Chapter 16 A Wake-Up Call
A WAKE-UP CALL
Simone
Rap rap rap.
Rap rap RAP.
RAP RAP RAP.
A woodpecker was outside my door. Or maybe a malfunctioning clock. Whatever it was, it was loud and insistent.
It took me several minutes to realize I wasn’t actually a contestant on The Great British Bake Off but still in my apartment while someone else wanted in.
RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP.
“Oh my God.” I shoved myself out of bed and checked my phone for the time, then stumbled toward the door while pulling on my favorite pink bathrobe. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. Mr. Lee, I asked you not to come around collecting rent this early—oh!”
I opened the door to find not my seventy-two-year-old landlord, but a brusque woman of maybe fifty-five tapped the toe of her no-nonsense pump.
“Ms. Bishop?” She touched the edge of her librarian glasses and looked me over.
“Um, yes?” I was never exactly sure of who I was before coffee.
“I’m Ruth Delgado, executive assistant to Brendan Black.” She held up a to-go cup. “Hazelnut latte? We have a lot to do.”
Immediately, I loved her. “Well, if you have to wake someone up, you know how to do it. How did you know what I like?”
“It’s my job to know.” Her pumps clipped across the battered wood floor as I accepted the latte and let her in. “So, what all are we taking with us?”
Quickly, I swallowed. “Taking what where?”
“It’s moving day, hon. Though I don’t know how much of this you’ll need.”
“Moving day? But I just signed—I mean, Brendan and I just got engaged six days ago.”
The words felt thick on my tongue, like my mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls. Just like they had every other time I’d practiced saying them to myself in the mirror while trying to figure out how I was going to lie to the people in my life for the next four months.
More than once, I’d tried to pick up the phone to call my dad and tell him the news. Let Selena, who had gone back to Rhode Island for the rest of her and Kylie’s things, know the money she needed was in my account.
I’d gotten as far as quitting my job at Fez, calling in sick at the hospital the day after Brendan “proposed,” and spending the rest of the weekend and a good portion of this week perfecting my sourdough cinnamon rolls so I wouldn’t have to think about anything else.
They’d sold out at Cavalier in two hours yesterday. Lincoln said they were my best batch yet.
“Mr. Black’s schedule is very exact,” Ruth said as if my confusion had no bearing on the situation.
“The stylist will be here in”—she checked her watch—“an hour to prepare you for your first photo op. We have until then to mark everything that needs to travel with you to the penthouse. I’ll have the rest sent to storage. ”
This time, I gulped down the coffee so quickly I burned my tongue. “Stylist? Photo op?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to bring you over to the Blackguard offices during lunchtime, and then you and Mr. Black can be photographed exiting the building together and again in front of his building for your official move-in.”
When I didn’t answer, she looked up from her survey of my apartment to find me staring at her like she’d grown three heads.
A kind expression passed over her face. “Didn’t you and Mr. Black discuss any of this? It wouldn’t be the first time he assumed people know what he wants.”
I opened my mouth to agree with her but realized I couldn’t. “We…did. Sort of. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”
I rubbed a hand over my face.
And realized too late that it was the hand that should be wearing my fake engagement ring…and wasn’t.
The hand that Ruth was eyeing with that same sharp-eyed expression.
I fought not to hide it behind my back like a guilty thief. “I take the ring off to sleep.”
“Mmm. I’m sure you’re just getting used to it. But you might want to put it on before leaving. Otherwise, people might think something they shouldn’t.”
I nodded when she didn’t push for more of an explanation.
“Finish your coffee and get ready for the day.” She set her black shoulder bag on the counter and took out an iPad bearing a neatly written to-do list. “I’ll start with inventory.”
When I emerged from the bathroom, showered and dressed in my favorite old jeans and a vintage Jim Croce T-shirt, Ruth had already brewed another pot of coffee, compiled a list on her iPad of everything in my kitchen, and was now ticking off items in the living room half of the apartment.
I sat at the kitchen table with a second cup of coffee and thumbed through my phone, looking for messages from Brendan. Anything to explain what was happening today.
After accepting the good wishes of his staff last Friday and the dubious gazes of his brothers, he had escorted me to the elevator, kissed me on the cheek in front of the receptionist, and murmured in my ear that he would be in touch.
A town car was waiting for me on the curb to take me back to Jamaica Plain.
