Chương 2
Vivian came to Graham’s side. “Let her go. She will be begging to return by morning.”
Evelyn continued toward the service drive.
Nora’s car was an eight-year-old gray Subaru with a cracked plastic cover over one taillight and a pine-tree air freshener hanging from the mirror. She had two infant seats installed in the back because she sometimes transported the twins to medical appointments when the household drivers were unavailable. Snow had collected across the windshield.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she said as she opened the rear door. “My daughter left half a bag of pretzels somewhere.”
Evelyn looked at her.
Nora’s mouth pulled sideways. “I say stupid things when I’m scared.”
“So do most people.”
Together they secured the twins. Evelyn checked each buckle twice. Her fingers had become clumsy, and Nora had to guide the blanket away from one clasp. When both babies were settled, Evelyn climbed into the back between them. The lavender gown bunched beneath her. Her incision pulled when she shifted, and a sharp pain crossed her lower abdomen.
Nora noticed. “We should go to the hospital.”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That is not the same answer.”
Evelyn closed her eyes for two breaths. “Take us to the Saint Aurelia Hotel.”
“At this hour?”
“They know me.”
Nora scraped ice from the windshield with an old library card. Through the snow, Evelyn could still see the mansion entrance. Graham stood under the lanterns with his hands on his hips. Vivian had gone inside. The door remained open until Nora started the engine.
Then Graham closed it.
The Saint Aurelia occupied twelve quiet floors above a stone arcade in downtown Greenwich. At one in the morning, the lobby smelled faintly of cedar garland and furniture polish. A tired desk manager named Luis recognized Evelyn before he noticed the babies.
His expression changed, but his training held.
“Ms. Vale. How may we help you?”
“I need a suite with a connecting room. I also need a crib, a bottle sterilizer, distilled water, and someone to locate an on-call pediatric nurse.”
Luis looked at the snow melting from her cape and the evening gown beneath it. “Of course.”
Nora leaned close to Evelyn. “Two cribs.”
“One sleeps better near me.”
“They both sleep near you. Two cribs.”
Evelyn nodded. “Two.”
Luis handed over no forms. He asked for no card. The Vale Meridian Group held its annual leadership summit at the Saint Aurelia, and the hotel kept Evelyn’s preferences in a file that included her intolerance for scented candles and her habit of ordering tea she rarely drank.
While the elevator rose, one twin began to fuss. Evelyn lifted him from the car seat and pressed his cheek against her chest. He rooted automatically, hungry and angry at the interruption to his night.
Nora glanced at the other seat. “That is Samuel.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
“You sounded as though you were checking.”
“I was.”
Evelyn looked down at the child in her arms. “It’s Samuel.”
Nora exhaled. “Good.”
The suite overlooked a street where snowplows moved slowly through the blue darkness. Luis sent up a rolling rack of hotel robes, towels warmed in a dryer, and two portable cribs that arrived still wrapped in plastic. A nurse could not come until three. Nora told him that was fine, then shut the door and turned to Evelyn.
“Bathroom.”
“I need to feed him.”
“You can feed him after I make sure you’re not hemorrhaging onto a couture gown.”
The phrase was blunt enough to be useful.
In the bathroom, under light too bright for comfort, Evelyn removed the cape and lifted the skirt of her gown. The silver beadwork scratched her wrists. Her maternity pad showed more blood than she wanted to see but less than Nora feared. There was no sudden gush, no fever, no dizziness beyond exhaustion.
Nora crouched in front of her with the practical indifference of someone who had seen many bodies behave badly after birth.
“You need rest, hydration, food, and a medical professional who does not answer to your mother-in-law.”
“Former mother-in-law.”
“You have not filed anything yet.”
“Emotionally former.”
“That distinction will not impress a judge.”
Evelyn sat on the closed toilet lid and laughed once. The sound was wrong, almost weightless. It turned into a small gasp when her incision tightened.
Nora stood. “Do not do that.”
“Laugh?”
“Anything involving abdominal muscles.”
The nurse arrived at three-ten, carrying a black case and wearing snow boots beneath green scrubs. She examined Evelyn, checked the twins, took temperatures, reviewed feeding intervals, and listened without comment as Nora described the expulsion from the house.
When she finished, she said, “You are not in immediate medical danger. That does not mean you are fine.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Evelyn looked toward the bedroom. One crib stood near the window, the other beside the bed. Samuel slept with his mouth open. Oliver, the quieter twin, had one fist pressed against his cheek.
“I know I’m not fine,” Evelyn said.
The nurse gave her the number of a postpartum practice and wrote down warning signs in block letters. Before leaving, she paused near the suite door.
“You should document everything tonight while it is fresh.”
“My counsel is doing that.”
“I meant what happened to your body.”
Evelyn looked at the handwritten paper.
May you like
People had been documenting her money, her company, her marriage, and her decisions for years. It had not occurred to her that the soreness in her legs, the numbness around the incision, or the milk leaking through the bodice of her lavender gown might also be evidence.
After the nurse left, Nora found a hotel notepad. Evelyn dictated the sequence of events while feeding Samuel. She included the time dinner ended, the moment Graham took her phone from the dining table and scrolled through her messages, Vivian’s accusation that Evelyn intended to remove Graham as chief executive, the suitcase striking the marble, the exact words spoken at the door.
