Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Grady
As we taxi toward the arrival gate, I switch my phone out of airplane mode, and the screen lights up.
Emily
Made it okay?
Before I can respond, another message comes in.
Jared:
Em is putting together a lasagna. Don’t worry, I’ll eat your slice, too.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I start a group chat with them both.
Grady
I just landed. It’s already dark here.
A picture of the back garden pops up in response, still bathed in weak winter light. The three-hour time difference is really going to mess with me.
Another picture appears of Mixie sitting outside the guest room door.
Jared
We’re not the only ones who miss you.
Emily
Stop texting and go back to doing the laundry.
Warmth spindles through me at being let into this casual domesticity of their life, and I wonder why I didn’t make a group chat with them before now.
Grady
Just pulled up to the gate. Enjoy your lasagna tonight and give Mixie a scratch behind the ears.
Before I can tuck my phone away, another picture comes in, this one of Jared holding a disgruntled Mixie up to the camera for a selfie with Emily in the background. The female Alpha appears as disgruntled as her cat, but she lifts her hand in a wave.
I save it to my photo folder as the cabin pressure releases with a hiss, and a hundred seatbelts click open around me.
Another message comes in, this one from Chloe, who sent a photo of Quinn perched on the Homestead porch railing, both arms raised toward the camera, mouth open in what must be a shout.
Chloe
SHE ASKED WHERE UNCLE GRADY WENT FOUR TIMES WHEN SHE GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL TODAY. HURRY HOME, OR I’M SENDING HER TO YOUR PARENTS’ HOUSE INSTEAD.
Grady
Stop shouting at me, woman. It doesn’t make me miss you more.
Chloe
AHHHHHHHHHH
Miss you. Come home soon.
A pang of guilt goes through me.
Grady
Miss you, too.
I disembark with the rest of the first-class passengers and follow the flood of bodies toward baggage claim, my cane held close to my body to keep strangers from jostling it.
Bright terminal lights reflect off polished floors as the bite of industrial cleaner competes with the lingering tang of jet fuel.
Overhead, a speaker crackles with a gate change announcement.
Around me, strangers collect suitcases, hug relatives, and move on with their Fridays as if it’s any other night.
It’s six o’clock here, but my body thinks it’s only three, with hours yet before dinner time.
I find my baggage pickup location and search for the family driver, or someone holding a sign with my name on it, but don’t find anyone waiting for me.
Sure, my family doesn't want me seen flying coach, but they can't be bothered to send a car to pick me up.
Coming to a stop beside the unmoving belt, I pull out my phone and book a black car for myself. My mother would faint if I pulled up to the house in a taxi.
The app sends back an instant approval and directs me to the executive pickup area outside arrivals.
My bad knee throbs after the seven-hour flight, even with the added room the first-class ticket afforded me. The joint is stiff and angry, the metal pins a dull ache beneath the skin. Every time I shift, I wince as pain spikes up and down my leg.
The carousel groans to life, and luggage begins its slow parade. I spot my hard shell case with the dragon sticker on the side and heave it off the belt.
Outside, the March air carries a bite that Pinecrest’s coastal chill never quite manages. It’s a dry cold, the kind that finds the gaps in a wool coat and settles into your bones.
I don't have to wait long at the executive pickup area before a black sedan pulls up. The driver jumps out to take my bag before I can lift it. I limp to the back and slide in.
“Where to, sir?” he asks as he settles behind the wheel.
“Finch residence in Ashbourne.”
I haven’t had to give the address in years. The Finch house is a landmark in Ashbourne.
“You got it.”
The driver merges into traffic, and Connecticut slides past the window, strip malls giving way to older neighborhoods, then to the tree-lined streets of Ashbourne proper.
Maples and oaks, still bare from winter, line the road, their black branches etched across the dark sky.
Through them, I glimpse familiar mansions set back from the road, each one immaculate in its own way.
Colonial, Federal, and a few Victorians with wraparound porches.
The kind of neighborhood where Christmas lights go up on the same weekend every year and come down by January second.
The car turns onto my parents’ street, and the three-story, white painted-brick mansion comes into view, carriage lanterns glowing on either side of the front door.
The car passes through the open, black-iron gate and drives up the circular drive to stop at the front door.
I pay, then struggle to climb out, my stiff knee not wanting to cooperate. By the time I straighten, my bag waits for me at the bottom of the steps, and the driver is climbing back behind the wheel.
