Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Felix
Can you please come by Maple Lane at your convenience? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you briefly.
T he text had come in early this morning. Max had ignored it, hoping silence would serve as his answer.
An hour ago, near the end of his workday, Max had received another text from Felix that was a word-for-word replica of the first text. Max’s biological father was letting Max know that he wouldn’t be ignored.
The quickest way to get rid of this? To have the meeting Felix was requesting. So he’d told Felix he’d stop by Maple Lane when he left the office and was driving there now.
He’d much rather be driving home. He’d eaten breakfast outside again this morning during Sloane’s coffee ritual, just like he had yesterday on her first morning at the apartment. That had been something, but not enough. The sooner he got home, the sooner he’d have a chance to spar with her again.
Max steered his Porsche along a wide, uphill curve. In the eighteen years that had passed since he’d learned he was Felix’s son, the knot of resentment he harbored toward Felix had never diminished in size. These days, though, he and Felix could be in the same room when the situation called for it, like it had this spring after Jude had been injured and they’d both gone to the hospital in New York. When they talked, they did so with the detachment of acquaintances, not with father/son closeness.
As a rule, they texted only when necessary.
This was the first time Felix had summoned Max for a one-on-one. Which was strange. What did Felix want?
Max coasted past Maple Lane’s iron gates, currently standing open. As the estate’s name suggested, the drive leading to the house was lined on both sides with maples. They were green now but would turn orange-red in the fall.
Max had loved this place when he was a kid, back when his mom had been the housekeeper here. The biggest perk of that job had been the opportunity to live rent-free on the estate. Their house—the house where he’d spent his childhood—had been out of sight of the main house, but just a short walk away. It was a historic three-bedroom that had been built for servants yet had been nicer than the houses of most Americans. Certainly nicer than the houses of his mom’s parents and siblings.
The field where he and Jeremiah and Jude had played flag football passed on the right. To the left, behind those trees, a stream flowed. They’d fished there whenever the water ran high.
Usually, when you’d loved a place once, returning to it was pleasant. But for him, returning here was a bitter pill to swallow.
The enormous white stone mansion came into view.
The Camden family’s banking empire had begun in the Gilded Age thanks to their Irish ancestor Finbar Camden. In subsequent generations, Finbar’s sons and grandsons had spread out across America, establishing more and more banks. Maple Lane was built in 1905 by the descendant who’d brought the family’s kingdom to the far northeast. Camdens had been living in this part of the country ever since.
Max parked on the circle drive, followed steps to the grand front door, and pressed the doorbell.
It didn’t take Felix long to answer. “Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
As usual, Felix looked fit and impressive for a man in his sixties. Unlike Max, who preferred to dress casually and comfortably, Felix dressed like he was modeling for a tailor-shop ad. Today he wore black suit pants, a white business shirt, and a Hermes belt.
“Thank you for coming by.” The older man led Max to his extravagant home office. “Please take a seat.”
Max did so. “What can I do for you?” No point wasting time on chitchat.
“I wanted to talk to you about a piece of jewelry.” Felix lowered into his chair on the far side of the desk.
Max tilted his head, waiting for an explanation.
“A tiara, specifically.” Felix pushed a photograph toward him.
Max picked it up. He wasn’t a jewelry person, but he didn’t have to be a jewelry person to recognize that the tiara was extraordinary. A top and bottom row of square diamonds enclosed an inner pattern of diamonds that formed blocky, interlocking spirals. The top center of the tiara was wider than the sides, coming up to a gentle point. “It looks Greek.”
“Yes. It’s a Greek design called a meander tiara. This particular one was made by a jeweler named Bapst in 1856 for Empress Eugenie of France. At the time, she was married to Napoleon the third, the last Emperor of France. It contains six hundred and twelve diamonds. Three hundred and twenty carats’ worth.”
Max placed the photo back on the desk.
“When this tiara was made,” Felix went on, “it contained at its center one of the most famous stones in the world, the Regent Diamond. That particular diamond is well over three hundred years old and has a long, dramatic history. At one point, it was placed in the hilt of Napoleon Bonaparte’s sword. Later his nephew, Napoleon the third, set it in this tiara for his wife. The Regent Diamond remained in the tiara for eleven years before it was removed, and the tiara took on its final shape. The shape in this picture.”
Max could not fathom what any of this had to do with him. “Where is the Regent Diamond now?”
