Page 14 of One Last Lie

I wait until Isabella leaves the room. She stops when she sees me, and then rolls her eyes and walks away. I follow her, but I don’t say anything until we reach Isabella’s room. When she opens the door and walks inside, I ask, “Why did you give me that paper earlier?”

She shrugs and tries to close the door. I take a risk and stop it. “Isabella, will you please talk to me? We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to, but I want to talk to you. I’ve spent time with Samuel, and I’ve even had a few moments to get to know Elijah. I’d like to talk to you. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. We should at least get to know one another.”

She sighs and looks pensively past me. “I don’t want to talk about Elena.”

“That’s all right. I’m more interested in getting to know you than Elena, anyway.”

She chuckles, and there’s a substantial amount of bitterness in her laugh. “Yeah, you don’t want to know her. She’s a bitch.”

“That seems to be the general consensus. Though I feel obligated to tell you not to use that word.”

“Why not? It’s true. Dad’s the reason she’s not delivering pizza in Hoboken for a living, and she wants to act like she’s the reason his company’s succeeding?”

I only barely stifle my surprise at this. It could explain so much if Elena felt envious of Johnathan’s success. Or perhaps she felt frustrated that everyone saw her success only as a byproduct of Johnathan’s patronage and ignored her own merits.

I notice Isabella looking at me and remember I’m having a conversation with her. “It must be frustrating to see someone act so selfishly.”

“It’s stupid. I don’t understand why Mom’s still talking to her. She knows Elena was trying to take over the company. She shouldn’t allow her in the house, but now they’re having dinner together?”

I frown. “They’re having dinner together?”

“Yes! Why do you think Mom’s not here?”

My frown deepens. I hadn’t realized the Cecilia was gone. I should pay more attention to that from now on. Perhaps it would be worth a conversation with Cecilia to inform her how her children perceive her actions. Not now, but later.

“My feet are sore from walking,” I tell her. “Why don’t we go have some tea?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “There’s no way your feet are sore. You’re just saying that to get me to sit and talk to you.”

“That’s true. However, my feet are sore. And tea is wonderful regardless.”

“I hate tea.”

“That is a serious character flaw I shall consider it my primary mission to correct.”

She laughs. It’s a genuine laugh, and she looks surprised to hear it. I smile at her and say, “So? Shall we?”

She smiles slightly, just barely enough to be visible. But it’s a start.

“Sure. Just don’t tell Mom. She doesn’t want me to have caffeine until I’m sixteen.”

“It will be our secret,” I promise.

I was planning to brew some chamomile, but I can brew some green tea instead. It’s not enough caffeine to make Isabella any more anxious, and the plant’s other wonderful properties should calm her instead. It truly is a shame that more Americans don’t drink tea. Though I suppose if I were a true Briton, I would prefer Earl Grey to Japanese green.

I make the tea and serve it to Isabella. She looks suspiciously at the jade liquid and asks, “You’re not supposed to put cream in it?”

“In green tea? Heavens, no. That’s only for black tea.”

She makes a face and pushes the cup away. “I’m all right. Thank you.”

“Isabella, you must try it before you decide you don’t like it.”

She pulls the cup back, takes a small sip, then pushes the cup away again. “I don’t like it.”

“Very well,” I say cheerily before sipping my own cup.

She watches me, nonplussed by my reaction. “You’re weird.”

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