by Penny Reid
Dan made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “She wouldn’t do that. Marie isn’t like that.”
“Marie isn’t like what?”
We all turned our attention to the speaker of the question, who also happened to be the subject of the question.
Quinn stiffened, looking conflicted. Dan straightened, looking unconcerned. And I met Marie’s stare evenly.
Well, there’s no time like the present.
“Hey, guys,” I turned to Dan, kissing him on the cheek. “Give us a minute?”
“Sure.” He gave me a pointed look, as though to say, This is Marie, we trust her.
I nodded. He grabbed the tray of appetizers. I patted his bottom as he left and noticed Marie grin at my maneuver.
Once Quinn and Dan were gone, I started, “So, Marie—”
“Did you try my lemon drops? Is that what you all were talking about?” She ventured further into the kitchen, a fretful expression on her face as she whispered, “No one is drinking them. Why isn’t anyone drinking them?”
I grimaced before I could catch the impulse, because I’d tried her lemon drops earlier and they were terrible.
“What? What is that face? Why are you making that face?”
“Marie.”
“You can tell me the truth,” she took a deep breath, like she was bracing herself.
Studying my friend, I couldn’t help but smile. No one had told her the truth about the lemon drops because everyone liked her so much. But as the evening wore on, it was very likely someone—probably Sandra or Elizabeth—would let it slip that her version of the beloved cocktail was disgusting. Since I was just about to ask Marie something that might potentially damage our friendship, I wasn’t going to be the one to admit her lemon drops tasted like lemon-scented dishwater.
“I need to ask you something.”
“About the lemon drops?”
“No. It’s not about the lemon drops. Marie . . .” I hesitated, because my heart unexpectedly hurt.
Yes, I needed to know whether she was going to write a story on Dan’s kidnapping—or anything else about me—but I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want our friendship to change.
But deep down, I recognized that it already had, and not just because I would be moving to Boston. Our friendship would change because I was now in a position of power and authority.
Fundamentally, Marie’s job was to hold people in authority accountable.
So I asked, “Are you planning to write a news story about Dan’s kidnapping?”
Her smile faded and her blue gaze sharpened. I imagined she was giving me a look that mirrored my own.
She asked, “Have you ever heard of The Journalist’s Creed?”
“No.”
A tight smile pulled at her lips but didn’t make it to her eyes. “It was written by Walter Williams in 1914, and it’s a good summary of how I view my job and the role of journalists. In summary, I believe in clear thinking and clear statements, accuracy and fairness. I believe that I should write only what I absolutely believe to be true. I also believe that any suppression of the news, for any consideration other than the welfare of society, is indefensible.”
I nodded, sharing a weighted look with my friend, not allowing my stomach to drop even though I knew this—her job and my position—would be a barrier between us. In my role at Caravel, I may not always be able to weigh the welfare of society over the welfare of my employees. The most I could hope for was that society and Caravel would, more often than not, share common goals.
She took a deep breath and continued, “Furthermore, I believe the supreme test of good journalism is the measure of its public service. Therefore, no.” Her gaze softened. “I will not be writing a story about Dan’s kidnapping. Or, for that matter, about my personal relationship with either of you.”
I breathed out, feeling the relief in my bones. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said, her tone suddenly exacting and harsh. “I consider Dan’s kidnapping salacious, but I do not consider it news. In fact, publishing it would detract from important, actual news, distract the public from what matters. Sure, it would sell a lot of papers—heiress husband kidnapped by brother—but how does that serve public interest? It doesn’t. It’s garbage journalism, infotainment. It’s a cheap way to make a buck. However . . .”
She took a deep breath, her stare looking solemn, maybe even a little regretful. “I will be researching Dr. Branson, what he’s been doing in St. Kitts, and Caravel’s role—if any. That story is in the public interest. He’s experimenting on a vulnerable population in order to avoid US law. I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I’m not. The public deserves to know, even if it hurts your company.”
“I understand.” I nodded, my heart still hurting, but not as much.
Things would never be the same between us from this moment forward, but I was determined to salvage our friendship. Not knowing Marie would never be an option. Life had changed, shifted, moved, and grown for all of us, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t change with it.
People aren’t static creatures, so why should their relationships be?
“I would never ask you to apologize for having professional ethics,” I continued, reaching out, and tangled our fingers together. “But . . . I will ask you to apologize for the lemon drops. You’re never allowed to make anything but tequila drinks ever again.”
She laughed, squinting at me. “My lemon drops are just fine. You’re a lemon drop snob.”
“It tastes like lemon-scented dishwater.”
She laughed harder, tugging me back toward the family room where everyone was gathered. “Fine, oh ye mistress of lemon drop greatness, show me your superior cocktail ways.”
I grinned at her.
She grinned back.
Marie gave me hope.
Despite the changes and challenges on the horizon and down the road—for all of us—I didn’t doubt that everyone in this tight-knit family we’d chosen would continue to try. We would always love each other, and we would always support each other.
And that was enough.
