by Grey, R. S.
Patricia brings out a little bowl filled with breakfast for him.
“Did you make that, Patricia?” I ask, eyeing the food. There’s brown rice and ground meat as well as carrots and zucchini. I would eat it.
She laughs. “No. Chef whipped it up. Apparently, he thinks the bags of dog food they sell in stores aren’t fit for a dog staying at Rosethorn.”
Nicholas laughs before whistling for Louis. He dashes back over, smells the food Patricia’s holding, and immediately starts twirling around and around in circles, as if trying to impress her.
Cornelia tuts. “What unseemly behavior, Louis!”
She tries to get him to sit. He doesn’t. She pushes down his little rump until he gives the impression of sitting, but when she moves her hand, he jumps right back up. I’m laughing and I glance over to find Nicholas doing the same. Our eyes lock and a little zing runs down my spine. My smile fades as I turn away, blinking away the rush of anxiety filling my stomach.
“Right, well,” Cornelia begins as she wipes her hands clean. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll have a trainer here, and a groomer. You’ll see—in a week’s time, he’ll know thirty commands in English and French!”
“I look forward to seeing it,” Nicholas says, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “I’ve got to run back to the city.”
“So soon?”
“I’ll be back next weekend,” he assures her.
I take the knowledge for myself as well. I sleep with it that night, knowing I won’t have to wait too long before I see him again. Of course, it doesn’t even occur to me until the morning that I shouldn’t want to see him, but by then, the feeling of anticipation has already grown roots.
18
Nicholas
I don’t normally mind summers in the city. Sure, the stifling heat can get unbearable, especially compounded by the hordes of people out in droves, sweating their way from one tourist destination to another, but there’s a newfound excitement in the air too, spurred by life having been kept shuttered during the winter months. Kites fly overhead in Central Park. Ice cream vendors perch on street corners. Children splash through sprinklers.
Monday morning, I walk the short distance from my apartment to work and try to bring my mind back to the appeal cases we have on our plate, all of which need my full attention. Usually, I have no trouble getting my brain on track, but now I’m wondering about inane things instead: if Louis has found his way into the house again, if Cornelia actually intends on going through with the trainer, if Maren is happy she convinced a household of people to bend to her will so easily. They all want to make her happy and I find, surprisingly, that I’m among them.
There’s a small voice inside my head criticizing me for falling into her trap. It’s self-preservation and usually I’m glad for the instinct, but it seems it’s no longer founded in Maren’s case. At least I hope not.
In my office, a few eager interns and associates are already at work. They wave to me as I pass by and head into my office, and one brings me a cup of coffee as I turn on my TV to catch an early news broadcast. The stories about my family have dried up, partly because of threatened lawsuits from my lawyers and partly because the “salacious insider information” Michael Lewis promised the world wasn’t all that noteworthy. Tidbits about my grandmother’s comings and goings from Rosethorn didn’t elicit the fiery excitement he was hoping for. And then—get this—she goes to the yacht club to eat lunch!
I mute the news as I reach for a stack of mail sitting on the corner of my desk. We get a lot, especially concerning the defendants we’re trying to exonerate. After I slide my letter opener through the top of an envelope, I press play on my answering machine. I have an assistant who fields calls from the general office line, but I usually have one or two messages from people who know my personal number.
Today, the first message is from a person I can’t immediately place. I glance over at my phone as it continues to play.
“Hi, Mr. Hunt. This is Mrs. Buchanan from Holly Home. You called me a few weeks ago inquiring about one of our past employees, Maren Mitchell? On that call, I mentioned a theft that had recently occurred here, and I insinuated that the blame should be placed on Ms. Mitchell. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was wrong about those circumstances I described to you. The item in question was found in another employee’s locker over the weekend. He’s confessed to the crime and has since been terminated. Anyway, I wanted to be sure to contact you in case you were still considering hiring Ms. Mitchell. As I said before, she was a good employee, and I feel bad if my earlier accusations might have swayed you against her. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Call me if you have any other questions.”
