Chapter 35 #2
“Coincidentally, I’m sure.” When I don’t agree or disagree, she laughs. “I know what your fiancé is trying to get done. He’s got some nerve going behind the back of his board.” Her finger plays on the rim of her wineglass. “Let’s see how that turns out.”
Luke is occupied by another conversation. He’s left me alone with this one, trusting me to handle it even though my mouth feels too big for me. Ill-fitted to this dinner. Ill-fitted to this task. Ill-fitted to this conference. “If there is anything you would like to discuss, I am here.”
“I like your dress. Good posture. ”
It’s supposed to be a compliment, but why do I weirdly feel like she’s telling me I’m an artifact, some anthropomorphized object sitting on a podium?
The lunch ends too shortly after that for me to recover.
Afterward, the troops convene back in the war room for a little reprieve. I tell everyone how Agatha Cox is aware of our plans.
“I expected as much,” says Mr. Duncan. “She may be the symbolic head, but she’ll also feel the squeeze if we get others in the family to flip.
” He turns to Luke. “The rest of the people from Intel have arrived. I’ve pulled ties so you’ll have face time with them in fifteen, and I’ve found you another supporter from the inside.
The niece. She’s our safe hands to land this whole thing. Get ready. Now is when we hit them.”
Orders are given. We’re marching soon to the next site of attack.
Before I leave the room, Luke touches my elbow.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m here for you. I believe in you. You’ve got this.”
“You’re preten?—”
Mr. Duncan pokes his head back in the room. “We can’t keep them waiting. This is your window.”
I squeeze Luke’s hand and tug him outside. It’s time.
The niece—Vistoria Cox—has a quaint, literary name, so I’m subconsciously expecting a mousey or eccentric woman.
That’s not true at all. She’s a bombshell with skin as smooth as the inside of a seashell.
If I met her on the street, I would think a movie star is walking around in the real world without bothering to disguise themselves.
She has shapely curved lips, clear blue eyes, and blonde hair that rolls down her back like a multi-hued golden waterfall. Cliché metaphor, but so apt.
She leads us into the gardens, a developed circular field next to a duck pond surrounded by soaring forestry.
Lounge chairs are set up under a veranda, but most of the Intel people are standing and chatting with each other.
I expect to see catering staff amble around here too with drinks and food, but there are none.
We’re safe from any eyes or ears overhearing the conversation.
Vistoria is our guide, making introductions. Agatha is there, alongside her two sons, Victor and Vincent. I spy a naming pattern, but don’t allow myself to be amused by it. There are far too many nerves snapping around inside me to be distracted.
“Your accent is barely there, Ms. Singh.” Vincent drums his fingers on the flat of his stomach. “I’ve visited India numerous times, but can hardly hear it from your voice.”
Right then , I think, here I go . “I had an effective language teacher who would keep us for hours to make sure our English pronunciations matched those of his favorite Hollywood movies. We’d be repeating the same lines over and over again, and I think that early attention really faded my accent.”
“A pity,” says Agatha. “I find too much emphasis is on sounding the same these days. Accents are supposed to be charming and tell of your culture.”
“You’ll find me in agreement,” I say. “But also, if you ever come to where I hail from in Mumbai, the culture there is not lacking. That’s for sure.”
“What kind of place did you grow up in?” asks Victor, giving me a shallow nod.
“It was bright. Warm. There…wasn’t much emphasis on needing to behave in a certain way or having to live up to certain expectations.
A lot of my memories are from being out in the neighborhoods.
There would be construction dust everywhere, noises and honking and kids playing capture the flag or getting together for Holi or busting out firecrackers in the middle of the street. ”
Agatha smiles. I think I might have said something right. I hope so.
“And look at you now,” says Vistoria. She subtly adjusts the attention of our circle so we can look at Luke, who is speaking to Vincent and Victor’s father, the CEO of Intel. “Jumping from one world to another.”
“Do you miss India?” asks Agatha.
I don’t know the right answer to this question. Will they like me if I say I’ve adapted to being with Luke? Or do they want me to be his opposite?
“I miss the…past.”
“How so?” asks Vistoria.
Which way do I go? My hands wring together for a second before I force them apart.
I hate this. I hate this stress of triple-guessing every syllable falling out of your mouth.
“I don’t know exactly,” I say with a laugh.
