Chapter 17
Tristan
She doesn’t yell. My mother never yells. But her body posture morphs into a steely executive. It’s her armor.
I’ve seen her strap it on my whole life. When emotions rise, her back straightens, her stomach flattens, and her breasts lift. When faced with an emotional situation, she becomes the power executive.
The not being married comment is a step too far.
How do I know I’ve pushed too far? Injured a nerve? Her angled nails curve in to her palm. She’s the opposite of a cat. When threatened, the claws come out on felines. My mother curls hers in, controlling any tremor of emotion.
Why is she still with my father?
I love him and he’s a good man, but she’s clearly hurt by his infidelity.
In the private elevator, descending to the car park, her reflection is unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know her.
“Why are you still with him?”
“Tristan.” The doors slide open into the brightly lit concrete garage. She leans forward and presses the button for the doors to close. As they close, she faces me. “I don’t believe in divorce. There are no divorces in our family.”
What she means is there are no divorces in the Wagner family, which she married into, and she won’t be the first.
“And you’re okay with your open marriage?”
She crosses her arms below her breast. Her chin lifts. For a woman her age, she does truly look remarkable. Her neck is firm, her cheek-bones high and full, as are her lips. The overhead light reflects off her smooth forehead. But in the right light, tiny lines can be seen, like cracks in a porcelain veneer.
The silence between us absorbs the oxygen in the small stainless steel lift. I’d like to open the doors and let in fresh air, but she’s afraid someone might overhear.
“He told you?”
When I was a child, my mother’s eyes were a bold blue. It’s only now I see the color has faded from her irises.
“I met her.” If it weren’t for her defensive posture, I’d pull her into my arms. Tell her everything is going to be okay. I’ve never asked and I’m sure she signed a pre-nuptial agreement, but I have more than enough to take care of her. And she’s been working her whole life. She’s the founder of a cosmetics company that has nothing to do with the Wagner estate. There are no financial reasons she could have to stay with him.
“Cassandra. A lovely woman. I consider her a friend.”
Did I mishear her?
“Tristan. Come now. This is the twenty-first century. While I wish if your father was going to inform you of our arrangement, he would have allowed me to be a part of the conversation, it is what it is. Don’t stand there looking so shocked. Your father and I are great partners. We’ve had an open marriage for decades.”
“But…” I am truly shocked. I had no idea.
“Tristan, you’re in your early forties. Please don’t tell me I need to assure you that you are still loved and that your father's and mine’s decisions do not affect the amount of love we feel for you? That’s the speech you give a teen.”
“You were just disparaging dad for cheating on you with assistants. Don’t act like this doesn’t bother you.”
“I was disparaging your father for bringing it into the workplace. He had plenty of private sources. Thank god that is no longer an issue. One of the many benefits of his retirement.”
“So you had an open marriage with parameters.”
“Every marriage has parameters, open or not. If you ever settle down, you’ll learn that for yourself.” She steps forward and smooths a hand over the light merino wool sweater I threw on over a pair of jeans. “If you would come with me to brunch, we could talk about your plans. But you would need to change.”
“It’s Saturday morning. My attire is suitable.” A flicker of hope brightens her eyes. “But I have a guest this morning.” And if all goes well, I’ll spend my day with her.
She points a nail toward the elevator button.
“I think you should leave him.”
She pulls her hand back.
“I think you’ll be happier. You live separately. It can’t be healthy to live—” I stop myself from finishing the sentence. I was about to accuse her of living a lie. But that’s not really what I mean. I just…I know that my father’s choices hurt her. She won’t admit it, but I know they do. I feel her pain. She doesn’t have to stay with him.
“I am happily married to your father.” With determined finality, she pushes the button and the doors slide open. The discussion is over.
I step into the garage. She stops and holds out that long nail like she’s remembered something quite important.
“That assistant you’re playing around with. The Brazilian girl?”
“Lucia.”
