Chương 8
He held up the container.
“It’s pumpkin.”
Alexander accepted it.
“Thank you.”
Logan glanced between us.
“Mom said pecan would travel better.”
“I hate pecan.”
“I know.”
That surprised me more than it should have.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Anyway.”
He looked uncomfortable enough that I almost rescued him.
I did not.
He glanced back toward the house.
“Dad’s in the study.”
“Okay.”
“He shut the door.”
“Okay.”
“He does that when he’s scared.”
I looked at my brother.
“What do you want me to do with that?”
“Nothing.”
He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the wet pavement.
“I just thought you should know.”
My anger rose again.
“Logan, I cannot fix him.”
“I didn’t say you could.”
“You came out here because he’s upset.”
“I came out here because you left without pie.”
He sounded offended.
Then his expression changed.
“Jesus, Emma, not everything is a request.”
The words landed hard.
I looked away.
“Sorry.”
He shrugged.
“I mean, sometimes it is.”
“That is not helping.”
“I’m bad at this.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
Alexander stayed quiet.
Logan looked at him.
“This is weird.”
“Yes,” Alexander said.
“Thank you.”
“I mean, you being here.”
“I gathered.”
“You know I Googled you.”
“Most people do.”
“That must be deeply creepy.”
“It can be.”
Logan glanced at me.
“He answers questions like a politician.”
“He’s worse when he’s tired.”
“I’m standing here.”
“I know.”
Logan smiled faintly.
Then he looked at me again.
“I’ll call Melissa tonight.”
Relief softened something in me.
“Good.”
“And I’ll ask Dad for the books.”
“Good.”
“But if you ever tell anyone I listened to you, I’ll deny it.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
He stepped forward like he might hug me.
Then he thought better of it.
I hugged him first.
He made an embarrassed noise.
“All right.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m holding pie.”
“Alexander has the pie.”
“Then this is even worse.”
He hugged me back.
When he left, I watched him climb the steps and disappear inside.
Alexander opened the car door.
“Ready?”
“I think so.”
We got in.
The driver pulled away from the curb.
I looked back once.
My parents’ house grew smaller through the rain-blurred rear window.
Nobody came outside again.
Alexander set the pie container carefully between us.
“You still want dinner?”
I looked at the clock on the dashboard.
It was after seven thirty.
“Our reservation is gone.”
“It is.”
“You knew that already.”
“Yes.”
“And you still asked.”
“I didn’t know whether you wanted the idea of dinner more than dinner.”
I stared at him.
“That was disturbingly perceptive.”
“Four hundred dollars an hour.”
I leaned my head against the seat.
“I want fries.”
He nodded toward the driver.
“Marcus, emergency fries.”
The driver smiled in the mirror.
“I know a place.”
Twenty minutes later, Alexander Hayes, who could get a table in restaurants where normal people waited months, sat across from me in a diner off the Saw Mill Parkway eating fries from a red plastic basket.
The booth had a tear repaired with silver tape.
A television above the counter showed a football game with the sound off.
Two teenagers in matching grocery-store uniforms sat three booths away sharing mozzarella sticks.
Nobody cared who Alexander was.
That was exactly what I needed.
I stole one of his fries.
“You have your own.”
“Yours are crispier.”
“They came from the same basket.”
“That’s not the point.”
He pushed the basket toward me.
I smiled.
Then my phone began vibrating across the table.
Mom.
I let it ring.
It stopped.
A message appeared.
Please let me know when you get home.
I read it twice.
Alexander dipped a fry into ketchup.
“You can answer.”
“I know.”
I typed, We’re fine.
Then I deleted it.
I typed, Home later.
Deleted that too.
Finally I wrote, I’m okay.
Her reply came immediately.
Thank you.
Nothing else.
I put the phone face down.
Alexander watched me without looking like he was watching.
“I told Dad I wouldn’t interfere with Horizon.”
“I assumed.”
“He said thirty-seven jobs are at risk.”
Alexander’s expression changed.
“Did he?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I know Whitmore Development is financially stressed.”
“How stressed?”
He wiped his fingers with a paper napkin.
“Emma.”
“I’m not asking you to violate anything.”
“Good.”
“But?”
“But I need to be careful what I say.”
I nodded.
He looked at the television for a moment before continuing.
“Your father’s company is one of several bidders for a package of work connected to Horizon.”
“I know.”
“The bid review isn’t mine alone.”
“I know that too.”
“And your involvement in the design team creates a conflict we were already planning to disclose formally before the next procurement meeting.”
I sat straighter.
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because legal sent me the memorandum yesterday afternoon and you were debating whether whipped cream counts as a legitimate breakfast.”
“It does.”
“I disagreed.”
“You were wrong.”
“I remain wrong.”
I took another fry.
“What does the conflict mean?”
“It means I’m recusing myself from any decision involving Whitmore.”
A knot I had not realized I was carrying loosened.
“Good.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You sound relieved.”
“I am.”
“That makes two of us.”
I looked at him.
“You thought I’d ask you to help him.”
“No.”
“Alexander.”
“I thought you might feel obligated to ask.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is close enough to be dangerous.”
I sat back.
He was right.
I hated that.
“Would it have helped?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“His bid has to stand on its own.”
“Is it bad?”
“I can’t discuss the evaluation.”
“I hate your job.”
“Tonight, so do I.”
A waitress appeared with two coffees we had not ordered.
“On the house,” she said.
“Thanksgiving survival.”
She was maybe sixty, with pink glasses and a name tag that said NANCY.
I looked around.
“How did you know?”
May you like
Nancy nodded toward my mascara-streaked face.
“Honey, nobody looks like that after a good Thanksgiving.”
