange between the two men. Donovan was always guarded and stoic, but I found it interesting how reserved the butler—or whatever his title might be—was. He was the person designated to greet us. He'd been hospitable, technically, but nothing about his words or actions had felt warm or welcoming.

Maybe that's how servants were supposed to act; what did I know? I'd never been around any before.

"Yes, dinner at six thirty precisely," Donovan said with a bit of annoyance. "Heaven forbid my mother’s schedule vary even a minute from her routine."

"Is that a message you'd like me to give her, sir?" There was a bit of a challenge in those words from Edward, despite his formality, as though he were loyal to his employer, which I suppose he should be.

"No," Donovan laughed gruffly. "No message. We'll be there." He shifted his attention to me. "Sabrina, I'd love to give you a tour but we can’t right now. We have just enough time to change if you'd like. Shall we?"

He offered his hand, and I took it. The entryway opened into a large free space with plush rugs covering the wooden floor and fancy brocade couches in front of the fireplace. The far wall showcased a giant window that overlooked the land below. It was too dark outside and there were too many lights inside to fully capture the view, but I had a feeling it was going to be breathtaking.

To our left, a grand staircase wound upward. Donovan led me to this, and once we'd reached the top, he steered me down the hallway to a room at the end of the house with double doors. These opened into a grand master suite with a large four- poster bed, a fireplace with a fire already burning in it, a sitting area with a desk, and an en suite.  A set of glass doors opened up to a private balcony. I peeked outside. The snow had started falling softly though, and I couldn't see very far in the dark.

Donovan came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. "It will be beautiful in the morning, especially as the sun comes up. Trust me. But right now we have fifteen minutes before dinner. Will you be ready?"

I turned to make a comment about not having my bag yet, but a knock on the door said that Edward was just outside. He came in and placed my luggage on a bench at the foot of the bed, and set Donovan's bag on the floor next to it.

Immediately, I opened up my suitcase and started digging inside for something to wear. I hadn't actually planned on changing for dinner, but now I felt obligated. Thank goodness I'd thrown in an extra couple of outfits so I would be prepared for any spontaneous occasion.

Except even with all the choices, I had no idea what to choose. I was already in an A-line business skirt and jacket. Was I supposed to dress up or down?

"I don't know what to wear," I said, frantically throwing a couple of items over the bottom of the bed to better view my options.

Donovan came back from the closet where he’d hung up his suit jacket. "The Ann Taylor," he said, "with the black. I'm going to wear slacks."

I grabbed the skirt—a feminine floral pattern—my makeup bag, and the sweater in question, turned to him and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Thank you."

Then I ran to the bathroom to change.

I came out ten minutes later wearing the new outfit, my mascara and lip gloss freshened.

Donovan was waiting at the door, as though he had just been about to knock. He had changed too, and was now wearing slacks and a burnt red pullover that brought out the green in his eyes.

"You're beautiful." His gaze said he maybe didn't want to go downstairs as much as he had just a minute ago.

"But am I appropriate?" I was suddenly nervous, I realized. My throat was dry and my palms were sweaty.

He looked as though he were debating the answer, or at least as if he had something that he wanted to say but wasn't sure if he should say it or not.

But before I could get too worked up about it, he said, "You’re perfect." He glanced at his watch. "And we've got to go."

I slipped on my pumps and followed him out the door, ignoring the gnawing feeling that he wasn't telling me something, an emotion that was hard to distinguish beneath the fear that I was woefully unprepared.

Downstairs, we crossed through the free area we passed when we walked in, then another living area, into a formal dining room with a beautiful cherry wood dining set and an ornate crystal chandelier above it. French doors led out to a patio, and I could imagine that in summer the room could be opened up that way to hold generous banquets.

But it was still winter. It was dark outside, and the table, which had seats for twelve, was set for four. An attractive gentleman with silver hair and a beard sat at the head. Next to him was a stunning redhead with a long neck and green eyes.