This place doesn’t look like a mental institution,” Dan mumbled, turning his head from side to side as he inspected the fountain on our left leading to a wide, picturesque grassy lawn. “This place looks more like a fancy hotel. Or a spa.”
I smirked at the murky expression on his features. “What did you expect? People walking around in straightjackets?”
He shrugged. “More crows.”
“Crows?”
“Yeah. I don’t know.” He looked adorably flustered by his admission. “Don’t ask, it makes no sense. I don’t know why I expected crows. I’m an asshole.”
“You are not an asshole.”
“Sometimes I am,” he mumbled, scratching his neck.
I scoffed at him, but said nothing. He was being silly.
We walked hand in hand through the outside walkway, toward the wing where my mother was housed. I reflected on how grateful I was that we’d been able to take the day off to do this.
The last few weeks had been hectic. Our friends had departed on the Monday morning after the party. Plans were made to keep our normal, run-of-the-mill knit nights on Tuesdays, where both Ashley and I would join in via video conference.
The rest of that Monday afternoon had been taken up with the aftermath of Dan’s kidnapping. Eugene and two other lawyers from his firm were present while Dan and I were questioned by the police. The rope burns on Dan’s wrists were photographed and entered into evidence.
Seamus was still at large, but we told them everything. We left nothing out except anything related to Caleb’s venture capital firm’s bank statements. Since Alex had obtained them by hacking various financial institutions, we decided it was best not to bring them up.
But we did share the audio recording Seamus had sent to Stan, where Seamus and Caleb had discussed Dan’s kidnapping. The recording, plus Dan’s sworn affidavit, were enough to arrest Caleb.
The very next day, accounts of Caleb’s violation of the Uniform Trade Secrets Act hit the news. Just like Eugene had suggested, Alex had sent offshore legal documentation to the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists. They’d run the story. The scandal was huge.
Two days later, the media caught wind of Dan’s kidnapping and Caleb’s role. Soon, the whole country was swept up in the twisted tale of Caleb Tyson and his attempts to bring down the pharmaceutical giant, his illegal dealings, and his attempt to kidnap Dan.
Naturally, gossip magazines were paying a premium for pictures of Dan and me, separate or together. But soon, it was everyone. Every news outlet was running the story of the heiress who married the ex-felon from the wrong side of the tracks and how she’d paid his ransom.
Eleanor was harassed on her way to work and dogged outside of her house. She agreed to move in with us—at the Duxbury estate—until things settled down. Even so, all the family and neighbors I’d met during the party were interviewed. The most shocking revelation to come out of the family interviews was that—according to Dan’s Uncle Zip—my Uncle Eugene was a Yankees fan.
The first couple of days at the Duxbury estate had been difficult. It was so big, so ridiculously big, it felt lonely. But after the media became insatiable, the big house grew to be a sanctuary, a place to avoid prying eyes and paparazzi.
And, yes, I took a helicopter into work almost every day. Eleanor also took it, using the helipad at the hospital and cracking herself up whenever anyone asked how her commute had been.
At Caravel, an emergency board meeting was called, Caleb was removed as CEO, and our chief operating officer was asked to step into the position temporarily until we could find a replacement. During the same meeting, I presented my findings related to the division earnings reports and asserted that I would be voting the controlling shares from that point forward.
No one voiced opposition. Apparently, no one wanted to get in my way after what had happened to my cousin.
Today, over two weeks later, was the first day we’d had an opportunity to break away from the craziness. I’d called my therapist in the morning and we’d had a good session, but we both agreed I needed to find a doctor local to Boston. She offered to help me find someone suitable and trustworthy.
I’d also called Steven and made him a job offer. I’d given Quinn a heads-up about my plan and he’d grudgingly given me his blessing to reach out to Steven. Maybe Quinn wouldn’t be too happy with me if Steven accepted, but I needed someone I could trust in charge of finance at Caravel.
After that, I’d called Ms. Opal and offered her a job as well, as my personal executive assistant. She agreed on the spot.
Once all my calls were made, and Dan was finished with his work for the morning, I suggested we visit my mother. Dan hadn’t met her yet and I was overdue for a visit. Work had been stressful. Caravel’s stock was down—way down—but not as low as we’d originally forecasted. With Caleb arraigned and bail withheld, I was breathing easier than I had in months.
And so presently, I turned my thoughts to Dan and his statement about crows. “Are you an Edgar Allan Poe fan?”
His brown eyes slid to mine, narrowing like I’d said something suspicious. “How do you know that?”
“Maybe your assumption that there would be crows has something to do with Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “The Raven.” A man goes slowly mad while a bird says, ‘Nevermore.’ Classic literature is full of alarming depictions of mental illness. Have you read Jane Eyre?”
“No.” Dan was looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“The villain—or the victim, depending on who you’re talking to—of the story is the main male character’s first wife. She’s ‘mad,’ but he didn’t know that when they married. He keeps her locked away in a tower until she eventually burns it down.”
