Chapter 10
I lie awake
My arm is over my face. The room is filled with the low hum of the building settling around me. It doesn’t change a thing. I'm still aware of her on the other side of the door. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear her breathing.
At some point, the city outside the windows turns gray, then pale gold, then the flat white of early morning. I get up, accepting that I won’t have any rest. I move quietly and cross to the bedroom door. I ease it open a few inches.
She's on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her dark hair is loose across the pillow. She looks peaceful, just like the first time she slept in this bed. I still remember that day vividly. It was the first time she wasn’t deliberately frowning at me.
I cross the room without making a sound. I lean down and press my mouth to her forehead. Her skin is warm. She makes a small sound and then stills again.
I stand there for a moment longer than I need to.
Then I order breakfast to the suite, leave a note on the kitchen counter with her name at the top, and stand at the door for a beat with my hand on the frame.
It takes more effort than it should to leave. We still have so much to talk about — or rather, she has questions I haven't answered, and I have things I haven't said.
I wasn't exactly thinking clearly when I proposed a secret relationship. I wanted her close, and I moved toward that want.
But damn it all to hell, I want her badly.
The part I haven't told her is that I have my own reasons for keeping things quiet.
I'm very well aware she won't appreciate those reasons.
But how do I tell her that I don't want a public relationship because I don't want my family pestering me about her?
That I'd like, for once, to keep something that belongs only to me?
The answer doesn't come to me even as I step out of the elevator and into the garage, and it still hasn't come to me by the time I'm walking through the glass doors of the Nightingale building an hour later.
"Good morning, Mr. Nightingale." James is at the front desk, already upright and alert.
"Mr. Sutton and the acquisitions team are in conference room B.
The Delacroix rep confirmed 9:30 a.m. You have the Wren Studio presentation at 11:00 a.m., and your 1:00 p.m. with legal was moved to an hour later.
" He keeps pace with me as I cross the lobby.
"Mr. Hargrove called twice this morning, asking if you'd had a chance to review the Moreau portfolio. "
"Tell him I'll get back to him by Thursday."
"Yes, sir." He peels off toward the desk as I reach the elevator.
The board is already assembled when I walk into conference room B — six of them arranged around the long table, laptops open, coffee poured. They stand when I come in.
My suit jacket comes off. I place it over the back of the chair at the head of the table. As I sit, I gesture for them to sit, which they do.
The team has put together a shortlist, and they walk me through it with the enthusiasm of people who believe they've done good work, which, in fairness, some of them have.
There's a sculptor based in Lyon whose work I've been watching for two years. A photographer from S?o Paulo who is about to become very expensive if we don't move soon. A muralist in Chicago whose last three commissions sold before the ink was dry.
I turn a page in the presentation folder.
There's a sketch in the folder of a woman smiling down at a child. It provokes a memory — another sketchbook I pulled out from a cleaning cart. There was no child in the image, only the woman smiling.
At the time, I assumed that was Suzanne’s mom, but after seeing her mother for myself and hearing exactly what she did to her, I realize how wrong I was. The woman must be the aunt she mentioned. I was right about it being a late loved one. I was right about how much Suzanne loved her.
I reach for my phone.
I want to text her and ask if she slept well, if she has eaten breakfast, if she found the note, if she's still annoyed with me, or something more complicated than that.
I have my phone in my hand before I register that I'm holding it, and then I realize I don't have her number. I set the phone face down on the table.
"Mr. Nightingale."
I look up and see Neil Sutton staring at me from across the table.
His face is stuck in a half-smile, half-frown. It’s like he can’t decide whether to be offended or ecstatic about the words that are about to leave his mouth.
If I am to choose for him, it’ll be the former. Because nothing he says right now will do him any good. But Neil has never been the sharpest tool in the shed. He always thinks he has the upper hand, no matter how many times you put him down.
He’s just that delusional.
"I'm sorry," he says, still struggling to maintain an emotion on his face. "Am I boring you?"
The room goes quiet.
This is exactly what I need — a reason to end this meeting early so I can get through the day and return to Suzanne. I consider him. "If you were saying anything interesting," I tell him, "I probably would have been listening."