The man stood when we entered, and Edward, whom I hadn't noticed standing at the wall, approached to pull a chair out for me at the place across from the redhead. Donovan sat next to me. His father sat again at the same time he did.

There had yet to be any introductions, yet to be any greetings at all, when the redhead—Donovan's mother—glanced up at the gold filigree clock on the wall and said, "Six thirty on the nose. Hmm.”

She was clearly unhappy, though we had made it on time so I was confused as to her demeanor.

"We're here, mother," Donovan said, letting out a breath audible only to me.

"I'm simply so startled that your manners have declined to such a degree. There was a time when six thirty service meant that we were in our seats no later than six twenty. Is punctuality not that important on the other side of the world?" She leaned in toward her husband. "You've been to Japan more than I have. Is that what this is, Raymond?"

Now I understood why Donovan was so anxious to make it down here on time.

Raymond tilted his head from side to side, considering. "I imagine it's more a product of his bachelor status, Susan. They're pretty punctual there in Tokyo."

As he spoke, Edward returned from wherever he’d disappeared to after seating us carrying a bottle of wine, which he poured first into Raymond's glass.

"We are on time," Donovan said, smoothing the napkin in his lap. "We did not make it in any earlier than the designated dinner time, which is a product of traffic and weather, and has no reflection at all on my respect for punctuality. On our respect for punctuality," he corrected, including me the second time.

His mother sat straight-backed and silent, and I thought for a moment she might drop it.

But then she said, "You should have left earlier."

"Are you really going to be like this tonight?" Donovan asked at the same time that I said, "It's my fault. I left my luggage at my apartment and we had to make an extra stop."

Susan looked at me for maybe the first time since we'd arrived, her eyes narrowed as though she'd been approached with a puzzle that she couldn't understand.

"Leave them alone, Susan. Arguing will just delay the meal," Raymond said. His wife seemed to want to say more, but as if her husband was the final word, she pressed her lips into a tight line and didn't say another thing on the subject.

Next to me, Donovan took a long swallow of wine. Raymond signaled to Edward to serve salad plates. And I stared intently at the empty dish in front of me, unsure where to look or what to say. Donovan had told me his parents weren't friendly, but I’d expected to at least be acknowledged. I'd expected my boyfriend to point me out if they didn't.

I was jumping the gun.

Because as soon as Donovan set his glass down, he said, "Sabrina, these are my parents. Raymond and Susan." He shot his mother a daring glare. "I am instructing her to address you by your first names, Mother, so don't get your panties in a wad when she doesn't call you Ms. Kincaid like you've trained everyone else in the household."

"That was awfully presumptuous of you, Donovan. I really wish you would've asked." Susan's green eyes flared when she was angry, like her son’s, I noticed.

But what a thing to be angry over.

I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or tell her off. What I did know was that we hadn't been in their presence very long, but I was already irritated that my date had allowed me to walk in so unprepared. Couldn't he have given me a heads up? Like, hey, my mom's a crazy bitch. Ignore everything she says.

Maybe that's what he'd wanted to say as we were walking out of our room, and given up. Well, I understood that it might be hard to speak ill about your folks, but he really should have tried harder.

"I'm happy to call you Ms. Kincaid, if that's what you prefer," I offered congenially, intending to address her as little as possible.

I could feel Donovan's displeasure with this suggestion.

Susan, however, seemed to like it very much. "Thank you, Sabrina.” To her son she said, “She has manners, Donovan, that's key in a woman.”

It wasn't like she had any to know.

His mother returned her attention to me. "I do appreciate that offer; the gesture says everything about what type of person you are. But my son is right. A first name basis is probably more practical, especially if we are going to be seeing each other from time to time moving forward."

Seriously?

Okay, Donovan couldn't have prepared me for this. No matter what he’d said, I would not have been able to predict what kind of answer a woman like this would want from me. No wonder he hadn't tried.

I wanted to say something snide in return but her latest comments had been fairly polite, and it was perhaps best not to rock the boat.