“On display at the Louvre.”
“And the tiara?”
“France no longer had monarchs by 1887. So Eugenie’s tiara, along with many of the French crown jewels, were sold at auction that year. One-third of those jewels were purchased by Charles Lewis Tiffany of Tiffany and Co. Some he bought on behalf of clients, others he purchased to resell. After he transported them all back to New York, an ancestor of mine purchased Eugenie’s tiara from Tiffany as a wedding gift for his bride. She wore it on their wedding day.” He slid another photo to Max.
This picture showed a black-and-white image of a serious-looking couple. The man was in tails, the woman in an ornate white gown. The tiara was set into the puff of hair on top of her elegant head.
Max returned the photo. Looking at long-ago, rich Camdens wasn’t his favorite pastime.
“The tiara has been passed down through my line of the family since then,” Felix said. “It’s a part of Maple Lane’s permanent art collection.”
“Okay.” Max waited, an ominous feeling coming over him.
“It’s missing.”
Max let a few moments of silence pass. “Missing?”
“It went missing when you and your mother moved away.”
In a flash, Max did see what this tiara had to do with him. Anger lit a fuse inside him. “You think I stole this?”
“No.”
“You think my mother stole this?”
“I do.” Holding Max’s gaze, Felix interlaced his hands. “Eugenie’s tiara was displayed, along with other pieces of jewelry, in Maple Lane’s library, in a display case that was also a safe of sorts. It was made of tempered glass. It had locking mechanisms. I unlocked it for Nicole so that she could dust and clean the jewelry. This was something she’d done many, many times before. But later that same day, she and Fiona had their fight. The next day, everything blew up. You two were gone. And so was the tiara.”
A pause lengthened between them while Max’s stomach gradually turned to stone. The nerve of this man to accuse his mother of this.
Felix Camden, former NFL quarterback and owner of three Super Bowl rings, had been America’s golden boy. The famous family, the athletic ability, the looks. He’d been idolized. Women coveted him. Men were jealous of him. His first wedding to supermodel Isobel O’Sullivan had been televised live, which had lifted Felix and Isobel’s fame even higher.
When it came out a few years later that Felix had been cheating on Isobel with her sister Fiona and that Fiona was pregnant, the scandal had been huge, setting off a gossip earthquake nationwide.
Max’s mom, Nicole, had begun working here soon after. By then, Felix had divorced Isobel and married Fiona, and they were expecting their first child, Jeremiah. Two years later, Jude had been born. Then a few months after Jude, Max had been born to Nicole.
In addition to cleaning and laundry, Mom had handled grocery shopping and most of the cooking at Maple Lane. Max couldn’t remember anyone telling him that he was the employee’s son. That’s just how it had always been, from his first conscious thoughts. It was the only thing he’d known. All he was used to. He’d been too busy enjoying his childhood to waste time feeling resentful about his position in Maple Lane’s pecking order.
Jude was his best friend, and he was close with Jeremiah, too. They’d grown up together—roaming Maple Lane’s acres, playing sports, mastering video games, going to the same private schools.
His idyllic setup had ended when he was fourteen. After the fight Felix had referenced between Mom and Fiona, Mom had called a reporter and told that reporter something she’d never once told Max.
That Felix was his biological father.
Another scandal had followed. Also huge. Another gossip earthquake. From that point on, Max had had plenty of years to feel resentful.
Fiona had fired Mom, expelling her from Maple Lane. Max and his mother moved to a duplex in Montville where his high school years had been hard, rocky, and humiliating.
Felix had begun paying Mom child support. Eventually, he’d written checks to cover Max’s tuition, room, and board at Penn. Felix had been willing to write many more checks. For example, he’d made clear that he would’ve given Max a generous allowance at college, would have provided a car, would have assisted with living costs in the years following graduation. But Max had been too proud to accept any of that from him. And when Max had rebuffed Felix’s early attempts to establish a relationship between them, Felix had been too proud to continue trying.
Since Fiona had divorced Felix, Felix had lived at Maple Lane alone.
“Why couldn’t Fiona have taken it?” Max asked coldly. “She had a bone to pick with you when it came out that you’d fathered a child with your housekeeper.”
“She did have a bone to pick with me,” Felix acknowledged. “But Fiona was my wife at the time, so she had money and expensive jewelry of her own. She knew that, even if she divorced me, her settlement would be enormous. Which it was.”
