Chapter Twenty
BLAKE
I'm exhausted, my shoulders feel knotted from the stress of negotiating the pending contract with Tokyo. The complications are endless, their demands for exclusivity on the green energy patents clashing with our U.S. regulations, hours my people have spent poring over clauses in the conference room and nada.
The drive back from Midtown feels longer than usual.
All I should want is a straight Scotch and quiet, but thoughts of Carolyn—her strange reaction this morning to that simple kiss nags like an unanswered question. It keeps intruding, stirring a restlessness I can't quite comprehend.
I head inside, loosening my tie as the foyer envelops me in its cool marble embrace. The lamp is on in the conservatory. There could be only one person sitting there at this time of the evening. I walk towards it and find my mom, seated alone on one of the wicker chairs. There is a flat orange box on the table in front of her. I lean down to kiss her cheek; her skin smells of powder and perfume, a scent that somehow helps ease the day's tension from my chest.
She smiles up at me, blue eyes sharp, despite her frailty. "Long day?"
I sit down across from her, the wicker creaking under my weight. The conservatory feels like a bubble, glass panes misted slightly from the warmth inside clashing with the oncoming chill of the evening outside.
"You could say that," I reply, rubbing my jaw, feeling the faint stubble.
"That Tokyo deal's hitting some snags?” she enquires softly.
I sigh. “Yup. They're pushing for full IP rights. It's going to drag into next week."
"You'll sort it out. You always do," she says confidently, as her gaze drifts to the gardens where the sun's last rays are turning the hedges into shadows. She returns her attention to me suddenly. “Are you looking for something?” she asks as she notices my attention going towards the door.
I shake my head and lie blatantly. “No.”
She smiles knowingly. “Your wife, perhaps?"
"Why would I?" I say, a bit too quickly. I realize I've been caught. My eyes have been scanning the doors like I'm expecting her to appear. My eyes seek a distraction and alight on the scarf in the box. "You got a new scarf from Hermes? I thought you hated the last one you got from Hermes? Didn’t you complain about how rude and big-headed the sales women were at the store?”
Her voice is thoughtful as she nods in agreement. "That's right. And Carolyn knows that—I've mentioned it more than once. Yet she went back to Hermes to get this for me to give to Dora for her birthday."
My eyebrows shoot upwards. “Really?”
“Yes, I wondered if she was trying to provoke me, but she seemed unusually and genuinely nice when she gave it to me, so I don't know what to think."
I lean back against the wicker chair. “There is something very strange about her, isn’t there?”
“I agree. She is behaving totally out of character. She is planning to throw Dora a surprise birthday party, complete with a chocolate fountain and hundreds of balloons.”
“What?” I burst out. Carolyn is throwing a surprise birthday party for the housekeeper that she detests. If she had her way, poor Dora would be out on her ear. And balloons and a chocolate fountain, that kind of thing, Carolyn would have scoffed at as tacky.
“That’s what I thought too?” my mother says heartily. “It's not her style at all.”
I frown. “Is she planning something? Do you think she’s pretending to be nice to catch us off guard?"
She nods, her expression troubled. "I wonder. I’m beginning to think she got a personality transplant at that clinic?”
“She’s become thoughtful and… involved. She promised Freya they could have a midnight baking session."
My mother frowns. "I don’t like that. I don’t want her to hurt Freya. It would seem like she has ulterior motives. Maybe she’s planning to surprise you with divorce papers or something—doing it this elaborately is a Carolyn thing to do. Nothing she loves better than turning sweetness into a weapon."
I feel a twist in my gut at the sickening realization. I don’t want to divorce this new version of Carolyn.
"Let's let it play out," I say, my voice low. I watch the sun, the conservatory darkening, and the glass walls reflecting our faces like ghosts. “I’ll stay on my guard so that I don’t miss what she's really after.”
“Right,” she says. “She has a mean streak in her and cannot be trusted, and we’ll need to keep a very close eye on her.”
Chapter Twenty-One
