Chương 7
Most were from Elijah.
The newest had arrived six minutes earlier.
I’m flying to Seattle this morning.
I stared at it.
Then another appeared.
We need to talk in person.
I typed, My mother died at 4:43.
The reply came almost instantly.
Oh God.
Then nothing for nearly a minute.
I’m so sorry.
I wish I had been there.
I looked at those words until anger stirred beneath the grief.
I typed, I asked you to be.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally he sent, I know.
It was the first honest thing he had said to me since the ballroom.
I put the phone away.
There were forms to sign.
A funeral home to call.
Megan’s flight to track.
My mother’s small overnight bag to empty.
Death came with administration.
By nine-thirty, I was sitting in a diner three blocks from the hospice because Carmen had insisted I eat.
I ordered pancakes and coffee.
The pancakes went cold.
The coffee did not.
I was stirring sugar into my third cup when Margaret called.
“Is she gone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Thank you.”
“I won’t keep you.”
“Wait.”
I looked around the diner.
A construction worker was putting hot sauce on eggs.
Two teenagers shared earbuds in a booth.
A waitress refilled water glasses while singing softly to herself.
“Elijah is coming here.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“He asked the flight department for the jet at five this morning.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is Laura with him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the untouched pancakes.
“Margaret, why did Laura’s uncle receive money from our personal account?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Find out.”
A pause.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
Another pause.
Then Margaret said, “Good.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Security footage from last night.”
My hand stopped.
“What about it?”
“The ballroom recording has already been copied for the hotel’s incident file.”
“Because Elijah hit me?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And it shows what happened before he hit you.”
I sat straighter.
“The wine.”
“Yes.”
“Does it show Laura knocking the glass?”
“Clearly.”
I closed my eyes.
For a few seconds, vindication felt almost sweet.
Then it curdled.
Elijah had not struck me because the evidence was unclear.
He had struck me because he had already decided whose version he preferred.
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t tell him.”
Margaret became very quiet.
“Alex.”
“Don’t protect him from finding out what he did.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
The diner door opened.
Cold air swept across the room.
A man entered carrying an enormous bouquet of white roses.
For one absurd second, I thought they were for someone celebrating a birthday.
Then I saw Elijah behind him.
He had changed out of his tuxedo, but not slept.
His hair was disordered, his shirt collar open, his face gray with exhaustion.
He saw me.
Then he saw my cheek.
Whatever sentence he had prepared disappeared.
The man holding the flowers glanced between us.
“Mr. Mercer?”
Elijah took the bouquet without looking away from me.
The diner suddenly felt very small.
He walked toward my booth.
I did not stand.
He stopped across from me, holding enough white roses to bury an apology beneath them.
“Alex.”
My spoon rested against the rim of the coffee cup.
“You came.”
His eyes filled.
“I’m so sorry about Evelyn.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I looked at the flowers.
“My mother hated white roses.”
His face fell.
“I didn’t know.”
“No,” I said.
“You didn’t.”
He lowered the bouquet as if it had suddenly become too heavy.
“I should have asked.”
“You should have known.”
The words came out flatter than I expected.
A waitress approached with a coffeepot, took one look at Elijah, then at me, and wisely redirected herself toward another table.
He slid into the booth across from me without asking.
The roses occupied half the table between us.
For years, I had watched him command rooms simply by entering them.
Investors leaned forward.
Employees straightened.
Hotel managers checked their phones to make sure nothing urgent had gone wrong.
Here, under fluorescent lights beside a laminated breakfast menu, he looked like a man who had slept badly in an expensive shirt.
“Alex, I know I can’t undo last night.”
“No.”
“I lost control.”
“Yes.”
“I was angry.”
“I noticed.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m trying to apologize.”
I picked up my coffee.
“Then apologize.”
He stared at me.
“I just did.”
“No, you explained.”
“That’s not fair.”
I set the cup down.
“Try again.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
For one terrible second, I saw the ballroom expression return.
Then he looked away.
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry I humiliated you in front of everyone.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary.”
His eyes came back to mine.
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Evelyn died.”
The final sentence broke something open in his face.
He rubbed both hands over it.
“I should have been there.”
“Yes.”
“I keep thinking about the last time I saw her.”
I did not answer.
He looked down at the roses.
“She made me fix that cabinet.”
Despite myself, the memory arrived.
My mother’s kitchen.
Elijah in a cashmere sweater on his knees with a screwdriver while she stood over him insisting the cabinet hinge had been crooked since the Clinton administration.
He had laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not the polite corporate version.
My mother had handed him the wrong screwdriver three times and refused to admit it.
“She liked you that day,” I said.
His mouth moved in something that might have become a smile if there had been room for it.
“I liked her.”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not fair either.”
“No.”
I folded the paper napkin beside my plate into quarters.
“Grief apparently hasn’t improved me.”
He looked at my hands.
“Come back to the hotel with me.”
“No.”
“Not home.”
“No.”
May you like
“Alex, please.”
“I said no.”