“She’s smart. A good worker and a company asset. Don’t do anything that makes her leave. Nelson won’t forgive you. It would disrupt his world if she left. She keeps everything together for him. Do you hear me?”
I nod and rock back in my fleece slippers, feeling like an adolescent being reprimanded.
She shakes her head back and forth, muttering as she walks. “I ask him one thing. Stay away from the assistants.”
She gives me one last stern look, and I bite back a smile.
It’s a quick ride to my flat, but the moment the doors open, I sense Lucia’s gone. The place is quiet. Empty.
I set about packing an overnight bag. Within an hour, I’m at her door. An older man with salt and pepper hair and a solid white beard is outside with a tiny dog. The dog barks and growls, but his short little tail wags back and forth.
I nod in the man’s direction while he speaks to his dog in French. The dog continues barking, but it’s such a small dog the noise is high pitched and lacks the ability to intimidate. To me, the man says, “Sparks fancies himself a guard dog.”
There’s no buzzer for me to press to alert Lucia that I’m here. I assume Spark’s owner might live here.
I’ve called her mobile, but she hasn’t picked up.
“I’m here for Lucia. Do you know if she’s home?” What I’m really asking is if he’ll let me in. Knocking on a street level door when she lives in the attic won’t be effective.
“She knows you’re here?”
Before I can answer, the front door opens and an older woman with an apron wrapped around her waist peers out. She doesn’t speak, but it’s clear she heard the dog and is curious.
“I’ve called, but can’t reach her.”
“And who are you?” The woman asks.
“My name is Tristan.”
“I’m Noah. This is my wife Emilia. Emilia, you know if Lucia’s home?”
“She’s home. I’ll ring her.”
She disappears back inside the house. I understand they made accommodations for rentals in this unit, but I think they forgot an important component by not including a way for someone to inquire about those living in the upstairs units.
“What do you do?” Noah asks. In another ten to twenty years, I could see him playing the role of St. Nicholas.
“I’m an account supervisor. Relationship manager.”
He bends and pets his tiny dog, but his distrusting gaze tells me he will not go back inside until either I’m gone or Lucia gives the go ahead for me to head upstairs.
The side door opens, and Lucia greets me with an inquisitive expression. She steps back, opening the door wider and gesturing for me to enter.
She raises a hand in acknowledgement of Noah, and he nods. “Let us know if you need anything,” he says to her in English.
“He was speaking in French earlier,” I comment as she turns to the narrow stairs.
“They know I prefer English. They’re good people.”
“They look out for you?”
“Yes.”
My boots clunking up the wooden steps become the only sound, but given the narrow staircase, I’d prefer to not speak to her back.
When we arrive at the attic apartment, she places her hands on her hips and asks, “What’re you doing here?”
“You left.” I step past her, but I notice she leaves the door wide open. “Without saying goodbye. Why?”
“You have to ask that question?”
I step forward, raising a hand to cup her cheek, and she backs away.
“What’s wrong?”
She releases a pained sigh. “Tristan. This is a bad idea. Your mother can get me fired.”
“First, she doesn’t work at the company. Second, if she got you fired, she’d need to get me fired, and I can promise you, she will not do that.”
“Still, this is not a good idea. I can’t risk it. There’s a clear policy against fraternization, and my job hunt is not going well.”
“You’re looking for a job?”
“You can’t tell anyone. But yes.” Ah, so that’s what she’s been holding back.
“You don’t need to worry about my mother. She’s won’t tell anyone. She’d be mortified. It’s a secret she will carry as her own.”
“We shouldn’t meet at the pub anymore. Other employees stop by there. It’s close to work.”
Enough of this. I hear her, but I plan to be at the company for a couple of more weeks, tops. And if she to change jobs, I’ll help her. “Pack a bag.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” I school my smile to avoid coming off as too self assured. “Let’s go away. I have a place where we can get away from this dreary weather and watch the snow fall. And we won’t risk being seen by anyone from work.”