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“Louis,” Cornelia replies confidently, not even considering for a moment that I might want some input. “It’s a name fit for a king. Now hand me one of those towels.”
Nicholas hands us each one and then helps us dry Louis. He gets two good swipes with the towel before the dog takes off like a rocket across the yard, shaking out his fur as he runs.
Patricia brings out a little bowl filled with breakfast for him.
“Did you make that, Patricia?” I ask, eyeing the food. There’s brown rice and ground meat as well as carrots and zucchini. I would eat it.
She laughs. “No. Chef whipped it up. Apparently, he thinks the bags of dog food they sell in stores aren’t fit for a dog staying at Rosethorn.”
Nicholas laughs before whistling for Louis. He dashes back over, smells the food Patricia’s holding, and immediately starts twirling around and around in circles, as if trying to impress her.
Cornelia tuts. “What unseemly behavior, Louis!”
She tries to get him to sit. He doesn’t. She pushes down his little rump until he gives the impression of sitting, but when she moves her hand, he jumps right back up. I’m laughing and I glance over to find Nicholas doing the same. Our eyes lock and a little zing runs down my spine. My smile fades as I turn away, blinking away the rush of anxiety filling my stomach.
“Right, well,” Cornelia begins as she wipes her hands clean. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll have a trainer here, and a groomer. You’ll see—in a week’s time, he’ll know thirty commands in English and French!”
“I look forward to seeing it,” Nicholas says, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “I’ve got to run back to the city.”
“So soon?”
“I’ll be back next weekend,” he assures her.
I take the knowledge for myself as well. I sleep with it that night, knowing I won’t have to wait too long before I see him again. Of course, it doesn’t even occur to me until the morning that I shouldn’t want to see him, but by then, the feeling of anticipation has already grown roots.18NicholasI don’t normally mind summers in the city. Sure, the stifling heat can get unbearable, especially compounded by the hordes of people out in droves, sweating their way from one tourist destination to another, but there’s a newfound excitement in the air too, spurred by life having been kept shuttered during the winter months. Kites fly overhead in Central Park. Ice cream vendors perch on street corners. Children splash through sprinklers.
Monday morning, I walk the short distance from my apartment to work and try to bring my mind back to the appeal cases we have on our plate, all of which need my full attention. Usually, I have no trouble getting my brain on track, but now I’m wondering about inane things instead: if Louis has found his way into the house again, if Cornelia actually intends on going through with the trainer, if Maren is happy she convinced a household of people to bend to her will so easily. They all want to make her happy and I find, surprisingly, that I’m among them.
There’s a small voice inside my head criticizing me for falling into her trap. It’s self-preservation and usually I’m glad for the instinct, but it seems it’s no longer founded in Maren’s case. At least I hope not.
In my office, a few eager interns and associates are already at work. They wave to me as I pass by and head into my office, and one brings me a cup of coffee as I turn on my TV to catch an early news broadcast. The stories about my family have dried up, partly because of threatened lawsuits from my lawyers and partly because the “salacious insider information” Michael Lewis promised the world wasn’t all that noteworthy. Tidbits about my grandmother’s comings and goings from Rosethorn didn’t elicit the fiery excitement he was hoping for. And then—get this—she goes to the yacht club to eat lunch!
I mute the news as I reach for a stack of mail sitting on the corner of my desk. We get a lot, especially concerning the defendants we’re trying to exonerate. After I slide my letter opener through the top of an envelope, I press play on my answering machine. I have an assistant who fields calls from the general office line, but I usually have one or two messages from people who know my personal number.
Today, the first message is from a person I can’t immediately place. I glance over at my phone as it continues to play.
“Hi, Mr. Hunt. This is Mrs. Buchanan from Holly Home. You called me a few weeks ago inquiring about one of our past employees, Maren Mitchell? On that call, I mentioned a theft that had recently occurred here, and I insinuated that the blame should be placed on Ms. Mitchell. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was wrong about those circumstances I described to you. The item in question was found in another employee’s locker over the weekend. He’s confessed to the crime and has since been terminated. Anyway, I wanted to be sure to contact you in case you were still considering hiring Ms. Mitchell. As I said before, she was a good employee, and I feel bad if my earlier accusations might have swayed you against her. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Call me if you have any other questions.”
