Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
S unlight streamed through the tearoom’s windows on Tuesday, where I worked a serving rotation for the mostly elderly clientele that came in for morning tea. It’d been a slow morning, with only a handful of tables coming in. Almost everyone on the Alderton-Du Ponte staff would’ve preferred a slow day—I hated it. Time crawled by that way.
I wiped down the shiny oak of a table that sat square in the sun’s view, taking my time to get the drops of tea that’d dried on the wood. A box full of cleaning supplies to the head hurt more than I’d planned for. It’d left a beautiful bruise near my right temple, one that was mostly hidden by my bangs. The headache, though, was still a dull pain behind the eyes.
But Aaron had gotten out of the music hall without anyone seeing him, so I’d take the bruise and possible concussion. As long as neither of us had gotten caught.
“Lovisa?”
I looked over my shoulder at the call of my name and almost had a heart attack. For a split second, I thought Grant stood behind me. But, no, my brain latched onto the wrinkles and pepper hair a beat too late. Mr. Holland. I nearly sighed with the knee-shaking relief.
I straightened, balling the rag in my hand. “Well, isn’t this an unlikely place for you to be on a Tuesday morning?” I asked, smiling. “Playing hooky?”
Mr. Holland gave me his own version of a smile—one that almost looked like a grimace—back. “Some days are for building. Others are for planning. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” I had no idea what he meant. “Can I get you some tea?”
“A cup of coffee instead?”
“Anything to go with it? We have scones, cucumber sandwiches?—”
“Just coffee, dear.”
It was strange that he came all the way to the tearoom for coffee—especially when coffee was free in the country club’s lobby—but I nodded. “You can sit here.” I gestured to the table I’d just wiped down. “And I’ll be right back with that coffee.”
“Take your time.”
The carafe sat behind the breakfast bar, but I uncapped it and topped it off to ensure it was still hot. Or, if I was being honest, I was buying time. I tried to hide behind the coffee machine, eyeing Mr. Holland. He sat patiently, peering out the window that looked over the golf course, drumming his fingers on the tabletop like he had all the time in the world. Not the impatient tap of a man who needed caffeine—no, he was waiting for something.
Or was that my paranoia talking?
“Here’s that coffee for you, Mr. Holland.” I gingerly placed the teal mug in front of him; I’d rather die than let it spill. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?—”
“Do you have a few minutes to spare?” he asked, hooking a finger around his mug’s arm, but not lifting it. “Sit with me.”
I definitely wasn’t paranoid. “Oh, I—I’ve got a few other tables?—”
“I’m the only one in here.”
“To clean,” I rushed to finish.
“Sit down until service picks up.” The way Mr. Holland spoke didn’t leave much room for interpretation—he wasn’t asking. “It works out that it’s a quieter morning. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Red flags, alarm bells, bad signs—they were all throwing up left and right. He knew. He knew I was in the music hall yesterday, that Aaron and I had overheard The Wallet’s conversation of dooming the charity. He had to know. We had been caught.
Excuse, excuse, excuse rang through my mind in a desperate sprint, but I couldn’t come up with one. All rational fled my brain, and I sank into the seat across from Mr. Holland as if I were sinking into my grave.
It was the first time that I noticed his expression was so flat . Neutral should’ve been a good sign, but there was no hint of warmth.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop , I practiced in my head, frantic. I was just—getting a head-start on cleaning after lunch. Why didn’t I come out when you first started talking? Why was Aaron Astor with me? Well, uh—well, you see ? —
“Lovisa,” Mr. Holland began, picking up his coffee. He stared into the black depths. “Did Caroline tell you that my son is coming home this weekend?”
My son . This wasn’t about the music hall? Wait . This was about Grant ? “T-This weekend?” My voice was a weak squawk. “I thought he was coming home for the fundraiser… next weekend.”
“He’s arriving a week early to spend time with his mother.” He took a sip of his coffee, slow, unbothered. “He’ll be staying at the hotel for the week he’s here.”
He would be staying at the hotel… right next door. “I see.”
“With his girlfriend.”
Each time I thought the carpet was being pulled out from underneath me, there was another tug. I refocused on Mr. Holland, but he wasn’t even looking at me. He sipped his coffee again, looking out the window I’d placed him beside. I didn’t know what the appropriate response should’ve been. “How… lovely.”
He replaced his coffee to the table, hard enough for the black depths to nearly jostle over the rim. “I don’t have to worry about you, do I, Lovisa?”
And there it was—the ultimate tug. My stomach dropped with it, and it felt like I was freefalling into open space instead of sitting in the chair. Thank God I had taken the seat when he told me, because had I been standing when he spoke, I would’ve collapsed anyway. My words were a breathless whisper. “I… Excuse me?”