That was the last time I had heard from him directly.
He had, however, done everything he said he would do. The money had arrived in my account by the time I’d fallen asleep that night. A curt email bearing the names of several tax and family law attorneys, along with some financial planners I hadn’t asked for, had landed in my inbox.
Brendan, however, hadn’t so much as texted.
I still hadn’t spent a penny other than to transfer the money Selena needed into her bank account. I hadn’t even called my dad, knowing that if I told him I suddenly had enough cash to stave off his creditors and hire much-needed staff for the dairy, he would want to know where it came from.
Instead, I kept checking my account balance, mesmerized by the number of commas in the number.
It hadn’t seemed real.
It still didn’t seem real.
Not until this woman, whose picture was probably next to the word “competence” in the dictionary, showed up at my front door.
“Nothing in your kitchen looked particularly sentimental.” Ruth appeared at the table, pulling me out of my daze. “Anything you really need, I’ll have stocked in Mr. Black’s kitchen.”
I frowned. “Can’t we just bring it all? Why make him spend more money than he has to?”
Ruth looked dubiously at the frying pan I’d picked up on Marketplace for ten dollars. It was a Le Creuset knockoff, and the enamel was starting to crack through the center.
“He won’t mind,” was all she said as she hung the pan back on the rack. “Unless you have something of personal value—”
“I do, actually. That cast iron loaf pan with the flower handles. It was my mom’s.”
“Understood.” She ticked off a box on her spreadsheet, then crossed the room back to the area containing my bed, the tiny sofa, and the armoire holding my clothes.
“You’ll have a new wardrobe shortly, but I can pack an overnight bag for the next few days from what you have here.
” She opened the door of the armoire. “Anything you want particularly?”
I frowned. “Just an overnight bag? But I’m moving.”
Ruth gave me that look again. “Yes. But where you’re going, I don’t think you’ll need these.” She pulled out a pair of torn corduroys I’d been wearing since I was fourteen, wrinkled her nose, and pushed them right back in.
I glared at my hands, then pulled out my phone while Ruth continued to move around the apartment, marking down things I would apparently be permitted to take to Brendan’s penthouse (my favorite book, yes; a moth-eaten wool sweater, no).
I was done waiting for Mr. Too Busy to Text Me.
A lady is at my house nixing everything I own. Know anything about that?
To my surprise, his answer was almost instantaneous.
Brendan
Good morning. That’s Ruth, my assistant.
Yes, she mentioned that. She also mentioned that I am apparently moving to your house TODAY and need to be ready for some kind of photo op???
I sighed as I typed the words. What even was a photo op?
Was it a professional photo shoot meant for an engagement announcement or something equally ridiculous only rich people did?
Was it playacting for paparazzi and reporters where I was supposed to smile for the cameras?
Where were these photos even going to be published?
Brendan
The news leaked to the press a bit sooner than I anticipated, so we’re getting ahead of it.
What does that mean?
Brendan
Ruth should have explained that to you. An official engagement announcement has been sent to the Globe. We’ll need to do an interview. But today, just being seen together should counter the rumors with our truth.
“Our truth.” Not the truth.
The difference was subtle, but I knew exactly what he meant.
This relationship was anything but true.
Still, something else was bugging me.
Which rumors?
I stared at the floating dots for a minute or so until only a link preview appeared in the chat box. The headline from the Herald was enough.
TALK ABOUT GOOD HEALTHCARE! Boston Candy Striper Seen Canoodling with The Black Prince
I cringed. Anxiety washed over me as I clicked on the article, a few paragraphs about the fact that Brendan and I had met at Mass General and were later seen kissing at his office.
It was vague enough that neither of us would be able to place who exactly was the “source” that had given the story to the Herald.
But whoever it was had no interest in calling me his betrothed.
I knew my life was about to change, but it was all going so quickly. I needed everything to slow down. Just so I could breathe. Maybe perfect another pastry recipe or two to clear my head.
I can’t move today. I haven’t even told my family yet. I need some more time, please.
The three moving dots floated on my screen for a solid five minutes before a reply appeared:
Brendan
You signed a contract. Whenever I need. And you’ve had a week.
Well, what did I expect? Flowers? Hearts? Basic gratitude or consideration?
If I needed a reminder not to get emotionally involved in whatever this was, his text was the splash of cold water I needed.