"Wonderful, Susan," I said instead, and reached for my wine glass.

Edward had better have another bottle on hand, I thought, because this evening was going to take a lot of alcohol to get through.

* * *

“So Sabrina, will you quit working after the wedding or will you wait until you are pregnant?"

I almost choked on my chicken roulade.

After our initial introduction, the evening had gone better. Early on, it was obvious that Raymond and Susan's only interest where I was concerned was in how well-bred I was. Or how well-bred I wasn't, as the case may be.

But poverty had always been my beginning, and that was unchangeable. I was used to the looks I got when people from better means heard about my upbringing. I had gotten it a lot when I had been at Harvard, in fact. And when someone like Donovan showed up with someone like me on his arm, of course his parents would want to know about my education, my current means. They probably were afraid I was after their son’s money, and it was only natural to make sure that I had legitimate feelings for him.

I did my best to speak affectionately about him at every turn possible. When the time came to speak about my job, I made sure I sounded independent and secure, not reliant on Donovan for my position or his paycheck, so the Kincaids wouldn't have to worry that I was attaching myself to him for reasons other than romantic. I had thought I was easing them into our relationship.

Then Raymond completely took me off guard by asking about weddings and babies.

"We’re not engaged," I said in unison with Donovan.

I was thankful he'd had the same answer. For a moment I wondered if I'd been brought here under false pretenses.

Though at the same time, I was intrigued by the idea. I almost wished I had time to consider it longer before he’d made it clear those weren't his intentions.

"Not yet, maybe," Raymond said, in between bites of his entrée. He took a swallow from his water goblet. "But why else would Donovan bring you here? He's never introduced a woman to us before."

"I knew you weren't gay," Susan said as though she had discussed it many times in the past.

Donovan blinked, shaking his head almost indiscernibly. "I'm not even acknowledging that comment."

"You've never introduced anyone to your parents before?" I patted my mouth with my napkin, trying to find a safer topic, one that might not have me on such pins and needles.

"They knew Amanda. Who else would I have brought here?"

I supposed no one. He'd told me that he hadn't had feelings for anyone since his fiancée had died so who would he have brought? It wasn’t surprising that there hadn’t been anyone.

Still, I was reeling from Raymond's comments. Why would he assume that engagement was inevitable when I'd only just met them?

Was it inevitable?

"You didn't answer the question," Susan prodded. She seemed to have decided to like me, but that wasn't saying a lot. I wasn't even sure she liked Donovan very much.

"What question?" The question about whether I’d quit working or not? Did she seriously expect me to answer that?

Thankfully Donovan intervened. “Sabrina worked harder than a lot of people do to get her degrees and to earn her reputation in the industry. I doubt that she will want to end her career if or when she marries, no matter how well off her husband is. She is very independent and strong-minded, and I'm certain she would enjoy contributing a paycheck almost as much as she enjoys the work itself. Not that it's any of our business what she chooses to do, since as I said, we are not betrothed."

"Right. I like working." I didn't know if I liked his answer, though. There was nothing wrong with it, and we absolutely weren't engaged, but did he have to seem so adamant about it?

Despite his son’s argument to the contrary, Raymond seemed not to be the kind of guy who thought anything was out of the realm of his business. "But you will quit when you're pregnant?"

Donovan rushed to answer this as well, but this time I decided to fend for myself. "I don't see why I’d have to."

Not that I was getting pregnant. Not that I was getting married.

Raymond and Susan exchanged anxious glances.

"Oh, but dear, you can't work with a baby," she said patiently. A bit condescendingly, too.

"It's not a woman's role," Raymond agreed.

"Not in polite circles. You can volunteer for the PTA. You can head charities—that's what I do. You can still work, per se, but earning an actual paycheck is…" She searched for the word that she wanted. “Tacky. And it’s not a good example for the baby."

I dropped my fork and looked at Donovan incredulously. He had his eyes closed and his jaw was working. It occurred to me that perhaps it was his parents that were the initial cause of the chronic clench of his teeth.