“So, because my mother wasn’t rich, she’s your prime suspect?”
“That’s partly why she’s my prime suspect,” Felix answered, unruffled. “Like I said, she also had access. And motivation. She was furious with this entire family and taking the tiara was a good form of revenge.”
“If you suspected her, why didn’t you come after her right away?”
“In Maple Lane’s collection there are several other pieces that are of equal and even greater value. I was content to let Nicole keep the tiara for a time. I knew it would help her feel secure, help her feel she’d made me pay for my sins. But now she has other reasons to feel secure.” Felix motioned toward Max. “You’ve built a successful company.”
Max nodded.
“Jeremiah and Remy just got engaged,” Felix continued. “I’d like to offer the tiara to Remy to wear on her wedding day if she desires. In order to do that, I need my property back.”
Max held his silence.
“I’d be glad, of course,” Felix said, “to also make it available to your bride on your wedding day. And to any granddaughters I might one day have on their wedding days.”
Max set his teeth together.
“I’ve had my people keep an eye on Nicole, in case she tried to sell the tiara. We’ve never seen evidence of that. She still has it.” Felix rose and went to stand at his window. “I have an appraiser coming to examine the full collection November first, so I’ll need Eugenie’s tiara back before then.” He straightened an already straight curtain. “I could hire a private investigator. Or I could hand this story over to the media. But I’ve never wanted to go those routes for your sake. I think the two of us can handle this privately, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe my mother has it.” His mom wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t a thief.
Felix’s expression took on a pitying tinge. “I think the two of us can handle this privately,” he repeated. “Don’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can.” Max left without another word.
Sloane had been looking forward to a relaxing Friday night in. However, before that could begin, she’d need to bring this Zoom meeting to a close. At the moment, she was positioned at her desk in the bedroom discussing the logistics of My Fair Lady’s upcoming etiquette courses with a few of the freelancers who worked for her. They all lived on the West Coast. It was 3:00 p.m. in LA, which meant 6:00 p.m. in Groomsport.
Back in middle school, some of the girls in Sloane’s grade had complained about having to go to cotillion class, where they learned things like manners and dancing. Sloane had been intrigued. Classes about manners? Dancing? She’d have adored the chance to take classes on those subjects but cotillion cost money her dad wasn’t willing to pay. So she’d gone to the library and checked out books on etiquette.
From the first page of that first book, she’d been enamored with etiquette. It had blown her mind that she, a thirteen-year-old girl living in a small town in Maine, could learn the same manners used by kings and queens of international countries. She requested more books on the subject, which the librarians had transferred in for her from other libraries far and wide. She’d read voraciously. She’d practiced her newfound knowledge.
Etiquette had given Sloane a sense of power over her life. The first true sense of power she’d ever tasted. Ultimately, it had changed not only how others perceived her but, even more importantly, how she perceived herself.
After the crushing disappointment of everything that had gone down between her and Max, she’d fled to California because at that time Brooke and Jared’s family had been there for a two-month-long assignment. When the Rays returned to Maine, Sloane stayed in Los Angeles.
Needing to invent a new career for herself from scratch, she’d naturally turned to her long-time hobby. Friends and acquaintances had come to her often over the years with etiquette questions, so she knew from experience how much she enjoyed coaching people in the subject. It had been a game changer to develop herself through etiquette. She was positive etiquette could be a game changer for others. She’d plunged in, naming her business My Fair Lady because she related so fully to Eliza Doolittle’s life story.
She’d spoken with every hotel and every event planner in LA who would take a meeting with her. Soon, she was giving in-person sessions at hotels, country clubs, social clubs, businesses, and rec centers. She taught on afternoon tea, table manners, social etiquette, business etiquette, children’s etiquette, teen etiquette, and etiquette for service-industry employees.
From there, she’d started recording her courses so that they could be purchased and viewed online. Because numerous clients asked for private lessons, she’d begun offering those, too.
She’d been working on My Fair Lady full-time for four years. While her income was incredibly modest compared to Max’s income, she earned enough to support herself and provide herself with the sense of safety she craved.
During the upcoming months in Maine, she’d opted to work a lot less than usual. She’d paused the private lessons until her return. She’d hired and trained two women to teach the in-person LA events while she was away. The online side of her business would continue full force.
Sloane brought the meeting to a close by thanking everyone and extending a polite goodbye. She gave the others time to respond with polite goodbyes, then hit the button to end the session.
