Chương 8
“Yes,” Anna said. “I’m beginning to.”
At ten, Adrian called. She let it ring.
He left a message asking whether she had received the firm’s documents and telling her she was under no obligation to sign before obtaining independent advice.
At ten thirty, Celeste called from a blocked number.
Anna answered because she thought it might be the clinic.
“Don’t hang up,” Celeste said.
Anna stood from the table.
“You’re not supposed to contact me.”
“My brother doesn’t control my telephone.”
“He told me you wouldn’t call the agency.”
“I haven’t.”
“Have you spoken to my lawyer?”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“The agreement is generous.”
Anna looked at the six-week payment figure. It was more money than she had expected and less than the cost of being unemployed for three months.
“Why are you calling?”
“To explain.”
“You said I stole something.”
“I said you were trying to take it.”
“That is not better.”
“No,” Celeste said after a pause. “It isn’t.”
Anna heard traffic behind her, then a car horn. Celeste was not at the estate.
“I panicked,” she continued. “The letter could create a dispute over the portrait. A very expensive dispute. I thought you had seen enough to misunderstand.”
“I saw you hide an envelope.”
“I was not hiding it.”
“You put it in your bag.”
“To leave the foyer without creating a scene.”
“You created one anyway.”
Celeste exhaled. “You stepped in front of me.”
“I was following instructions.”
“That is what everyone says when instructions allow them to embarrass someone.”
Anna’s fingers closed around the edge of the table.
“Did you call to apologize?”
Another horn sounded.
“I called to ask you not to exaggerate what happened.”
“You held my clothes and accused me of stealing.”
“I barely touched you.”
Anna closed her eyes.
There it was again. The phrase Celeste used as if the size of the contact determined the size of the fear.
“You should talk to your brother,” Anna said.
“I’m talking to you.”
“No. You’re talking at the person you think has the least power.”
Celeste became silent.
Anna disconnected.
Her hands shook afterward, which made her angry. She wanted courage to feel different from fear. Instead, it often felt identical until several minutes after the decision was made.
She called the number on the legal-aid list the clinic had given her. The receptionist said workplace matters were not their specialty but referred her to an employment attorney in White Plains who offered a reduced-fee consultation.
The attorney’s name was Janelle Brooks. She wore a burgundy sweater, had three uncapped pens on her desk, and read the Vale agreement while eating almonds from a plastic bag.
“This is not the worst document I’ve seen,” she said.
“That’s encouraging.”
“It should not be. I’ve seen terrible documents.”
She tapped the confidentiality clause.
“They can reasonably ask you not to disclose private family records you encountered through employment. They cannot purchase your right to report workplace misconduct, cooperate with an insurer, or discuss your own experience with counsel or authorities. This language is broad enough to make an employee nervous about all of those things.”
“I think that is the point.”
Janelle looked at her over the pages. “Good. You’re paying attention.”
Anna showed her the photograph.
Janelle stopped chewing.
“This is useful.”
“It proves she had the envelope before the glass cracked.”
“It appears to. We would preserve the original file and metadata.”
“Mr. Vale told me to send copies to people I trust.”
“That was sensible.”
“He also sent this.”
“People can do sensible and self-protective things in the same morning.”
Anna folded her hands beneath the table. “Should I sign if they change the wording?”
“What do you want?”
“I want my job.”
“Do you want that job, or do you want income and insurance?”
Anna hesitated.
Janelle nodded. “Those are different wants. You may not be able to protect both.”
“I did nothing wrong.”
“That does not guarantee the workplace remains livable.”
The bluntness stung.
Janelle leaned back. “You also need to decide whether your pregnancy is relevant to negotiations. They do not know officially?”
“No.”
“Do you believe Celeste targeted you because she suspected?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we don’t claim that. We do not turn uncertainty into certainty just because the other side did.”
Anna thought of Adrian asking the same questions in the foyer, his calmness carrying authority simply because he had always owned the room in which he stood.
“What happens if I give the photograph to the insurer?” she asked.
“You cooperate with a legitimate investigation. The family may dislike it. The agency may call you difficult without using that word. The image may become part of litigation. Or nothing dramatic may happen, which is more common than television suggests.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You keep leverage temporarily. You also allow others to describe the incident without the strongest record.”
Janelle gathered the pages into a neat stack.
“Do not sign today. Do not answer calls from Celeste. Save everything. Then decide what outcome lets you respect yourself six months from now, not only survive Friday.”
“That sounds expensive.”
Janelle smiled slightly. “Self-respect often has terrible cash flow.”
At Vale House, the buyer’s attorneys requested a forty-eight-hour delay. The lender demanded updated insurance confirmation. The family office warned that each day beyond the contractual closing window increased carrying costs.
Celeste’s bank called twice before noon.
Adrian spent the morning in conferences. He used the words potential claim, isolated asset, and good-faith disclosure until they ceased to sound like language. At one point he looked through his study windows and watched a groundskeeper struggle with a leaf blower near the terrace. The machine pushed the same wet leaves in a circle. Adrian envied the simplicity of visible failure.
At lunch, Lionel brought soup and set it beside a stack of provenance reports.
“Anna’s agency called,” Lionel said.
“What did they want?”
“Clarification about whether her placement continues.”
May you like
“What did you tell them?”
“That no decision had been made.”
