Michael…
Through the open window of my study, I can hear the heavy “clunk!” of the armored door of Sophie's new Aston Martin as Ian shuts it behind her. The event people are already beginning to set up for her birthday party on the square between the four houses; round tables and white chairs, trimmed with flowers. Snowy tablecloths are smoothed over banquet tables ready to be covered with an endless array of food, and a DJ is setting up on a small riser close to our house.
Smiling sardonically, I know that no matter how loud the party gets tonight, there's not a soul within a sixteen-block radius that would dare to complain. Because not only does our compound here have better security than Balmoral Castle, our extended security force keeps the rest of this affluent neighborhood free of the slightest hint of crime as well.
Ordinarily, Sophie would be making light, cheerful conversation with Ian, who traditionally answers with monosyllabic grunts. Today, though, there’s silence, just the sharp slap of her sandals stomping into the house. Sophie never stomps. She walks lightly, carefully and even though I’ve been trained since birth to be attuned to the slightest movement around me, I’ve often been startled to find her suddenly appear next to me. She's careful, economical with movement and never taking up much space.
But not today.
My study door is open, and I listen as she sheds bits and pieces of herself throughout the house, her purse on the kitchen counter, her sandals drop by the back door, and then the angry slap of bare feet as she starts heading down the hall. I wait until she's just about to pass the study to see if she'll stop and when she doesn't, I call out, "How was your visit with your mother? Did you pick up the cake?" She stops, turning to look in the room, her full lips are pressed tight together in a thin line and she doesn't answer me.
Leaning back in my chair. I roll my knife between my fingers. It's a soothing motion: the handle flips under my thumb, my forefinger lifting the blade up with a flash of light before it spins on my palm and the motion starts again.
"Yes,” she says shortly. This isn't Sophie. Ordinarily, a question from me merits her full attention and a smile, but this time she heads for the stairs, her heels pounding on each riser. When the door not-quite slams in the guest bedroom, I wait for her response. It dinnae take long. She crosses the hall upstairs and throws open my door. The master bedroom is located right above the study and I can hear her footsteps circling the room before she leaves it and heads back downstairs, hands on hips, glaring at me in the doorway.
“Who moved my stuff?” she asks sharply.
Briefly, I wonder if the spirit of my explosive sister Maisie has taken over my sweet-tempered wife's body because this woman looks like she's ready to pick up the stiletto I'm spinning and stab me in the eye with it.
"I had Davina do it while you were gone," I say. “We should be together. The master bedroom is yours as well as mine.”
"Really?” she snaps. “After being married for nearly two months, you've decided tofinallyhonor me with half your closet space? Icertainly appreciate the unilateral decision without wasting time on my input."
Placing my knife on the desk, I rise, nodding toward the couch. “I suspect your visit did not go as planned, why don't you come in and tell me about it?"
She taps her fingertip to her lips. "Where to start? I mean, things have been going so well, sosmoothly.Even though I'm still not allowed to go back to work because of the mysterious and sinister doings of that bastard Robert Taylor. Not that you wouldtellme about any of them." I take her hand in mine, pulling her to the couch. She digs her heels in a bit, but eventually relents, allowing me to seat her. I sit on the coffee table in front of her, elbows on my thighs, hands clasped.
"Why is this upsetting ye now?" I ask. "We discussed this last week. Ye said that ye understood why it wasn't safe to resume daily activity yet."
“It's funny, gee. Let me think,” she says. I'm alternately amused and irritated by her pissy wee tone. Sophie so rarely gets upset and never with me. “The Aston Martin SUV that could double as a Brinks truck shows up today in the driveway, along with another one of your top security men. So, now I requiretwoguards? But everything's okay.” Her slate-colored eyes are narrow, watching me closely. “Anything you wanna share with me? You know, a little birthday present of, ‘hey let me be honest with you Sophie, here's what's going on?’”
Irritation rises up in me like a toxic tide and I push it back. She's expecting that a few weeks is enough to push away any hesitation about what her mother has done to our family and the small possibility that Sophie might've been involved. Complete and open transparency has to be earned.
"As I told you,” my voice is cold, "even with Xenia and Georges’ help we're having trouble tracking Robert Taylor, and his motivations are still unclear. He doesn't seem to be doing any kind of direct frontal assault on the clan, but we know that he was interested in kidnapping and perhaps even killing ye. Extra protection seems wise.”
She leans back against the couch putting more space between us, and I feel the chill of the air between us. "Your mother was talking to mine today when I came to visit," she says. Her cheeks are flushed and now her rage is morphing into hurt. My wife is sweet and guileless, she hasn't learned to hide her emotions from me.
Yet.
“Miss Mala casually mentioned that they had hired a new chef, and she hoped Mom would come in and ‘show him around.’"
"I know they've been having trouble filling the position," I say carefully.
“You do realize,” she snaps, “that this is like dumping the first wife, but expecting her to show the second wife where all the family jewels are and oh, here's how to fold your new husband's underwear?"
"Sophie. You do understand that your mother's removal from the house was permanent, correct? Did you think her actions would be forgotten?"
"Exactly what do you think my mother is going to do now?" She throws up her hands, rising from the couch and stepping away from me. “How is my mother supposed to make a living? Until I graduate from law school, I can't help support her.”
“There has been no discussion about you going to law school," I say sharply.
Her hands close into fists. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Sophie is incandescent with rage. “You won't let my mother work, and now you're telling me I'm not going to be able to support her?"
Rising, I take a step towards her and she takes a step back. "Everything has changed now and you know this. Your increased security should make it clear I have concerns for your safety. Allowing you to go back to school right now is-”
“Allowing me?" Sophie gasps. “What exactly did you think I would be doing for the rest of my life? Just cooking dinner every night? Searching for tasty recipes online, reading articles about how to keep your man happy? My mom was close to retiring and well, apparently, that came sooner than we planned. It's going to be my job soon to look after her. She's given up everything for me!"
Leaning against my desk, I watch her furious steps between the windows and my bookshelves, angry little circles. "Martha will be taken care of, of course."
