Chapter 2
The second was that her hand was still holding mine.
She jerked awake so quickly that the sleeping toddler across her lap stirred beneath the yellow blanket.
Megan steadied him with one hand and looked at me with the startled expression of someone who had been caught trespassing.
“You’re awake.”
“So it seems.”
My voice sounded rough and unfamiliar.
She glanced toward the clock.
“Five twenty-three.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been awake for seven minutes?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s not the same as being well.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good.”
She released my hand, then leaned toward the thermometer on the nightstand.
“Let’s check your temperature again.”
“You can stop fussing.”
“I could,” she said, placing the thermometer beneath my tongue, “but I won’t.”
She spoke quietly so she wouldn’t wake her son.
The room was pale with early morning, the city beyond the windows still wrapped in blue-gray darkness.
My fever had broken sometime after four, leaving my skin damp and my muscles aching.
The thermometer beeped.
Megan read it and nodded.
“Better.”
“How much better?”
“Enough that I don’t have to call the doctor again.”
“You called a doctor?”
“At two in the morning.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“You were unconscious.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You were mumbling about shipping manifests.”
“That isn’t unconscious.”
“It was very convincing.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
The change in her expression was immediate.
Her tired face softened, and for a moment she looked almost relieved enough to cry.
She turned away before I could be certain.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“No.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t get to make decisions based on an appetite you don’t have.”
“Megan.”
“Dominic.”
It was the first time she had used my name without hesitation.
Not Mr.
Mason.
Not sir.
Dominic.
The sound moved through me with a strange, quiet force.
She reached for the untouched glass of orange juice and held it out.
“Three sips.”
“I don’t take orders from employees.”
“Then take advice from the woman who spent the night changing your towels.”
“I pay people to do that.”
“You pay people to leave when the work is finished.
I wasn’t finished.”
I looked at her more closely.
The leather chair had left a faint red mark along her cheek.
A strand of brown hair clung to the corner of her mouth.
Her blouse was wrinkled, and one of Caleb’s small socks had somehow ended up beneath her elbow.
She looked exhausted.
She also looked stubborn enough to sit there until sunset if I gave her an argument.
I took the glass.
Three sips became half the juice before I lowered it.
Megan gave a satisfied nod.
“See?
You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Dramatic.”
There it was again—the impossible ease with which she spoke to me.
No calculation.
No careful pause before every sentence.
She didn’t study my face to decide which version of herself was safest.
I had spent twenty years surrounded by people who treated every word like it might explode.
Megan treated my temper like a leaking faucet.
She simply reached for a towel.
“Why did you stay?”
I asked.
Her hand stopped.
Caleb shifted in her lap, making a soft sleepy sound.
She adjusted the blanket around him before answering.
“You were sick.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It does.”
“You could have called one of the nurses.”
“I called Dr.
Harris.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Megan looked toward the window.
At this hour, Atlanta was usually full of movement—headlights, delivery trucks, early commuters.
From my bedroom, however, the city seemed distant and harmless.
“I did call Nancy,” she said.
“She came upstairs, but she had a migraine.
She told me she could stay if I needed her to.”
“And you told her to go home.”
“She has a sister who worries when she misses breakfast.”
“You knew there were people downstairs.”
“I knew there were men downstairs.”
That distinction made me look at her.
Megan lifted one shoulder.
“They were standing outside your door.
You think they were going to come in and check whether you needed another blanket?”
“No.”
“They looked like they were afraid to breathe too loudly.”
“They’re security.”
“They’re people.”
“Sometimes that’s the problem.”
She gave me a tired, disapproving look.
“Sometimes it’s the solution.”
I had no answer for that.
Caleb opened his eyes.
They were the same deep brown as Megan’s, though his expression held none of her caution.
He looked at me without fear, then reached for the glass in my hand.
“Juice,” he murmured.
Megan smiled and kissed the top of his head.
“That’s mine, sweetheart.”
He blinked at me.
“Man?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“The sick man.”
“I’m not sick,” I said.
Megan looked at me.
“You have a fever of one hundred and three.”
“I’m recovering.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Caleb made another attempt for the glass.
Megan handed him the empty cup instead, and he accepted it with solemn satisfaction before settling against her.
Something inside my chest tightened.
I had seen children in my life, of course.
At charity events.
In restaurants.
On sidewalks.
I had signed checks for pediatric clinics and donated playgrounds in neighborhoods I had never visited.
But I had never watched a child fall asleep with complete trust.
Caleb didn’t know who I was.
He didn’t know what my name meant or what people whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear them.
He only knew that his mother was warm, the room was quiet, and the man in the bed had shared the last of his juice.
It was a small thing.
It felt like a judgment.
“You should take him home,” I said.
“He can sleep another hour.”
“I meant permanently.”
Megan’s face changed.
The softness disappeared first.
Then the humor.
“If you’re firing me, wait until I can stand up.”
“I’m not firing you.”
“You sounded like you were.”
“I meant you shouldn’t have to sleep in a chair.”
