Celia is chattering away to Maggie, and I’m thinking about the weird capacity for women to form instant, life-long friendships over little more than a shared liking for the same lipstick, when I hear my name and tune back in.
“Sure, Finch is right here with me now. We’re riding around Manhattan in a town car, making our husbands go bankrupt.” Maggie says something in reply and Celia continues, her voice less chirpy now. “Um, sure, maybe. That sounds like a neat idea. Let me just run it by Finch.” She puts the phone on mute and her eyes are worried when she looks at me. “Maggie’s in town. Did you know?”
“I did not.” Maggie Donovan wouldn’t deign to share her schedule with me. Besides, how would she even contact me?
“She wants to see you,” Celia says hesitantly. “She suggested we pick her up, have lunch together. Um…”
Ah. Maggie Donovan hasfounda way to contact me.
I know what Celia’s worried about. After my little overdoseincident, Celia got read the riot act by Brother Frank. It must’ve been serious, because Celia is irrepressible when it comes to Frank, and does what she wants ninety-nine percent of the time. When it comes to me, though, I guess she’s beentold.
Maybe she’s even been told I’m not allowed to see my family. ButIhaven’t been told that, and I have no intention of letting anyone decide who I can and cannot see.
Not even Luca D’Amato. Besides, I’m curious why Maggie even wants to see me.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling innocently.
“Um,” she says again. “Would Luca be okay with that, do you think?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” I don’t blink, don’t look away, until Celia does.
She unmutes her phone. “We’ll swing right by and pick you up, Maggie,” she says, trying and failing to sound as cheery as she did when she first answered. “I know, right? Yeah, can’t wait…see you soon.”
I sit back and look out the window, and I can’t help smiling to myself as Celia gives Marco the new address. Celia D’Amato versus Maggie Donovan. The warmth of the Italians versus the charm of the Irish.
I wonder which side I’m actually on.
* * *
Maggie greetsCelia like a long-lost school friend, and the way they dive into conversation, you’d think they’ve known each other that long. Maggie is staying at the Grand in our standing suite, and makes us come up when we arrive. I know exactly why, because I know my sister. It’s to show Celia that the Donovans don’t play second fiddle to anyone. Celia D’Amato will wait on Maggie Donovan, and she’ll fucking like it.
I make Marco wait outside the door, too, although he looks dubious, but Maggie has our mother’s autocratic nature, and the way she ignores him and simply shuts the door on him resolves the issue.
Hired Help are not welcome in the presence of Margaret Fincher Donovan.
Celia, as intended, looks intimidated by the room and the view out the window over Central Park. I have a sense ofdéjà vuand remember Luca staring out this same window, like he’d never been so high up in his life before. Frank D’Amato does well enough for his wife, but he doesn’t have money like the Donovans. That’s what Maggie wanted Celia to know when she invited us up here to her room.
Celia gives a timid smile when Maggie urges her to try her new perfume, just come in on shipment from France and not for sale here yet. Yep, Maggie plays her like a fiddle, keeping Celia in her place while pretending to give her a hand up.
It’s mean, and I refuse to share the catty smile Maggie sends my way behind Celia’s back.
“You know what would be fun?” Maggie asks, making her eyes go wide and sparkly. “Why don’t you have a look at the new couture I just got from Milan, Celia? See if there’s anything you like? Try it on? We have time before lunch, right?”
Maggie looks at me. I know that look. She wants a moment alone.
“Plenty of time,” I sigh, and Maggie just about shoves Celia into the walk-through closet, then shuts the door on her.
“Take your time!” she calls, and then hurries over to me. “Here,” she says, pressing a phone into my hand.
I look down at it.
“It’s encrypted, don’t worry. Pops wants to call you tonight.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? He wants to hear what intel you’ve dug up.”
“Intel? Jesus, Maggie, I’m not James Bond.”