The message ends and I sit perfectly still, absorbing her words.
My first instinct is to get angry at Mrs. Buchanan, but how can I? We’re guilty of the same crime.
It’s ironic, especially considering my line of work. If anyone should know better than to wrongfully accuse someone, it’s me. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, burning up with anger I can’t redirect onto anyone else.
I want to call Maren and apologize, but for what exactly? How do I apologize for the amount of wrong I’ve done to her? And why should she even listen?
There’s a knock on my door. “Mr. Hunt? Do you have a second to go over this timeline for Antonio Owens?”
I sigh and drop my hand, pushing thoughts of Maren away for another time.
“Of course. Come in.”
19
Maren
“Wake up, Maren. We have a plane to catch!” Cornelia exclaims, coming into my room and throwing back the heavy drapes. Her dramatic moment is thwarted by the fact that the sun isn’t even out yet. It feels like it’s still the middle of the night, and my head is foggy with the urge to go back to sleep.
“What are you talking about?” I groan, rolling over onto my stomach so I can stuff my face into my pillow.
“We’re going to be late to the airport if you don’t hop to it,” she says, strolling over to turn on the lamp on my bedside table.
I burrow deeper into my covers. “Airport…? Where are you going?”
“Where are we going, dear, and I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”
Immediately, I’m intrigued enough to pop my head up off my pillow and turn toward her. When I first started at Rosethorn, Cornelia had me apply for an expedited passport. It was the same day she had me sign the non-disclosure agreement, so it didn’t really stick out in my mind. At the time, she waved off the reasons. “Oh, I travel every now and then and I’d like you to accompany me. You can’t do that if you don’t have a passport.”
A fist knocks on my bedroom door and then Patricia strolls in with a breakfast tray. She carries it toward my bed and stands there until I push myself up to a sitting position. Then she smiles and drops it on my lap.
“Eat up while we pack,” Cornelia orders. “Frank will have the car ready in an hour.”
“Where are we going?” I ask again.
Cornelia grins. “You’ll find out soon enough. Patricia, would you mind having Collins bring up one of my trunks? I realize now Maren doesn’t have any sufficient luggage.”
“There’s a duffle bag in there somewhere,” I say before lifting a slice of toast to my mouth.
Cornelia levels me with a reproachful stare. “One doesn’t take a duffle to Paris.”
“To PARIS?!” I ask, nearly choking on my bite.
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Ah, well, that secret didn’t last long. Now eat up quickly so Patricia can help you get ready. You need to look presentable for our day of travel.”
Louis runs into the room then, barking up a storm.
As promised, the groomer and the trainer arrived yesterday, along with a mobile vet.
The vet finished his check-up and microchip scan rather quickly. The groomer worked her magic in an hour; the trainer…not so much.
“I’ll need two weeks with him if you want to see progress. He�
�s very set in his ways.”
Cornelia agreed.
Then she promptly picked him up and carried him into the house as we all watched on silently.
“I don’t want to hear arguments from any of you,” she called back to us. “I heard it’s supposed to be unseasonably cool tonight. I don’t want him to catch a chill. Also, he’s still recovering from his wound.”
The wound, which by the way, has proved to be no more than a scratch, really.
So now Louis has house privileges, or he’s had them for one day, at least. I’m not sure they’ll last. We spent all day yesterday running around, making sure he wasn’t chewing on anything he wasn’t supposed to. I nearly had a heart attack when we found him playing tug-of-war with the edge of an antique rug, but Cornelia just shrugged.
“I never liked that thing much anyway.”
His name fits him now that he’s been groomed. His fur is trimmed short and his face is much more handsome. He’s wearing a red collar around his neck that Cornelia and I found in a shop in town on Sunday, and in his mouth is a plush toy in the shape of a Starbucks cup. I almost can’t remember what he looked like a few days ago.