“I didn’t plan to.”
“Then take the guest room.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m still on the clock.”
“You are not on the clock.”
“I was hired to clean the house.”
“You were hired to clean, not provide medical care.”
“Then stop making me do both.”
I almost laughed, but the motion pulled at my chest and turned into a cough.
Megan was on her feet immediately, one hand bracing my shoulder while the other reached for the water.
I disliked needing assistance.
I disliked even more that she made it seem ordinary.
“Easy,” she said.
“Slowly.”
I drank, then leaned back against the pillows.
When I looked at her again, her hand was still resting against my shoulder.
She seemed to realize it at the same moment I did and pulled away.
“I’m going to make toast,” she said.
“I don’t want toast.”
“You don’t have to want it.”
“Megan.”
“Dominic.”
There was no fear in her voice.
But there was something else now.
Concern.
It was more unsettling.
She carried Caleb into the adjoining sitting room, where a small travel crib had been placed beside the sofa.
I had never asked who put it there.
Nancy must have arranged it during one of Megan’s early shifts, back when it became clear that childcare problems might otherwise cost her the job.
Megan lowered Caleb carefully into the crib.
He barely stirred.
Then she straightened and paused.
On the far wall, above the bookcase, hung a framed photograph I rarely looked at anymore.
My father stood beside a brick building in an old black coat, one hand resting on the shoulder of a seventeen-year-old version of me.
We were both unsmiling.
He had considered the photograph proof of discipline.
I considered it proof that we had never known how to stand beside each other.
Megan was looking at it.
“Your father?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“He looks like you.”
“People used to say that.”
“Do you miss him?”
The question was so direct that I almost answered automatically.
Instead, I looked at the photograph.
“My father died twenty years ago.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I had no defense against her when she did that—when she stepped around the obvious answer and placed her hand on the truth beneath it.
“He was difficult to miss,” I said at last.
Megan nodded as if she understood.
“My mother was like that.”
I turned toward her.
She had moved closer to the photograph without touching it.
“She died when I was nineteen,” Megan continued.
“Stroke.
Fast.
One day she was making pancakes, and two days later she was gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you close?”
“We were complicated.”
There was no bitterness in the way she said it.
Only the tired acceptance of someone who had spent years learning that love and disappointment could occupy the same room.
“She worried about everything,” Megan said.
“Money.
Weather.
Whether I was making good choices.
Whether I was letting the wrong people into my life.”
“Was she usually right?”
“Annoyingly often.”
“And you?”
“I inherited the worrying.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She gave me a look.
“I spent the night beside a man with a high fever while his employees stood outside the door.
I think I’m allowed a little denial.”
The corner of my mouth lifted.
She caught it.
“You did it again.”
“What?”
“Smiled.”
“I smile.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Apparently I do.”
“Not where anyone can see.”
I studied her.
“Do you make a habit of watching me?”
“You’re difficult not to watch.
You sit in the same chair every day and glare at furniture.”
“It has been known to misbehave.”
“And you always turn the same page three times when you’re thinking.”
I frowned.
She pointed at my desk across the room.
“There.
You just did it.”
I looked toward the open folder.
The page had, in fact, been turned back and forth beneath my hand.
Megan folded her arms.
“You think nobody notices you because everyone is afraid to comment.”
“I’m beginning to think you notice too much.”
“Probably.”
“Does that concern you?”
“Should it?”
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Nancy entered with a tray, her silver hair pinned neatly despite the early hour.
She carried oatmeal, toast, tea, and a bowl of sliced fruit.
Behind her stood one of the security men, who immediately lowered his gaze when he saw me awake.
“Good,” Nancy said.
“You’re conscious.”
“I’ve been conscious for several minutes.”
“Then you can eat.”
Megan took the tray from her.
“Nancy, you should be resting.”
“I slept for three hours.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Neither did you.”
Nancy looked at me.
“She has refused the guest room, refused breakfast, and threatened to throw a thermometer at Dr.
Harris.”
“I did not threaten him.”
“You told him if he called you sweetheart again, you would introduce him to the mop bucket.”
“He was being condescending.”
“He’s seventy-four.”
“Then he’s had plenty of time to learn better.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched.
I looked between them.
“How long have you two known each other?”
“Six weeks,” Nancy said.
“Feels longer,” Megan added.
“Because you argue like sisters,” I said.
Both women went silent.
Megan glanced down at the tray.
Nancy’s expression changed in a way I almost missed—an old sadness quickly covered by practicality.
“I’ll let you eat,” she said.
But before she could turn away, her gaze fell on the photograph above the bookcase.
She stopped.
Not for long.
Only a second.
Yet I saw it.
“You know that picture?”
I asked.
Nancy’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’ve seen it before.”
“You’ve worked here for eighteen years.”
“I’ve been in this room before.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Megan looked from me to Nancy.
The air shifted.
Nancy had been with me longer than almost anyone.
She had managed the house through funerals, renovations, bad investments, and the years when I stopped speaking to nearly every member of my family.