“Yeah. I’d burn some shit down too if my husband locked me in a tower. That guy sounds like an asshole.” Dan held the door open for me.
I thought about his statement for a minute, then shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s convenient to judge people—and fictional characters—through the lens of present-day knowledge and values. But, if you think about it, it’s also ridiculous. Do we judge people in the middle ages for not understanding combustion engines until the seventeen hundreds? No. Knowledge about any subject has to build over time.”
“Hmm . . .” Dan marinated in my words and we walked down the bright, sunny hallway. “By that logic, one day people will look back at us, at our generation, and think of us as primitive, unenlightened shit-for-brains.”
I chuckled as we approached my mother’s building. “Probably. On that note, there’s likely plenty of people in our own generation right now who would consider you and I primitive and unenlightened.”
“Bah,” he waved this statement away. “Those people are shit-for-brains.”
I laughed harder, squeezing his hand.
“But seriously.” The look he sent me was slightly perturbed. “No one can know everything, understand everything. People gotta make mistakes, make assumptions, learn. And they need the space to do it without being condemned. So . . .” his expression cleared and he pulled me to a stop. “Thank you, for giving me the space to learn from my mistakes.”
How could I not smile at that? How could I not kiss him? Impossible.
So I did.
My heart tugged towards him as we separated and continued on our way, walking to the heavy security door. I pressed the call button and waited, a sudden flutter of nervousness igniting in my belly.
I hope she likes him.
Almost immediately, one of my mother’s personal nurses appeared, opening the door. “Kathleen, good to see you.”
She ushered us in and I turned to Dan. “This is Becky. She’s with my mother during the weekdays.”
They exchanged a short greeting and Becky motioned us forward. “She’s in the sunroom today.”
“How is she?”
Becky hesitated, then said, “She’s okay. She had a good day yesterday, sat in a chair, but today has been harder.”
I thanked her for the update, and then let Becky walk ahead as Dan slowed our steps, tugging on my hand.
When Becky was several lengths in front of us, Dan leaned in and whispered, “I thought you said your mom is . . . that she’s catatonic.”
I nodded. “She is. She’s been diagnosed with a very severe case of catatonic schizophrenia. Sometimes she is manic and moves around. But usually, she’s still.”
“Does she ever respond to you? Ever talk to you?”
I glanced down the hall to where Becky had disappeared. “No. She hasn’t spoken to me or acknowledged me since I was eight.” I breathed through a familiar twinge of sadness that had once felt like a mountain.
“But not all people with catatonic schizophrenia are like that?”
“It depends on the severity. Sometimes it can be treated with medication and psychotherapy, but it isn’t what would be considered curable. It’s a chronic disorder, and her case is very, very severe. It’s also very unusual. Medication hasn’t helped.”
Feeling Dan’s stare on me, I looked at him. He appeared to be a little panicked.
“I really am an asshole. I should’ve done some research before I came.”
Giving him a reassuring smile, I pulled him down the hall. “We’ve been a little busy, in case you’ve forgotten. I’d say you get a pass. Besides, there’s nothing to be afraid of or nervous about.”
He swallowed, looking like he wasn’t too sure.
We turned the corner and passed through a door into the sunroom. I spotted my mother immediately. She was lying on the floor in the corner. The top half of her body was turned toward the door, the other half was twisted toward the wall. She was wearing white scrubs, and they’d recently given her a haircut.
Becky was in a chair by the door, painting a portrait of a child on a medium-sized canvas. The nurse gave us a nod as we entered.
“She looks like you,” he said softly, his hand tightening on mine. “She looks like she could be your sister.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. I’d always considered my mother beautiful. “Dan, this is my mom, Rebekah. Mom, this is Dan. He’s . . . we’re married.”
My mother didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared forward. I hadn’t expected any different.
So I did what I always did when I visited. Releasing his hand, I walked to the middle of the room and sat on a small sofa. And then I talked to her.
“We met a few years ago, and I liked him a lot. Wouldn’t you know it, he was also fond of me.” I sent Dan a grin over my shoulder, which he returned like he couldn’t help himself. His eyes were round with wonder, but I also spotted a small wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows.
Gathering a deep breath, I shifted my gaze back to my mother. “Dan and I had a misunderstanding that kept us apart for a while. But, don’t worry, we worked it out.”
Our visit lasted about an hour. Dan hadn’t said much at first, but once I’d coaxed him to the couch and pulled him into my narrative about our relationship, he loosened up and began talking.
Becky cautioned me not to approach my mother today, since she’d been manic earlier in the morning, so I didn’t. We said our goodbyes, and I promised to visit again soon.
“I’ll come, too,” Dan said to her. “Maybe I’ll bring my mom.”
I hid my smile behind the curtain of my hair and we left.
I felt lighter as we drove away, as I usually did after each of my visits.
We were almost to the county road when Dan asked distractedly, “The whole building is for your mother?”
I sighed. “Yes. My father had it built. He used to stay there, with her, so it was kind of like his house.”