With that, she’d just completed her first week of working remotely while caring for Ivy. It had required problem solving, ingenuity, and adjusting. It had also been wonderful.
Sweet, restful solitude surrounded her. From her desk, she had a view of the driveway, The Gables, and nature all around. Tonight the sky looked like a watercolor painted with dusky blues and creamy whites.
Her attention drifted to the four framed items she’d brought with her from California and arranged next to her computer. A picture of herself and Harper as girls sitting side by side, their feet submerged in the run-down pool of the apartment complex where they’d lived at the time. Both of them were looking up and to the side at the camera, smiling. Two brown-haired sisters in summertime.
A picture of herself and Ivy from two years ago, when they’d visited Disneyland with Ivy’s family.
A picture of Sloane’s greatest inspiration—Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. Also known as Catherine, the Countess of Chester. Also known as Kate Middleton.
Sloane changed out the photo in this particular frame annually on Kate’s birthday, always updating it with one of the princess’s epic style moments from the past year. The current picture showed Kate smiling in a sequined gown she’d paired with Queen Mary’s Lover’s Knot tiara. In one hand, she held a clutch. As always, Kate’s posture was faultless, and she was making an art form of high heels and aspirational hair.
The final frame on Sloane’s desk surrounded a cross-stitch of one of Kate’s most famous quotes. With grace and elegance, anything is possible. Words Sloane lived by.
A faint squeaking sound reached her. Knowing what that sound meant, she made her way to the doorway of Ivy’s room and peeked in. Ivy was away, at driver’s ed. But, of course, the rats were here and one of them was running on his wheel. He was really going for it, his pale body sprinting so fast that his legs were a blur.
“Excellent cardio.”
Sloane felt it best to handle Kevin and Ricky two ways. With compliments and distance. She had an irrational fear of them prying their cage open, hunting her down, and attacking. More than once the past few nights, when trying to fall asleep, she’d imagined she heard scuttling rat nails, which always brought to mind an image of rat teeth sinking into her skin. Thoroughly spooked, she’d turned on the lights. Only to see there was no need to repel an invading rat.
Kevin and Ricky had yet to make an escape. But should they ever do so, she wanted to have buttered them up with so much flattery that they’d treat her with mercy.
In the kitchen, she contemplated the inside of her fridge, trying to decide what sounded best for dinner. She preferred to consume food the way she did everything else. With class. Years ago, she’d learned that all aspects of life could be made more luxurious and fancier without much additional effort. For example, showers could be made more luxurious with beautiful-smelling bath products. Coffee could be made more luxurious with a frother. Sleepwear could be made more luxurious with choice of fabric. When it came to eating, this philosophy meant she didn’t typically rely on frozen food, microwaved food, or fast food.
Tonight . . . maybe rosemary focaccia bread with slices of tomato and Manchego cheese?
She assembled her plate artfully, set a linen napkin next to it, then stuck her glass into the water dispenser mounted within the refrigerator door.
A rasping spurt of water made her jump. Then nothing. No flow of water.
She furrowed her brow?—
Max had shut off the water again.
Pursing her lips, she went to the sink and tested the faucet. Which confirmed it.
This was his way of—of . . .
Summoning her . And irritating her.
Truth be told, Darth was doing an excellent job of irritating her even when their flow of water wasn’t interrupted. He’d sat at his outdoor table every morning this week at the exact same time that she was outside. He hadn’t spoken to her since that first morning. Even so, she’d found it almost impossible to turn her mind to her devotional while he was staring daggers at her back.
She’d been trying to ignore him. Trying not to think about him. Not look at his house. Not remember snippets of their past. Not hear his cars when they rumbled up and parked directly beneath the apartment.
It would be fantastic if she could blot Max out from the next four months of her life the way that thick black lines blotted out sensitive portions of classified documents. But no one had ever used the word unassuming to describe Max Cirillo. He’d rather cut off her water supply than let her blot him out.
Groaning with frustration, she made her way to her closet. Today’s beige dress tied at the waist with a bow. Since it seemed she was incapable of donning footwear that didn’t complement her dress—even when en route to deal with her difficult landlord—she eased her feet into slip-on sandals with raffia straps.
It didn’t take her long to reach Max’s front porch. For the second time in a week, she knocked.
Unlike the first time, on this occasion she knew well and good to prepare for a fight.