He leaps up onto my bed and turns in a circle to lie beside me. I’m not sure where he slept last night, but I have a pretty good guess.
“How long will we be there?” I ask Cornelia as I rub his back.
“Two weeks.”
The first thing I should think is TWO WEEKS IN PARIS?! What a dream! but the thought that strikes me first is What about Nicholas?
It’s so startling and frankly disturbing that I decide to retreat into it curiously. Why would I care about Nicholas and the fact that we won’t see him this weekend or next? Why would he pop into my head at all? When he left to go back to New York on Sunday, I barely noticed. I was busy not noticing as he loaded up his car and disappeared down the long drive.
He won’t miss me, I remind myself, and with that, I push aside my breakfast tray and comforter and leap out of bed.
We leave Rosethorn with three full Louis Vuitton trunks that Bruce and Frank have to hoist into the back of the Range Rover together. I’m wearing fitted black pants and one of Cornelia’s old Chanel blazers. An Hermès scarf is knotted loosely around my neck and my hair is pulled into a sleek low ponytail. I asked Cornelia why I needed to dress so nice just to sit on an airplane, and she replied, “It’s just how it’s done.”
I’m more glad than ever that while she wasn’t watching, I stuffed a pair of pajama pants into my carry-on bag. Just in case.
I realize on our drive down to New York City that we aren’t actually headed straight to the airport. Our flight isn’t until tonight, but Cornelia wanted to wake me up at the crack of dawn because she had a few errands to run in the city first. We stop in to visit a gallery so she can inspect an abstract painting she previously commissioned. We stay and talk to the artist and the gallery owner for a little while, looking at other paintings before Cornelia requests to have one other piece delivered to Rosethorn along with the first. After that, we head to lunch at Eleven Madison Park. We’re the only ones in the sprawling dining room, which I find odd considering how amazing the food is. Cornelia doesn’t mention until we’re on our way out that the restaurant has routinely been rated the best in the world and carries three Michelin stars to prove it. They only do dinner service, but today they opened up early just for us as a favor to Cornelia.
After that, we walk through Bloomingdale’s so Cornelia can pick up a few last-minute travel items, one of which is a designer bag she hands to me as we’re walking out of the store. The sales consultant offered to wrap it up and put it in a gift box, but Cornelia said there was no need. Apparently, she plans on using it.
I assume she’s handing it to me because she wants me to carry it, but then she says, “I’d like you to transfer everything you have in your ratty red purse into this bag so you can use it as your carry-on.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask, holding it out at arm’s length as if it’s a snake that might try to bite me. “I saw what this cost! It’s more than most people make in a month!”
“I think most people would just say thank you.”
“I can’t—”
“Frank, let’s head over to the airport. I’d like to relax for a little while before our flight this evening.”
Just like that, the discussion is over. My red pleather purse with its zipper that doesn’t quite zip anymore and its cross-body strap that’s been knotted together since it split in two a few months back is left in the back seat of the car when we arrive at the airport.
We’re met at the curb by a concierge from Air France. She leads us to an awaiting golf cart that whisks us from the entrance of the airport, through a private security screening, and then right past all the normal folk, straight to the La Première first class lounge.
I feel guilty as I walk inside, aware of the fact that I probably belong out there, loitering between the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels kiosk and Sbarro, next to the dude clipping his toenails in public. In the private lounge, there’s a full restaurant and bar, as well as a spa. Cornelia sits down in a quiet corner with a book, so I do the same, but I don’t do any reading. I people watch, glancing around me at all the lounge-goers and wondering how they can possibly afford to travel this way. They’re all dressed up. Most of the women are in heels and dresses with perfectly coiffed hair. There’s an air of respectability about them, and I’m suddenly grateful that Cornelia didn’t let me wear pajama pants like I wanted to.
We stay in the lounge until our flight boards. Another golf cart carries us straight to the tarmac, and then I’m escorted to a private cabin inside the plane. I’m visibly confused as I turn back to the flight attendant.
