Page 45 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

18

MAXIM

I return to the estate at seven with the Newark problem half solved and a bottle of the Sancerre she mentioned once, and I find a house holding its breath.

Thea is at dinner and not at dinner.

She is beautiful, always, but tonight something is wrong. Her stick-straight brown hair has lost its glassy sheen. Smudges decorate the spaces beneath her eyes. The mild smile that always occupies her lips is gone.

She sits across from me with her disturbed plate. Disturbed, not emptying. She’s pretending to eat.

“How was your day?” Perhaps I’ll get an answer there.

Half a beat later, she mutters, “Fine.”

Is she ill? She’s pale, but she’s always paler than I recall.

Has Niklaus found a way to reach her? The phone I gave her reaches four people, and he’s not one of them.

“The Rotterdam contract closed this afternoon,” I offer.

She has tracked that contract for a month like a horse she bet on. But her only response is, “That’s great.”

“Aertsen sends his regards. He asked whether the woman from the gala had been promoted yet.”

“Sweet of him.”

“Do you think⁠—”

She stands abruptly. “I’m sorry, but I have a terrible headache, and I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.”

That’s it. That’s all I get for an excuse. Odd.

She zips out of the dining room and takes my appetite with her. I find Galina in the kitchen, drying the silver by hand.

“Something’s wrong with Thea. What do you know?”

Galina sets down the pot and folds the towel over the rail. “If you want to know about Thea, ask Thea.”

“Galina.”

“Maxim.” She challenges me with a glare. Challenging me to push her, something I never do. Not anymore. The last time I pushed Galina on a matter, she changed the house menu completely and served vintage English recipes for a month.

I don’t want a month of unseasoned boiled dinners, so I do the cowardly thing, and I ask Pasha.

He’s at the east stair, and he comes to attention. “Sir. Yes. One thing. Thea went out again after her nap, before you arrived. Said she wanted air.”

“Alone?”

“I kept a distance. It wasn’t a stroll, sir. She walked the orchard boundary. Slow, stopping, looking at the wall.”

“Looking at what on the wall?” A signal, perhaps from someone on the outside.

He hesitates. “The gardener’s gate. The one she used before. She stood a long time there. Then the tree line, the sight angles to the drive.” Tension rides his brow.

“Say the rest.”

“It looked like route work, sir. Like she was looking for another escape.”