It was only the first day of the second week of her new job, and Caylee was already starting to feel at home. The work was challenging, but she was confident that she would quickly get up to speed in this area of the law, and she'd already gotten kudos from Ritchie on a research memo she'd drafted for him on Friday for an upcoming motion in a products liability case. In fact, he'd been so pleased with her work that he'd told her he'd decided to have her argue the motion when it came up for hearing in court.

This never, she realized, would have happened this quickly at her old firm. There an associate lawyer had to work for months or even years with a partner until they were trusted to even meet with the client to present their analysis of a case, much less argue the position in court.

And the atmosphere at Flanagan, Berrington, and Perez was just so much more . . .  friendly, that was word for it, Caylee thought as she walked through the lobby, exchanged hello's with the receptionist, and headed down the hall to her own office. Which was, by the way, a larger and much nicer office than she'd had at the firm in New York.

Of course she imagined space was at a little less of a premium in Miami than New York City, but still. Her office here was twice as big plus had a view of Biscayne Bay.

Her legal assistant Aleesha's office was directly across the hall from hers. No window view, but spacious with an open doorway and a built in desk and counter that was a significant step up from a typical cubicle.

"Good morning, Caylee," Aleesha said, smiling, and Caylee retuned the greeting. That was another difference here. The informality between attorneys and staff. In the New York firm, legal assistants and even junior associates were definitely not on a first name basis with more senior lawyers and partners, and even the junior associates were addressed by the staff as "Mr." or "Ms." It had been a social hierarchy that mirrored the separation between wealthy families and household staff that Caylee had grown up with. She'd hated it.

Here it felt like everyone was on the same team, and each person's contribution was valued and appreciated.

"You got a delivery," Aleesha continued. "I put it on your desk."

"Oh? I wasn't expecting anything."

When she walked into her office and saw the flowers her first thought was seriously, Tito? as a warm rush of pleasure hit her. Surprising and she would not have thought it his style at all. And she didn't miss the fact that it was an obviously expensive arrangement and an unusual one at that.

"How lovely," she said, as she pulled out the small white envelop and retrieved the card, while Aleesha lingered in the doorway.

She frowned, then turned the card over to check the other side. He hadn't signed it. The message was brief, typed on the front of the card.

Congratulations on the new job.

"That's odd," she said, turning back toward Aleesha. "The card isn't signed."

"Really?" Aleesha came into the room to look at it. "Congratulations on the new job. You don't have any idea who sent it?"

"No, I thought I did, but that doesn't make sense." If Tito had sent her flowers, she'd bet he would have sent something tropical and maybe a bit wild. Like birds of paradise and calla lilies. Unless she missed her guess, these were cymbidium orchids, in yellow, green, pink and white. They reached well over two feet tall, with at least a dozen stems. An arrangement like this probably cost at least $500.

"Orchids," she said, puzzling it out. "My mother grows orchids for a hobby."

"Oh," Aleesha said, "did she send them?"

"Not likely." Her mother would hardly be congratulating her on the new job. The fact that Caylee had taken it both disappointed and baffled her mother.

And if Tito had sent them - which, again, really didn't seem his style - the card would have said something mentioning their date, or hinting at the next one. It would have been more his style - and in keeping with the theme of their date - to have sent her a indigenous plant for her windowsill.

"Well, if it was the law firm welcoming you I think someone would have told me." Aleesha frowned. "Why would anyone send you flowers and not sign them? Especially a really nice bouquet like that."

Why indeed, Caylee wondered, with a nagging little unpleasant worry that refused to go way. That was ridiculous, she told herself. She had to stop feeling paranoid about what obviously was just a nice gesture from someone who wished her well. Any number of the friends she'd grown up with and gone to everything from charity galas to trendy New York City clubs could order an arrangement like this without blinking. All of them had trust funds and all of them spent money like it meant nothing at all.

But still. Would any of them have actually bothered to look up the name of her new law firm and make this gesture? Maybe.

"The name of the florist is on the envelop," Aleesha pointed out. "Why don't I just give them a call and say the card was misplaced and I need to find out who sent them to my boss so she can send a thank you. You'd be amazed how helpful people can be when I suggest I might be in trouble if I don't get the answer."

"That's brilliant," Caylee said. "Thanks, Aleesha."

"No problem." Her assistant turned toward the door. "I'll let you know what I find out."

Caylee studied the flowers again, then moved them from the center of her desk to the narrow glass table against the wall at the side of her office so they were no longer directly in her line of sight. She resolutely opened her laptop and, at least for now, tried to put the mystery of the flowers out of her mind.

* * *

Tito thought it took a lot to shock him, but when Miles Fortner pulled his Mercedes into the entrance to the Fisher Island Ferry Terminal and joined the line of cars waiting to drive onboard he felt his jaw drop .

"Are you kidding me?" he asked.

"I certainly am not," Miles replied. "My client has a private estate on Fisher Island."

"That's one of the most exclusive communities in the country," Tito commented. The people who lived there were A-list celebrities, and giants in industry and finance. It was accessible only by boat or ferry, and only by invitation.

"It's a rare opportunity to visit a home like this," Miles continued. "It's actually only one of about 20 single family homes on the Island. Most of the residents live in condos, although only about 30% are here year-round."

Tito was sure even the smallest condo would run into the millions, and imagined what it must like to treat that kind of purchase as a vacation residence. It just didn't compute.

