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ChapterEleven
Emelia
I can’t believe I’m here sitting inside the Banks and Barclay offices in downtown Boston, doing a lot of nervous foot tapping while I wait for the interviewer to stroll out of the conference room and call my name.
They’ve been taking applicants back one by one for the last two hours. But here I sit, staring at the coffee station with the breakfast spread laid out that not a single one of us has had the stomach to touch. Flakey croissants and heavenly cinnamon rolls, all left to go to waste. What a pity. Maybe if my interview goes horribly, I’ll wrap up a few on my way out and tell myself the trek here from New York City wasn’t in vain.
At the start of the day, there were twenty of us spaced around the small lobby that faces a conference room. We were the applicants who passed a rigorous interview process to be here. Three weeks of back-and-forth submissions, emails, phone interviews, and Zoom interviews, and now this is it, the final circle of hell.
Today we either walk out of here with a new job or go back to life as we know it.
I try not to let the idea depress me.
It took a lot of courage to get myself here today. When Banks and Barclay first landed the contract to renovate the Belle Haven Estate, I checked their website and found—just as I suspected there would be—ten new job listings posted overnight. Of course they were bringing people on. A job of this magnitude requires a large team. At the head, there’d likely be Professor Barclay or his partner Christopher Banks, then a senior project manager, at least two or three junior project managers, a principal architect, lord knows how manyotherarchitects, mechanical and electrical engineers, technical designers, and architectural conservationists. That’s where I come in.
But I didn’t apply for a job the day I saw those listings. In fact, at first, I closed their website, turned off my laptop, and stuffed it underneath my pillow.
Then I continued on, going to the job I hate every day, invading my best friend’s apartment, only to be plagued by continuous thoughts of the Belle Haven Estate.Surely, there will be more long-lost, once-in-a-lifetime Vanderbilt estates to restore. It’s not that special, is the pep talk I failed to convince myself with.
If it were any other firm taking it on, I would have applied for a position immediately. I would have already groveled my way through the front door.
But working for Professor Barclay is not something I’d ever in a million years consider.
That is…until three weeks ago.
I was sitting on my bed, feeling particularly down, when I remembered the letter Sonya had given me from Mr. Parmer. It’d traveled all the way from Scotland and had the wear and tear to show it, and instead of opening it the day she brought it to me, I’d dropped it onto my bedside table and lost it beneath a book. I uncovered it and opened it carefully so I didn’t tear any of the pages inside or damage the envelope any further.
The story of Mr. Parmer is the story of my childhood, really.
On paper, I’m the daughter of Frédéric Mercier. My mother first met him when she was studying abroad at the Ecole Polytechnique. Now, Frédéric is head of GHV, the luxury conglomerate he’s amassed over the last two decades, and he’s the ninth richest man in the world. Then, Frédéric was just a man on the heels of a divorce, a father to two young boys, Emmett and Alexander, and still in the process of building his empire.
Growing up, I knew Frédéric was my father, but I’d never met him, never even seen him or my two half-brothers in person. I assumed this was because he and my mother were no longer married, thought maybe they’d had a falling out or something had happened that was so dramatic they chose to never step foot in the same room together ever again. In my head, I imagined my mother loved me so fiercely she didn’t want to share me with him, and I imagined my father longed to see me, missed me, and cried over me endlessly. The imagining was necessary because my mother was so button-lipped about the situation when I was younger. I knew not to pester her about it; she’d never cave.
It was years of this. My wild imaginings grew tamer and more realistic with age, but my quiet curiosities were never sated. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I found out the truth. It could have been that my mother thought I was finally old enough to handle it, or it might have been that I found her at the exact right moment after she’d had one too many glasses of wine.
I walked up to where she sat in a soft chair beside the fire, picked up the edge of her blanket, and tucked myself in beside her, wrapping the blanket around us both. She hummed in appreciation and cuddled closer, pressing a kiss to my cheek. We sat quietly at first as she played with my long brown hair, twisting it up around her fingers.
“Tell me about my father,” I asked her gently.
I braced for her to shut me down like all the times before, but instead, she asked, “What would you like to know?”
Simple.
“Everything.”
She chuckled.“He’s tall and handsome. His hair had some gray in it the last time I saw him, but it—”
“No.No,” I insisted. “Not this.”
I’d seen pictures of Frédéric. I knew what he looked like, what he did, who he was.
I wanted the truth about their relationship, the reason I’d never met him.
I told her this, and there was a long silence that followed, the crackling fire the only sound in the room. I almost started to cry, so overburdened with anger and resentment toward a situation I knew so little about.
Then she spoke.
“He wasn’t always a cruel man. He was kind, especially when I first met him, but the pressure of growing his company chiseled away his soft edges. He traveled so much, and I was left to my own devices. I wanted to work, to contribute to the world. After all, I had my own degrees and education, my ownbrain. Frédéric didn’t like that idea though. For one, we didn’t need the money, but it was more than that—he wanted me focused on trying to conceive. He was so adamant about wanting another child, a little girl. Never mind that he was an integral part of that. We didn’t have infertility issues so much as scheduling issues. He was all over the world, barely there. During all of this, he started amassing properties as well. Investment opportunities, he called them, but they meant more than that to me. It was an outlet, a way for me to contribute.Iwas the one who encouraged him to buy Dunlany Castle, and he allowed me to move here once he realized how unhappy I was in the apartment in Paris. I think it was better for him too. Without me in the way, he could focus on his true love.”