Neil's mouth opens. It closes.
I push back from the table and stand. "We'll revisit this on Thursday. I want revised projections by the end of the day tomorrow." I pick up my phone and my jacket from the back of the chair. "Meeting's adjourned."
No one argues. They rarely do.
I take the long way back to my office — down the east corridor, past the framed acquisitions on the wall.
I need to see her, but I can't leave yet. My desk is stacked with three contracts that have been waiting for too long.
I push through my office door, drop into my chair, and pull the top folder toward me. The work is not complicated. It requires only that I stay in my body and inside the room, which is harder this morning than it should be.
My phone vibrates against the desk. It’s my mother. I know why she’s calling. We haven’t revisited the topic since she last called. My answer hasn’t changed. I know I’m about to disappoint her, but I answer anyway.
“Hi, honey. How’s work going?”
Her voice is sweet and gentle. She’s working up to it. She should know me well enough by now to know that wouldn’t work with me.
“Work is fine, Mom. Are you doing okay?”
“Oh…you know me. Just having a ball. Look…” Here it comes. “We have a date for the service. It’s next month. On your dad’s birthday.”
5th of April. I’m annoyed that I still remember. "I already told you. I'm not going. That hasn't changed."
The line is quiet for a moment. In the background of wherever she is, I can hear a door opening, a few low murmurs. Then she says, "Henry would like to speak with you."
"I'll call him," I say.
"When?"
"When I have a moment."
“Really, Cade. Sometimes I wonder why you’re so cold. We’re trying to be there for you. You can’t just go around feeling nothing.”
“I feel plenty, Mom. Just not for Jonathan.”
“How can you say that? He was still…”
My desk phone buzzes. I reach over and press the intercom. "Yes, James?”
"There’s a Mr. Maddox here to see you. He says it’s urgent."
I smile to myself. Interesting. So he finally grew the balls to come here himself. I've been wondering when he'd arrive. “Give me two minutes, then let him in.” I turn my attention back to my mom. “I have to go. I have a meeting to attend to.”
“Fine. But I’ll call you back, whether you like it or not. And you better answer.” She ends the call before I get the chance to.
Maddox comes in three minutes later, wearing a black Armani suit. He’s the spitting image of his father, except he’s not balding yet. His blonde hair is still present.
His dark eyes land on me, and he grins. It’s the hard opposite of the expression on his face the last time I saw him.
"Nightingale!" He strolls in confidently. I don’t move from my chair. It appears Maddox might not be as easily intimidated as I thought, but that doesn’t matter much. He won’t get what he came here for.
"Maddox." I gesture to the chair across from my desk and lean back in mine. "Sit down."
He sits. He crosses one knee over the other. He takes his time when doing so. "I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get to the point.”
"Please."
"I've come into possession of certain documents.
" He watches my face when he says it. I give him nothing.
"Internal memos. Correspondence from the acquisition.
Materials that, in the wrong hands, could raise significant questions about how that deal was conducted.
" He pauses. "I want to be clear that I'm not here to threaten you.
I'm here to give you the opportunity to address this privately — between us — before I decide what to do with them. "
"And what are your options?"
He tilts his head slightly. "Several. Going public would be one. The press tends to enjoy this kind of thing, as I'm sure you know. There's also the legal route." He smiles. "I imagine you'd look quite different in orange."
I look at him for a moment. Then I say, "Whatever documents you believe you have are either forgeries or were obtained illegally."
He starts to speak. I don’t let him.
"Either way," I continue, "they change nothing.
The acquisition was legal. Every piece of paperwork has been reviewed, and it is defensible.
If you'd like to go public, go public. If you'd like to pursue the legal route, pursue it.
" I stand. "You're welcome to do whatever you think will serve you, Maddox. This discussion is over."
He stands slowly, taking his time with it. He's almost to the door when he turns.
"I have a long memory, Nightingale," he says.
"So do I," I tell him.
“This is far from over.” He leaves.