She was one of the few people who could disagree with me without consequences.
She was also one of the few people who knew what my father had been like before his death.
“Nancy,” I said.
She looked at Megan.
“Your mother’s name was Elena Foster?”
Megan’s face went still.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nancy glanced at me again.
“I’m not sure.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” Nancy said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
Megan placed the tray on the table.
“How do you know my mother?”
Nancy’s expression softened with regret.
“I may not know her.
I knew a woman by that name.”
“What woman?”
“Your mother, I assume.”
“What did she do here?”
Nancy took a breath.
“Nothing official.”
The words landed more heavily than they should have.
I pushed myself higher against the pillows.
“What does that mean?”
Nancy’s eyes returned to the photograph.
“Twenty-one years ago, Elena Foster came to this house looking for your father.”
Megan stared at her.
“My mother never mentioned this place.”
“Perhaps she had a reason.”
“Why was she looking for him?”
Nancy hesitated.
I had seen that hesitation before.
It was the pause of someone deciding whether silence was still kindness.
“Your father had asked her to come,” she said.
I felt the room narrow around me.
“My father knew Elena Foster?”
“I don’t know how well.”
“You knew she came here.”
“I was working for him then.”
“You were working for my father?”
Nancy nodded.
The oatmeal sat untouched on the tray.
Steam rose from it in thin curls and disappeared.
Megan looked at me.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Not even her name?”
“No.”
Nancy moved toward the bookcase.
“There was a meeting in this room.
I wasn’t present for all of it.
I brought coffee.
Your father told me not to interrupt, no matter what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“Raised voices.”
“My father often raised his voice.”
“Your mother’s voice was raised too.”
Megan’s face had gone pale.
Nancy noticed and immediately softened her tone.
“I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have said anything without knowing more.”
“No,” Megan said.
“You should finish.”
Nancy pressed her lips together.
“After Elena left, she stood in the hallway for a long time.
She looked frightened, but not of your father.”
“Then what was she frightened of?”
I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You saw her.”
“I saw her face.
That isn’t the same as knowing what was in her heart.”
The answer sounded like something Megan might have said.
I looked again at the photograph.
My father’s hand rested on my younger shoulder.
Behind us was the same house, though the landscaping had changed and the windows had since been replaced.
Twenty-one years ago, I had been thirty-two.
My father and I had still been working together, though the partnership was already becoming a contest neither of us knew how to end.
Three months after Elena Foster’s visit, he died.
I had always believed there were no unanswered questions left.
That belief had been convenient.
“Where is she now?”
Megan asked.
Nancy looked at her.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
Nancy lowered her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“She died when I was nineteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“I meant it both times.”
Megan walked to the photograph.
She stood beneath it, studying my father’s face as if she might find a message hidden in the lines around his mouth.
“Why wouldn’t she tell me she knew this family?”
“I can’t answer that,” Nancy said.
“Did she leave anything?”
The question seemed to catch Nancy off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“Letters.
Papers.
Anything from him.”
“I don’t know.”
Megan turned to me.
“Did your father keep records?”
“Of everything.”
“Then there may be something.”
“There may be.”
“Can you look?”
Her request was not demanding.
That made it harder to refuse.
My father had kept ledgers, correspondence, contracts, personal journals, and boxes of documents in a locked archive beneath the west staircase.
I had not opened most of them in years.
Not because I feared what they contained.
Because I knew exactly what they contained: proof of a man who had measured every relationship by usefulness.
Still, I nodded.
“Later.”
“Why later?”
“You just spent the night caring for me.
You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not the one who has a fever.”
“You have a child sleeping in the next room.”
“He’ll be safe with Nancy.”
Nancy straightened.
“I’ll be honored.”
Megan looked uncertain.
I understood the hesitation.
She had learned not to accept help without wondering what it would cost.
“There will be no cost,” I said.
She met my eyes.
“I didn’t say there would be.”
“You thought it.”
“I think many things.”
“So do I.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Caleb began to whimper softly from the sitting room.
Megan went to him, and Nancy followed to warm a bottle.
I remained in bed, staring at the photograph.
The room no longer felt like mine.
It felt like a place someone had left a door unlocked.
When Nancy returned twenty minutes later, she was carrying a small, dust-covered envelope.
She had not gone to the kitchen.
She had gone to the archive.
The envelope was yellowed with age, its edges softened from being handled.
My name was written across the front in my father’s unmistakable handwriting.
Beneath it were two words.
For Dominic.
Nancy placed it on the bed.
“I found it behind the bottom drawer,” she said.
“There was a loose panel.”
I stared at the envelope.
Megan stood beside the window with Caleb against her shoulder.
Her son had awakened and was drinking from his bottle, one small hand curled around the fabric of her blouse.
“What does it say?” she asked.
I turned the envelope over.
On the back, written in a different hand, was a name I had not seen in twenty years.
Elena Foster.
May you like
Below it, in smaller letters, was a date.
The date my father died.
