Mark Winterson beams like this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him.
“Good, good,” his dad says, clapping his son on the arm. “I always say, ex nihilo—”
“—nihil fit,” Mark Winterson finishes for him. “Nothing comes from nothing. I know.”
Hellooo, low-hanging fruit!It takes all my strength to stop myself from punching the air. One down, two to go.
“You must be Ruby! Such a pleasure,” his mother says, extending an imperious hand for me to shake. Then she steps back, shoulder to shoulder with her son, and says as though I can’t hear: “Different than the girls you usually bring around, Mark. Maybe you’re maturing.”
She sips her champagne while he laughs nervously.
Extremely strange vibe these people have. Not sure how I feel about being the mature choice.
“Would you excuse me?” I say, fighting the urge to curtsy. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”
This wedding is like an endurance exercise, and I could use a break. I head in the direction of the main house and duck behind a topiary animal in a spot of shade—a bear standing on its hind legs.
After taking a few deep, calming breaths, I peer back around it, checking on the Wintersons.
And another man I recognize is wandering down the lawn toward them: Winfield Erickson, the CEO of TKCORP. I’ve seen him only through screens—some of his town hall meetings were posted to YouTube last year, and I watched them from my desk in New York, because Mom was worried about her job.
“You know new leadership can mean layoffs,” Mom said at the time, on the phone from across the country. “That’s when it’s even more important to put your nose to the grindstone, work as hard as you can. They’ll notice it. It will be worth it, when they’re making decisions about who to let go.”
The way she talked, it was like hard work could get her everywhere. Like buckling down and suppressing your desires and complaints for a little while longer would keep you safe—just one more late night, just another big push, try harder, come on, almost there,almost there—
A wave of anger hits me so hard it turns into nausea as I watch the CEO greet the group and clap Mark Winterson on the back. Then the two of them turn and start walking toward the hedge maze, so I hustle across the lawn as quickly as I can in these precarious heels.
Chapter
44
It’s tough, following someone in a hedge maze. Every time I reach a fork, I strain to hear what direction their voices are coming from—until I realize Mark Winterson’s dress shoes leave a distinctive imprint in the soft dirt, and I relax about losing them. But I still have to make sure to stay far enough behind that I don’t run into them, and that’s tricky too. I turn every corner with lots of clandestine peeking around. It would probably be funny, if I weren’t so stressed.
Their voices are suddenly too close, so I stop cold in my tracks for a few minutes. It seems like they’re standing just on the other side of the hedge that separates us.
“Who’s that girl you’re with?” Erickson says, voice gravelly, garnished with a gross little chuckle. “Surprised you’d bring a new fling to one of these.”
My cheeks burn, and my scalp tingles. My constant low-level fear that people are talking about me, once again bizarrely actualized.
“She’s not a fling.” Mark Winterson’s voice comes through the hedge.
Aw, that dork.A pang of guilt twists in my gut. He liked me because he thought I was genuine and no-bullshit, and I’ve been bullshitting him quite a bit.
Erickson guffaws. “Doesn’t seem like your type. Weren’t you dating a model? Is this some kind of reverse quarter-life crisis?”
“I’m a bit old for that.” There’s a sound like feet kicking at the dirt. “She cheers me up. She’s funny.” Mark Winterson becomes a real chatterbox talking to this guy, compared to how he was with his parents. “And she really listens.”
Hearing him say that makes me a bit woozy. Or maybe it’s that last glass of champagne and these vertiginous heels.
“And it’s cute how much she doesn’t know about the world,” he adds. “Kind of fun to show her things.”
Anger spikes through whatever tender feeling I was just experiencing.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, kid!” Erickson’s laugh sounds like it’s laced with the traces of an old smoking habit. “So…did the falcon come in for a landing?”
My ears perk up. That sounds like code for something juicy—though I wouldn’t put it past these guys to literally be interested in falconry.
“Yes, two falcons. Sent them both off on the new flight path. Hopefully that’s more discreet than last time.”