Empty threats have a certain rhythm to them — the pacing, the weighted pauses, the theatrical exit line. Maddox delivered his well enough, but I've spent too many years in this game not to know the difference between a man holding cards and a man hoping you'll think he is.
He didn't show me the documents and didn't describe them beyond vague posturing. That tells me everything.
James’s voice comes through the intercom. "Mr. Nightingale, the Wren Studio rep has been moved to the conference room. Whenever you're ready."
"Coming now."
I button my jacket, take the folder from my desk, and step into the corridor, only to find Lila standing in the corridor outside my office.
She looks up when I step out, and her face spreads into a bright smile.
"Cade, I know you're busy. I just needed five minutes."
I stop and look at her. Then I glance past her in the corridor, at James’s desk just visible around the corner, wondering why they even let her up without checking with me. Knowing Lila, she probably charmed the pants off the receptionist.
“You haven’t been picking up my calls.” Her bottom lip wobbles slightly. I want to laugh because it’s ridiculous. What does she think this is?
I don’t react to her tactics. "There's a reason for that."
The warmth in her expression flickers, adjusts. She takes a small step closer. "Cade, yesterday was a misunderstanding. I was trying to be friendly. We've known each other long enough that I thought…"
"Lila, you need to behave yourself. What happened at the property yesterday is not going to happen again."
"I was just — "
"I'm not finished." I wait. She's quiet. "If you show up somewhere I am without an invitation, I'll stop being polite about it. You can take it or not. That's your choice."
"We go way back, Cade. That's just how our friendship works, and you know — "
"I have a meeting."
I walk past her toward the conference room.
She doesn't follow.
I leave the office at 5:30 p.m.
I walk to the car, toss my jacket on the passenger seat, and sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel.
I want to see her.
It's not more complicated than that, and it's also entirely more complicated than that. I know she’ll be home by now, and by the workings of the universe and my own machinations, I know where she lives.
I start the drive there. It takes me almost an hour to get there, but it’s all worth it, as long as I get to see her.
Her street is narrow and quiet, lined with parked cars and mature trees. I pull over across the street from her building and cut the engine.
I sit there.
The building is unremarkable from the outside — red brick, six or seven floors.
She comes out with two garbage bags, one in each hand.
She hasn't seen me. She's in leggings and a worn gray T-shirt, her hair up in the loose, slightly careless way it gets when she's been working. She walks toward the alley beside the building.
I get out of the car. I cross the street. She's already turned the corner into the alley by then. I follow.
The alley is narrow and shadowed, the brick walls of the adjacent buildings closing in on either side. The dumpster is halfway down. She lifts the lid with her elbow, tosses one bag in, then the other, and lets the lid fall shut with a sound that echoes off the walls.
She turns and sees me.
Her mouth opens. I watch her assemble the beginning of a sentence. I cross the alley. She doesn't finish the sentence. I kiss her.
She makes a sound against my mouth. Her hands come up to my chest and stay there, and she kisses me back.
My hands are in her hair, then sliding down, finding the curve of her back, the warmth of her through the thin cotton of her shirt.
Her fingers close around the lapels of my jacket.
Then they're underneath it, pressed flat against my ribs, and I feel it through the fabric of my shirt like she's checking whether I'm real.
I lift her. She lets me. Her legs wrap around my waist without hesitation, and I take the two steps to the brick wall because I need something solid at her back. The brick is rough against my forearms when I brace against it. Her back meets the wall, and my hand comes up to the side of her throat.
The side door of the building opens.
We go still at the same moment. A woman steps into the alley and stops, blinking at us.
"Suzanne?" she says.
"Hi, Maeve." Suzanne's voice is remarkably steady. I'm impressed.
Maeve looks at us for another moment, and then she turns and walks in the other direction.
The door at the far end of the alley swings shut behind her.
Suzanne's legs slide down from my waist. I don't step back. She steadies herself against my chest with both hands, and I keep one hand at her waist to support her. Her face is flushed. Her mouth is still slightly open, her lips reddened.
I look at her for a moment.
Then I lean in and kiss her once more because I want to and because I can.
I pull back. Her eyes are still closed.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow," I tell her.