Manicured boxwoods trimmed into perfect green rectangles flank the front steps, and as I drag myself and my bag up toward the door, where the porch light reflects off a brass knocker that’s been polished to a mirror shine.
My father opens the door before I reach the top step. “There you are. The flight was on time. Good.”
He steps back, holding the door with one hand and a tablet in the other. “I’ve pulled the Q1 projections. The timeline for the Bennett acquisition has moved up, and I want your read on the integration before Monday.”
He thrusts the tablet at me as I cross the threshold. Quarterly projections glow on the screen, certain cells highlighted in a pale, administrative blue.
“Dad, I’m barely through the door,” I protest. “Let me at least settle in.”
Behind him, my mother appears in the doorway to the living room. She crosses to me in three quick steps, kisses my cheek, and pulls back to study my face.
“Turbulence?” she asks.
“Not much.”
“Good. Dinner will start soon, and the Bennetts are joining us.” She smooths a hand down the front of her cream cashmere sweater. “Caroline mentioned she’s been following your Pinecrest work. I thought it would be nice for you two to catch up.”
I sigh and take in the familiar foyer with its black-and-white marble tile laid in a checkerboard pattern, the crystal chandelier overhead throwing prisms across the walls, and a side table of dark walnut that holds a vase of white lilies.
Their scent fills the air, nothing like the wild roses that climb Emily’s porch trellises.
I set my suitcase beside the table and take the tablet from my father’s hand. Refusing it would start a fight I’m not ready to have.
“Overall, the integration works,” I say, scrolling through the spreadsheet with a thumb. “The media division overlap is where I’d focus. Bennett’s print holdings could complement the digital side if we reposition the subscription model.”
My father grunts with approval. “Exactly my thought. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”
He turns toward his study, already moving on to the next item.
My mother touches my arm. “Your room has been made up. There are fresh towels in the bath. Go change into dinner attire, please.”
I turn my head to stare at the broad swoop of stairs leading to the second floor. I had told my parents about my injury, told them how stairs were hard for me now, but only servants sleep on the ground floor, and no exception would be made.
I head for the staircase, cane tapping on each tread. My knee protests the climb, a hot spike driving up from the joint with every step. By the time I reach the landing, sweat coats my forehead, and I grip the banister hard enough for my knuckles to ache.
The hallway is as I remember it. Same cream wallpaper. Same landscape paintings in gold frames. Same runner underfoot, worn thin in the center from thirty years of footsteps.
My bedroom door stands open. Inside, the twin bed has been replaced with a queen, but the mahogany desk is the same, with the scratch on the left corner where I dropped a textbook in tenth grade.
The bookshelf holds my old rowing trophies, dusted and arranged by height.
The windows overlook the backyard, where the swimming pool sits covered for winter, a blue tarp stretched taut over the surface.
I set the tablet on the desk and lift my suitcase onto the foot bench to unzip it. Blazer, dress trousers, and a pressed shirt I packed at the bottom, where they wouldn’t wrinkle.
I change slowly, working around the cane, the bad leg stiff and uncooperative. The blazer fits, but the shoulders sit wrong since the last time I wore it. Since the accident, I’ve put on muscle from all those months of physical therapy, and the cut is too narrow across the back.
All I want to do is lie down and rest, but that won’t be allowed. Not with guests arriving soon and supper still ahead.
Back downstairs, the door to the dining room stands open, and light spills into the hallway. It sounds as if the guests have already arrived.
My mom hurries over to intercept me before I enter. “Darling, can’t you leave that thing in your room for tonight?”
I frown in confusion. “What are you…” Then I realize she’s staring at my cane, and I have to fight down my anger. “No, I need it so I don’t fall over. I explained that to you before I flew out.”
She fusses with my collar. “Don’t they have a leg brace you can wear instead?”
“No.”
“Well, excuse me for looking out for your best interest,” she huffs. “No need to be short with your mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I force out. “It was a long flight, and I’m in pain, which is why I asked for this dinner to be moved to tomorrow.”
“Tonight is what worked for everyone else.” She steps back. “Now, be polite to Caroline and her parents. They’re important people.”
“I understand.” Shifting to her other side, I offer my arm. “Shall we?”
She smooths away her frown, and we walk into the dining room together.