It sure wasn't his fault they were who they were.

But somehow, he was who he was because of them.

And so, for that reason alone, I didn't want to alienate them, no matter how archaic and idiotic their notions.

So when he began again to defend me and my future choices, I slipped my hand onto his knee under the table, letting him know I had this.

"I'll certainly consider your advice," I told them. “Of course, when the time comes to make those decisions, Donovan and I will have to seriously discuss it together."

I didn't even look to his parents for a reaction. I only looked to him. And though he didn't smile with his lips, his eyes did. Under the table, he laced his fingers through mine, and we held them together like a secret only the two of us knew for the rest of the meal.

* * *

After dinner, Susan went to bed early and Raymond asked Donovan to join him in his study for a cigar. It was clear that I was not invited, possibly because I was not his son, but I had a feeling it was because I was not a man.

It was fine. I was perfectly content to be left on my own. I went upstairs to our suite and spent an hour entering data I'd gathered on the ride up into my computer now that I had Wi-Fi. When I’d finished and Donovan still hadn't come up, I put on some slippers, stole the blanket from the bottom of the bed to wrap around me, and slipped out onto the balcony.

The night was cold and crisp, wetter and thicker than in the city. My breath was visible as I exhaled like I was smoking cigarettes. I leaned against the railing and looked out over the property and the land that stretched out beyond. It had stopped snowing and the moon was out now, and the stars. And without the lights of the city, I could see for miles—an ocean of trees and snow. Here and there a glow came from beneath the canopy, suggesting a residence underneath. But mostly there was nothing but woods. No one.

It was lonely.

As lonely as this house—this behemoth of a house that lodged two people, and perhaps an employee or two.

Donovan had told me he'd spent most of his time growing up in the city, but that his parents preferred the country home because of the space it provided them. And standing outside in the cold, alone, after the most unfriendly dinner of my life, all I could think was—how much space do three people who barely even talk need?

What a lonely way to grow up. What a lonely life Donovan had growing up.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the door behind me opened, and Donovan stepped out onto the balcony. "Two cigars and a glass of whiskey and I still didn't hear all the highlights of his stock picks this quarter." He came up next to me and held his hand out in my direction.

I looked down at his offering. A tumbler of scotch.

I accepted it and threw back a large swallow, enjoying the instant warmth that it provided.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, swirling the liquid in his own matching tumbler.

“That my amazing, loving, supportive, understanding parents both died too young. And yours are still alive. And that it’s not fair.” I regretted it as soon as I said it. I turned to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry. That was terrible.”

“Raymond and Susan are terrible,” he said, doubling down on my statement. He took a swallow from his drink and looked out over the distance.  “I wish I could have met your parents.”

God, I missed them. So much sometimes that my insides felt raw.

And sometimes I barely thought about them. That's how life went.

But wouldn't that have been something, for them to have met Donovan? For Donovan to have met them. “I don't know what would've happened if my father hadn't died—what would've happened at Harvard when I returned. But I wouldn’t have made it to Harvard at all without the life insurance from my mother’s death. So I suppose I can’t wish that she’d never died and still have you.”

He turned so that his back was to the railing, and he could face me better. “Do you still want me after tonight? After meeting them?” He nodded toward the house, as if it were a stand-in for his parents.

“I do.” Maybe even more than I did before.

“You know they aren’t me, don’t you? I would never ask you to give up any part of who you are to fulfill some outdated societal role.”

I sighed, because he couldn't understand how many times a day I was asked to do just that. How many times a day a woman in a world of men was asked to fulfill some outdated societal role—it was too many times to count, too many to know, too many to solve between the two of us and two tumblers of scotch.

“It could be kind of fun though, if you pretended that you might.” I peered over at him and let him imagine the filthy kind of ways we could play 1950s housewife.

“You’re such a dirty girl.”

“Come on inside and let me prove it.”

I put my hand in his and, together, we walked out of the lonely night.