“But in my head, back then, life felt uncluttered, simple, and straight. As a child, you go to school, study, play, and sleep. If you excelled at all that, it felt like you were doing alright. But as an adult?— ”
“Everything complicates,” says Agatha. “I can relate to that.”
“Can you, mother?” questions Victor. “I can’t . Our expectations were always laid out for us in the beginning. There was no playing.”
“Yes, well, your parents had different ideas.” Agatha gives me a smile. “Generations change.”
Vistoria moves and arranges everyone into one larger group, bridging personal small talk to business.
Her commentary moves rapidly, going from the integrity of news outlets (“Deregulation is the way to go”) to gossip about another rich family (“Did you hear about the Donaldsons scandal?”) to wine (“The 1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru served here is exquisite”).
Someone’s alarm goes off, indicating that the rest period has ended and that we must rejoin the larger conference group. Luke and Mr. Duncan lead us back to the manor, Vistoria and Agatha congregating in the middle, and me and the sons left in the back.
Even this order mulls heavily on my brain.
Should I be projecting myself forward and joining Luke at the forefront, but it’s not like I’ve spied an opening yet.
Vincent and Victor pepper me about India, and I keep answering their questions, but I’m afraid I’m weirdly othering myself as the person who doesn’t fit in.
What am I doing? What is next?
The afternoon isn’t as stressful, but that is because Mr. Duncan becomes my escort again. As for Luke?
“He’s still with Intel,” Mr. Duncan shares happily. “Vistoria got them to extend their meeting, but they want to keep the group limited. Strictly business. I think this may be it, where hands are shaken.”
I should be happy. I am happy.
“I didn’t think it would happen so early,” I say,
Mr. Duncan pours me a glass of orange juice.
We are in a main foyer area, sitting at the outermost table set up on the patio.
The wind is like a warm tongue, swaying the leaves of trees above us.
There are bowls of chilled fruit between us and tiny plates with tiny chocolates.
A pre-dining sampler. Joining us is Luke’s assistant, who is monitoring all Abbot Industries’ communication as a precaution to see if the board makes any other moves.
They are glued to their tablet, and apparently supposed to be invisible.
It feels so weird, but Mr. Duncan and I chat, pretending they aren’t there.
“He might actually pull this off.” Mr. Duncan pops a slice of plum into his mouth.
“I can’t wait for this to be over.”
He lowers his sunglasses. “Over? It’s not ever going to be over, Ms. Singh.
If this goes through, Abbot Industries is reborn today.
And once Otto’s dementia becomes public—a leak I’m recommending happens soon—the majority of the shares go to Luke.
His power cemented.” Mr. Duncan sucks on another plum sliver, grinning.
“It’s what the boy was born to do. With Intel on board, they’ll change the industry. ”
“I…didn’t realize.”
“You get partial credit, you know. There’s an ease about Luke that he didn’t have before you. It’s appreciated. Keep doing whatever it is you are doing. It will help him long-term.”
Long-term? “We’re not really together,” I remind Mr. Duncan quickly.
“You might as well be. It’s a good life, is it not?”
“It…is.” There isn’t a way for me to disagree, considering the lush paradise around us.
“You would never have to work again.” Mr. Duncan curls a finger at a server who bounds over to us immediately. The order is given to replenish our chocolates.
“I have ambitions too,” I say when we are alone again.
Mr. Duncan drains his own drink. “Luke is generous. He’ll fund any hobbies because there’ll be enough money to go around. More than enough. And if you’ve got kids in mind, Ms. Singh, you can have them with him and not worry. Nannies help. Chefs help?—”
Nannies?! Chefs?! “I’m a chef.”
Mr. Duncan’s face is all but quivering with impatience.
“Yes, yes. Like I said, with the nannies, you’ll have time.
Money. Anything. Buy yourself a restaurant to run if that’s what you need.
Or better yet—” He snaps his fingers as if struck with instant brilliance.
“Dinner parties! He’ll need a lot of those, and what better way to feel relatable than to host those together?
You can oversee the menu like the proper chef you are.
“I can see you are surprised and maybe worried,” Mr. Duncan continues.
“Don’t worry. I heard you with that old bat, Agatha.
She likes you. She likes that you don’t fit in.
There’s no need to stress about being like everyone else.
We have Vistoria. She’ll keep being our safe hands.
All you have to do is be the nice wife. Vistoria will be our clever little shark. ”