"There are some very famous people who own property here and their privacy is closely guarded." The tinge of excitement in his voice made it clear that even  this lawyer who represented some of the wealthiest clients in Miami wasn't above being a little bit star struck by the possibility of running into a movie or television icon during their visit to the Island. Tito remembered his mother telling him and Maria when they were kids that she'd read in a magazine that Oprah and Julia Roberts both had homes there. He hadn't believed it at the time, but maybe it was true.

"I'm just curious how someone with this kind of wealth even knew about a small, start-up nonprofit like OFC," Tito commented. "And what possible interest they would have in supporting a program that helps juvenile offenders.

"I imagine you will have all your questions answered shortly," was all Miles would say.

If it was invitation only, then Miles Fortner apparently had a standing invitation, since he was greeted by name by the attendant who came to the driver's side window. A few moments later Miles pulled forward and then they were onboard, parking the car with the other auto passengers. When Miles made no move to get out Tito realized they just stayed in the car for the ride over. 

Tito had a sudden thought. "Do you live on the Island as well?"

Miles gave a short laugh. "No, no. I'm not that successful." He paused. "I have a lovely home in Coral Gables," he explained, apparently wanting assure Tito that he was indeed successful - just not successful enough to live on Fisher Island.

"Must be pretty high cost real estate."

"Well, you can spend a lot more in Hollywood, of course. Single family estates here are probably worth around $16 million or more in today's market. But this one's been in the family for years, so I'm sure they didn't pay anywhere near that amount to acquire it."

Tito wondered again exactly who they were.

"Just how large is this Trust?" Tito asked.

But Miles just shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Since he probably wasn't going to get any more substantive information out of the lawyer, Tito decided to just settle back in his seat and enjoy the view. So this was how the 1% lived, he mused as they approached the island that boasted tall luxury condos, white sandy beaches, and, apparently, single family residences that could only be described as lavish estates.

When the Mercedes disembarked Miles glanced over at him. "It's only a short distance to Valencia Drive."

Tito just nodded. He didn't imagine it was a long distance to anywhere on the private island. It's size was just another reflection of its exclusivity.

When they pulled into the driveway he had to admitted the house was an impressive sight. He supposed it was a Mediterranean style of architecture, with its columned entranceway and wrought iron railings on balconies. He half expected a British butler or a maid in one of those little uniforms with the frilly white apron to open the door when they rang the bell.

Instead, it was a woman in probably her early 20's wearing black yoga pants and a cropped shirt, her braided hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Hello Mr. Fortner." She turned to Tito. "And you must be Tito Martinez. Come in, please." She had an accent Tito couldn't place.

"It's good to see you, Chloe," Miles said, then to Tito, "Chloe's a graduate student from Kenya staying here while she completes her studies at University of Miami."

"Nice to meet you," Tito said, while he wondered what if anything she had to do with the Trust.

"You can wait in the family room," she instructed them, then disappeared up the curved staircase that, like the floor, was polished marble.

Tito followed Miles, who clearly knew where he was going, through a large archway into a sprawling and sunny room that looked out through sets of French doors to a swimming pool and courtyard. There was a cart to one side set up with beverages and Miles walked over and used the silver tongs to put ice in a tall glass then poured water with slices of lime and fresh raspberries from a clear pitcher.  He looked over at Tito who was staring out at the courtyard.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

Tito shook his head.  "No, not now, thanks." He was way too keyed up with anticipation to have a drink or even sit down. Instead, he turned away from the French doors and walked around the room, looking at the art on the walls. It was mostly Florida scenes, although there was one of an outside cafe in what he assumed was Paris that caught his eye. There was something familiar about it, if not the painting then the style. Tito leaned closer and then blinked.

It couldn't be. But it was. He stared at the signature in the lower right corner. He knew the artist. Very well, in fact.

Just then he heard the quiet sound of soft shoes on the marble floor, and turned to the doorway. A woman who looked like she was in her early 70's was standing just inside the family room. She wore some kind of silky pants with a matching top. She had allowed her hair to go silver, and it was cut in a simple and elegant style that ended just above her shoulders. She was small framed and thin, but her eyes  - staring into his - were clear and blue. And there was steel in them, he could tell that even from across the room. She was still, at her age, quite beautiful and he could imagine what she must have looked like when she was  younger.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice as poised and elegant as her appearance. "I didn't mean to stare."

Tito hadn't noticed because he'd been staring as well, trying to make the pieces fit together.

Miles stood, but before he could make introductions, Tito turned his head back toward the wall and the image he'd been studying. "This painting," he said. "The artist is Maria Martinez. My sister."

"Yes," the woman confirmed, "I know. I have several others as well that I've purchased through the gallery."

"I don't understand," Tito said.

The woman walked closer and joined him looking at the painting. "She's a very talented artist."

Then she glanced over at the lawyer. "Miles, thank you. If you don't mind, I'd like you to leave now."

He set his drink down on a side table with a soft click, and his face conveyed both surprise and concern. "I don't think that's wise, Eleanor."

"Yes, I know you don't, Miles," she said, "but do it anyway."

She turned back toward Tito, her eyes locking again with his.

"Go, Miles," she said. "I'd like to spend some time in private with my grandson."

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. What do you think Tito's reaction will be? Why is Eleanor only now getting in touch with him?