“How many other people will I share this with?”
She frowns in confusion. “This is your private suite.”
“But this is a room…in an airplane. It has a bed and a TV.”
“Is it not to your liking? I have one other suite available, but it’s slightly smaller and you won’t be across the hall from your travel companion.”
“Are there not just…like…normal seats? In a row?”
“Not in Première class. I’m sorry.”
She’s sorry. I almost laugh at that as she tells me she’ll be right back with champagne and a warm hand towel.
Wonderful, because of course I need a warm hand towel. How could I possibly travel to Paris without a warm hand towel!?
I think I’m going crazy.
I sit down in the chair across from the bed and look around my cabin in disbelief. Nothing about this makes sense. No one deserves this life, no one—least of all me. It’s why I fight Cornelia tooth and nail about every little luxury she tries to toss my way. It feels like too much, and while it’s nice, it’s not necessary. It doesn’t change who I am at my core.
When the flight attendant returns with the amenities she promised, I ask her how long it will take us to get to Paris.
“Flight time is around seven and a half hours. We should arrive at 8:15 AM Paris time. If you need anything during the flight, press that little black button beside your bed and I’ll be happy to assist you.”
I don’t press that button even once, too scared to bother her. I make do with the snacks that came pre-loaded in the cabin and the complimentary candy I swiped from the airport lounge. After I flip through the TV channels aimlessly for a little while, I search around the space, opening cupboards and doors. There’s a pair of pajamas with the Air France logo on them, brand new and freshly laundered. I slip them on and lie down on the bed, trying to ignore the feeling of anxiety starting to creep in.
I’ve never been out of the country before. I always thought I’d love to go explore the world someday, but now that it’s actually happening, I feel slightly uneasy. I know it’s silly. I know I’m likely just overly tired and a little homesick, but I can’t shake the dark cloud hanging over my head as I toss and turn on the bed.
I don’t want to s
pend the whole time in Paris worrying about my troubles back home. Two weeks abroad with Cornelia is a dream—one I know I’ll never experience again—so with newfound resolve, I decide to let myself enjoy it completely.
No feeling guilty. No worrying about life afterward.
In Paris, we’re staying in a two-bedroom suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Cornelia tells me she has plans to visit the spa, so I have the morning to myself if I want to catch up on sleep or go out and explore. I opt for the latter, swapping my flats for a pair of sneakers. I wander with no destination in mind, grateful that our hotel is in the heart of the city. I exchange a few of the euros Cornelia handed me at the hotel for a map from a street vendor and use it to traverse the 8th arrondissement, ultimately ending up at the Arc de Triomphe. I follow the signs leading to the underpass that carries pedestrians underneath the chaotic traffic circle surrounding the arch, and then I start to climb up the 284 steps.
Outside, at the top of the arch, I find a sunny view of Paris waiting for me. It’s remarkable how classical the city has remained, how short it all is compared to the skyscrapers in Manhattan. I overhear a tour guide explaining to his group that Paris chose to outlaw towers so the nineteenth-century structures could remain the tallest in the city. Among them, most prominently, is the Eiffel Tower.
Everyone around me has their phones out, snapping photos, but I have nothing but my memory to commemorate the moment, so I stand on the ledge, against the iron rail, and I stare for as long as I can bear it, trying to memorize the view from every angle.
Tourists flutter around me, most of whom aren’t speaking English, so it’s rather easy to find myself alone in the crowd. I like it.
I linger until my stomach growls and then I start the trek back down the stairs and out into the city. Along the Champs-Élysées, I purchase an assorted pack of macarons from Ladurée and eat them while I walk, convincing myself that they make a perfectly decent lunch if you’re in Paris. I window shop and force myself to slow down whenever my pace creeps back up. I have plenty of time to get back to the hotel, and there is a finite number of minutes I’ll get in this city. I want to embrace every single one of them.