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“Who?”
“It was delivered by messenger. I have no idea where it came from.”
“Vance?”
“Not his handwriting and definitely not his style.”
“How odd.” Her voice took on a thoughtful note. “And after all this time. Do you think it was recently discovered?”
“Edward has been dead five years. Vance went through all his papers. That’s where he found the letter telling him about me. I know if he’d found this letter he would have given it to me immediately.”
“So why has it surfaced now?”
“Because Waverly’s is in more trouble than ever. The note that accompanied the letter states that I’m as much a Waverly as Vance. The auction house is as much my responsibility to save as Vance’s.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Fight.”
“How? With George Cromwell stepping down, there’s no one to stop Rothschild from securing the votes he needs from the Waverly’s board.”
“It might help if I had someone by my side to help me.”
“You have Vance and Ann.”
“I was thinking about you.”
“Me?” Her tone sharpened. “I can’t help you, Roark. Even if we could somehow make the world believe our engagement wasn’t a lie, you aren’t going to stick around as long as it’s going to take to save Waverly’s. It’s not in your nature.”
“What if my nature has changed?”
“I don’t believe it can any more than I believe you want it to.” She spoke so softly it was hard to hear her words. “Maybe it’s time to give up on Waverly’s. Let Rothschild have it. Ann’s brilliant, she’ll land on her feet. Vance has numerous businesses to occupy him.”
“And the hundreds of people Waverly’s employs? What of them?”
Elizabeth didn’t speak for a long time. Roark tamped down his frustration. Had he really expected her to come running just because he’d received a letter confirming he was a Waverly? She’d never truly believed he was committed to saving Waverly’s. And he’d further damaged her trust when he’d run off to Egypt the day before Thanksgiving.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Roark. I really do hope you can save Waverly’s. It sounds like you’re fully committed to the task.”
“I appreciate your faith in me. Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Goodbye, Roark.”
He didn’t miss the finality of her words as the phone went dead in his hand.
Twelve
The Monday after Thanksgiving dawned with clear skies and temperatures in the forties. All dressed up, but with no place she had to be, Elizabeth headed to the coffee shop on the corner. She had to get out of her apartment and at least pretend she was making progress. After spending Sunday updating her résumé and assembling a digital portfolio of her best work, she’d emailed all of Josie’s competitors, praying one of them would give her a shot. The holiday season took its toll on event planners. Surely someone could use an extra set of hands.
For an hour she sipped coffee and stared out the window. On her laptop awaited the phone numbers she would dial. Nerves kept the coffee from sitting well in her stomach. What if she couldn’t find a job doing what she was good at? How was she supposed to start over?
Five phone calls later, anxiety had turned to dread. A stone had lodged itself in her throat making talking difficult. It wasn’t just that no one had an opening or was unimpressed with her work. Three of the five event planners warned her that Josie planned to wage war on anyone who hired her.
She was sunk.
Her phone rang. Elizabeth checked the unfamiliar number against the companies she’d sent résumés to. It matched none of them. She hit Talk.
“Elizabeth Minerva?”
