We both snap our attention to the gasp coming from the other side of the room. Henrietta is on her feet, staggering backwards from where Frank is kneeling down beside the chair she was sitting in.
“I can explain…” he says before drifting off then standing and turning to face me.
“He has pictures on his phone, Emma Jane.” Henrietta’s disgust rings deep as she points an accusatory finger in Frank’s direction. “Of nude women! Doingthings.”
“And there’s reason number five thousand and fifty-four that Frank Weston is a rotten soul,” Knightley mumbles under his breath.
The room is blanketed with quiet, only the crackling fire breaking the smothered silence.
Frank laughs stiltedly, bouncing his gaze from his father to me and then beside me to Knightley. Then, a slimy smirk snakes across his face. “I’m a twenty-six year old self-made man.” He shrugs as if that excuses his actions.
“Self-made, my—” Knightley curses. I watch as his naturally red-tinted face turns to a deep maroon as anger engulfs him. “Grant, do you know why your son is home? Truly?”
Grant’s wide eyes flicker to his son. “To celebrate my marriage?”
“He’s here to take your farm from you and sell it to the highest bidder back in New York. He’s broke, Grant. Not a penny left to his name. Your son is as corrupt as they come on Wall Street.”
“You have no idea what you’re mouthing off about, Knightley.” Frank’s booming voice is full of rage. “How dare you accuse me of such actions.”
Without retaliating, Knightley walks to the corner of the room, grabs a manila folder from a side table, and brings it to Grant. Hesitantly, Grant takes the folder from Knightley and pulls out a hefty stack of papers. After several prolonged moments of papers flipping, Frank protesting, and Father sitting in the corner with his nose in a newspaper, Grant stands.
“We will talk about this at home, Son.” He takes Halle by the hand, says his goodbyes to all of us, then leaves.
“I think you should follow them out,” I say, moving to stand beside Henrietta, who still looks shell-shocked.
“I will happily escort you,” Knightley says, already approaching Frank. Frank snarls and curses at Knightley the entire way through the hallway and out the door, and once we hear the click of the lock, Henrietta crumbles into my arms, a sob breaking out.
I pat her back as Father stands, likely going to look through the window to make sure everyone is good outside. I take advantage of the moment of privacy.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I peel Henrietta off my shoulder.
She shakes her head, wiping at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you believe me now? That a girl like me has no business remotely entertaining a guy like him?”
“Henrietta, listen to me.” I pat her cheek. “You are not at fault, okay? None of us knew—well, except Knightley—what type of man FrankWeston is.”
“No, Emma Jane. I mean that he is awful and I am good. I want a good man. And while I know city men can be good, I prefer someone I know and closer to home. Someone I can easily vet myself.”
“Noted.” I let her cry on my shoulder as she mumbles about the images on Frank’s phone, things I will never repeat. Father comes back into the room, stating Knightley followed Frank home and won’t be back because he needs to tend to primary election matters.At least I won’t have to face his unbearable gloating.
For a brief moment, I wonder how I could have been so wrong about Henrietta and Frank when my first match—his own father—was perfection.
Father’s phone rings. “Reverend Philip. To what do I owe this pleasurable phone call?”
Reverend Elton Philip…
Local, single, handsome, kind, and well-known…
Wouldn’t have abhorrent pictures on his phone.
“Henrietta, I’ve got a new plan.”
Knightley
Rule #3: Check to make sure your clients are truly ready to be matched. Don’t force something that isn’t going to work.
Oscar Wilde once said, “To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.”
I must be a thoroughly modern idiot.