“Let’s skip the pretending, hmm? I know about your history with Grant.”
For the entire duration of my relationship with Grant, we’d kept it a complete secret from almost everyone. Everyone but Caroline and Annalise. No one else knew. Not even the friends Grant had outside of the club. Grant never brought me to his house, maintained boundaries at the club. Despite our relationship lasting four years, since Grant had been away to college for over half of it, it hadn’t been too hard to keep under wraps.
It’d been a secret we’d kept so well that no one ever suspected. Except, apparently, his father.
I should’ve run when I had the chance.
“I haven’t brought up my concerns with anyone. Not Mr. Roberts, not my wife, and not my daughter. I’d rather discuss it with you first and decide if I need to bring others into this.”
My chest tightened, like a balloon trapped inside pumped larger and larger with every single word out of his mouth. As it inflated, the air pushed my lungs to the side, crushing out the oxygen from them. Mr. Roberts—your boss , he said without saying. My wife—who is on the board of directors , he said without saying.
I could have your job in a second , he said without saying.
“I—” I began, but stopped. I blanked on a response, too shaken up. It took me a moment to start back up. “I would never do anything that would make things uncomfortable, Mr. Holland. For anyone.” Underneath the table, I squeezed the pads of my fingers, wishing I could feel the callouses. It won’t be uncomfortable for anyone but myself .
Mr. Holland held onto his poker face, raising his mug for another sip of coffee. “Do you have any family, Lovisa?”
“I—I’m sorry?”
“Any family. I know about your mother, and that she’s passed, but anyone else?” Mr. Holland gestured vaguely with his other hand. “Anyone else you’d like an all-expenses paid vacation to visit?”
To get me off the premises for the duration of his son’s stay, he meant. “It’s just me.”
His chuckle was unamused.
A part of me thought of telling him I’d always wanted to go to Disney World , to take advantage of the free offer of a vacation, but I didn’t. Instead, pinching my fingers even tighter, I leaned forward. “Mr. Holland.” I forced my body to still, to stop trembling, and stared at him. “I was the one who ended things… with Grant. I was the one who was finished with the relationship. It’s in the past for me.”
I made sure to not to look away, not to flinch underneath his flat stare, no matter how much I wanted to. I wanted Mr. Holland to see the sincerity in my eyes, because I meant it.
He leaned back in his seat, eyeing me differently. “I like you, Lovisa. I think you’re a great worker here on the estate. You know how to keep your head down. How to blend in.”
Mr. Holland spoke politely, but I struggled to take it as a compliment.
“However,” he went on, turning to look out at the golf course. “I do think you allow yourself to get too friendly.”
I dropped my gaze to the tabletop, and almost immediately, I found a streak of what looked like dried tea that I’d missed wiping down. I stared at it, heat pooling in my cheeks.
“I understand it, to an extent. Without your mother, without family—you must be lonely.” He let out a soft sigh. “But it’s best to remember where we all stand, Lovisa. Foundations crack when you add too much weight.”
Mr. Roberts had said practically the same thing before. It’s best to create a divide. In time, you’ll see that. It took everything in me to sit still. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Holland.”
“As for Grant?—”
“I’m sure our paths won’t even cross.” I shouldn’t have cut him off, but in that moment, the idea of listening to him prattle on further was unbearable.
“If you could make sure they don’t, Lovisa, that would be spectacular.” He then pushed back his chair and rose, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Oh, and it’s time to replace what’s in your carafe. The coffee was weak.”
I didn’t move. Not even when he walked away, the sound of his footsteps fading as he disappeared from the café. Now that he was gone, my body began trembling again, coming out of survival mode as the adrenaline died down. I drew in a breath that sounded more like a gasp, but it wasn’t enough. The balloon in my lungs had grown too large.
Grant was going to be home this weekend, a full week early. An extra week where he’d be roaming the estate, lingering around with his girlfriend on his arm. The same girl he’d cheated on me with. Mr. Holland expected me to avoid him at all costs, but how could I, when I worked so much?
I pressed my hand into my forehead, forgetting about my bruise, and sucking in a breath at the sharp pain. Why did everything feel so impossibly hard lately? Like, no matter what I did, I couldn’t catch a moment of peace?
“Are you still serving tea, dear?”
I looked up at the small, frail voice, lifting my head to find a group of older ladies standing in the doorway. “Of course, of course!” I rushed to my feet, and like every other time, I sealed the unease below the surface. I threw on my megawatt, Alderton-Du Ponte smile, stepping into the role. “A table for how many?”