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“How was the art show?”
“A success. I sold quite a few paintings.”
She smiles proudly. “Morgan’s is lucky to have you.”
I release a caustic chuckle. “Tell my grandmother that. I know she wishes I wouldn’t waste my time there.”
Margaret doesn’t reply, and I’m not surprised. I know she’ll never bite the hand that feeds her. Her loyalty lies with my grandmother, though I like to think she cherishes our bond as well.
“Anyone interesting pop up at the gallery tonight?”
I freeze with my cup of tea midway to my mouth. My wide eyes meet hers in the mirror.
How does she know Emmett Mercier was there? I didn’t say a thing to anyone at the gallery. He and I didn’t speak again after I walked away from him. He stayed for a little while longer, and perhaps he would have wanted to continue where we left off, but I never gave him the chance. I kept myself busy, glued to Aaron’s side for a good portion of the evening, trying to convince myself I was merely trying to do my job when in fact I was taking the coward’s way out.
I don’t know why our paths crossed tonight. It’s not as if it’s a common occurrence. I haven’t seen Emmett since he left St. John’s—actually, that’s not really true. I have seen him online and in newspapers. Trying to shield myself from news of the Mercier Family and GHV is an impossible task. The Atlantic and The New York Times always seem to be running a story or posting a photo of them on social media.
He aged exactly as I thought he would, like a vintage wine kept in perfect conditions. I don’t know why that upsets me. I don’t want him to suffer, though I do hope he’s had at least one real heartache along the way, some girl who really put him in his place. I imagined being that girl once, when I was incredibly young and unbearably naive. I can’t believe I dreamed about him when we were at St. John’s. I was still a child then, but he was so handsome no one could blame me. I think of the picture I kept under my pillow, of the day everyone found out about it. What a fool.
Margaret runs the brush down the length of my hair again, being patient with me as I smile timidly and shrug. “Just the usual. Why do you ask?”
“I had hopes that perhaps Royce would have attended.”
I deflate with so much relief at the mention of Royce that my shoulders actually sag. I lose two inches of height. I’m glad that’s where her mind was heading. It’s no one’s business that I ran into Emmett today, and I have no plans to share it with my grandmother or Margaret. My grandmother would only use the opportunity to remind me of my future, or worse, she’d get it into her head to cut my hours at Morgan’s altogether to avoid a second encounter.
“He’ll be here tomorrow, won’t he?”
She smiles, though it seems half-hearted. “Yes, he did confirm, though it was your grandmother who arranged the meeting…”
“I don’t mind,” I assure her, trying to discern what she could be playing at.
“So then you’re okay with everything?”
I think of my cigarette down on the sidewalk, the lies I feed myself in the morning. You’re happy. You’re okay. No life is better than the life you’re living.
“More than okay,” I say with a big smile. “Why don’t you help me pick out something to wear for the luncheon tomorrow before I go to bed?”
Chapter Eleven
Lainey
Royce Saunders sits on the bench opposite mine, alone. I sit beside my grandmother. We’re having afternoon tea in the backyard garden, and the unbearable silence is threatening to send me over the edge. He’s only been here twenty minutes and it seems like we’ve exhausted every line of questioning.
The Red Sox are doing well this season, the rain clouds will part, winter might be a tough one this year, and no, he wouldn’t like another cookie.
Royce is in his early forties and bald, though in that handsome way some men can pull off. His facial hair helps to sharpen his otherwise baby face. He dresses stylishly and is incredibly polite. There’s a lot to admire about him: his easy smile, his steady demeanor, the kindness he shares equally among anyone. A stranger, a driver, a state official—he treats them all the same.
He comes from a well-established Boston family and his money is old, though he doesn’t let that stop him from running a successful consulting firm. I’m not sure exactly who he consults. I know it’s something to do with technology and politics, though how the two combine I can’t be totally sure. It’s embarrassing, I know, to not know what your fiancé does for a living.
