What did you do when your past showed up at your doorstep wearing a too-tight purple windbreaker and a buck-toothed smile? You shut the door; that’s what you did.

The only problem was that it was Karen who opened my door and, as I was walking down the stairs, let in my dearly inconvenient brother, Paul. Clearly, the topic of our next monthly meeting would be not letting in anyone without my explicit permission.

But it was too late, now. Paul was swiveling his head around my house, as if searching for something, his gaze finally returning to me, where I was frozen on the steps.

“You off to work?”

Jogging down the rest of the steps, I tossed a “yes” over my shoulder as I made my way to my car. Once there, I stopped.

“What are you doing here?”

His attempt at a smile fell flat.

“Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head. “Paul, I have to go to work. What are you doing here?”

“It’s…” His watery brown eyes blinked furiously. “It’s ten years since Mom…you know.”

“Ah, that.”

With a nod, I got in the car and closed the door. Paul trailed behind me.

I rolled down the window.

“That’s it?” he said.

Turning on the engine, I called, “You can stay here, but not long. I have to go to work.”

Then, I was pulling out of my driveway, driving away. But even as I sped down one road and onto another, Paul and all his unpleasant associations followed me. Trust my hapless brother to show up just as the final plans for the empire were getting underway, and for the most useless reason of all, at that.

As if my periodic payments to his shiftless self weren’t enough, now I would be expected to put him up for who knew how long, all in the name of “brotherly love.” “Family is family, for worse or for worse,” as Father used to say.

On my phone was the memo from yesterday: “Tell Cynthia to forget about Donna.” And yet, when I got into my busy-as-ever building and made my way up to my empty-as-usual penthouse floor (since my office was the only one on it), I didn’t tell Cynthia. No, I didn’t even give her my usual curt nod. I was five minutes late, after all.

As I sat at my desk, I opened my laptop and went through the day’s schedule. Yes, it was looking like another packed day: calls and meetings and more meetings all day, some dinner, and then Selma all night. Sadly, there was no time for a sappy, useless brother. I texted Selma.

Your place tonight. Wear the red dress.

Selma was my Arabian princess. With black silky hair down to her ass and big doe eyes that half closed as I stroked her, she looked great in red. I couldn’t exactly remember which red dress was my favorite—I hadn’t seen her for a two weeks after all, with a handful of women in between—but I was sure whatever she chose would be good.

A buzz. I picked up the phone.

“Mr. Ray?”

It was Cynthia.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Mr.—, well, he says he’s your brother.”

She said it with all the dubious shock that indicated that yes, it could be no one else but my brother, who had somehow managed to get here shortly after me.

“Do you want me to—”

“Show him in.”

I hung up. Might as well get this over with.

The door creaked open and Paul poked his head in.

“Close the door behind you,” I said, and he did.

“What do you want Paul?” I asked his pathetic-looking puppy eyes.

“I…uh…well, are you going to come?”

Glaring at Paul’s obliviousness, I resisted the urge to chuck my gold pyramid paperweight at his head.

“Come to what, Paul?”

“Mom’s grave next week. It’ll be the ten-year anniversary on Tuesday.”

I slid the paperweight to the other side of my desk.

“I know.”

A long silence, then, “It’s been a while.”

“I know.”

When I glanced up, he was peering at me incredulously, as if I really had chucked the paperweight at his head.

“What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you sad? I mean, I’m your brother, and Mom…”

“I know, Paul. I found her, remember? And yes, forgive me that I’m not overjoyed to see you since it will invariably end up with a sort of teary payout to go away for a few more months.”

Now the teary brown eyes were actually swimming with tears.

“You… Hell, Carter, there’s something really wrong with you. With these pipelines that are all over the news, threatening biodiverse habitats, dividing the community…”

I shrugged.

“Business is business.”

He walked up so he was right in front of my desk, the most incongruous guest my office had ever received.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

I smiled.

“You’re starting to get it.”

Wiping his eyes, words sputtered out.

“Jeez, I always thought, whatever I heard, that you were my brother, that they were exaggerating, misunderstanding you. I always thought you weren’t like that.”

I tilted the pyramid paperweight on its side. This was getting boring.

“Be careful what you hear, Paul. Sometimes it just might be right.”

Seizing the paperweight, Paul squeezed it, his eyes wild, like he might do something rash. Although, we both knew he wouldn’t.

“You know, you’re really like Dad, you know that? Never thought I’d say this, but you’re just like that bitter old workaholic.”

As Paul marched to the door, I called a “thank you” after him.

The next time my phone buzzed a few minutes later, I answered it and immediately said, “Tell my brother to call. I’m unfortunately indisposed at the moment.”

But Cynthia said, “It’s not Paul. It’s a Miss Ashley Turndale—of the Turndale family with extensive property in rural Colorado.”

“Ah.”

“She would like to meet with you—immediately, if possible.”

I opened my laptop and glanced at my schedule once more. It was packed; no doubt about it. But this was important. It could have been the last part of property needed to complete the pipelines. This could solve everything.

“All right. Where?” I asked.

“Oh, eh, she’s saying Manitou Springs,” Cynthia said, clearly surprised.

“Tell her it’s a go and to text me details,” I said, rising. “And move all my meetings to tomorrow. I’ll come in Saturday and finish everything else. Thanks, Cynthia.”

I hung up. Suddenly, the room felt stifling. Paul had ruined the workday; there was no getting around it. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t pop out for a meeting and be productive despite the setback. Manitou Springs was only an hour and change away. I could make it, easy.

Once I got in the car, I got a text from her: This is Miss Turndale. I’d like to meet in the Manitou Cliff Dwellings as they are part of my family’s land.

I set my GPS to the Manitou Cliff Dwellings, strapped myself in, responded that I’d be there in an hour.