Page 18 of Hush Money

“No, I’m not leaving,” I quickly say, although it has crossed my mind several times that it would be easy enough to take an Uber to the nearest train station and disappear back to Brooklyn, where I belong. I could return to Mrs. Hooper’s apartment on the Upper East Side and stay there until my apartment is ready in the fall, when I’m returning to the city to begin working at one of the cancer centers. But I don’t want to leave Lucien, and I certainly don’t want to leave him like that. “I’m just moving to the cottage.”

“Lucien didn’t say anything about that to us,” Maddie tells me. “He’ll want us to make sure the cottage is in order first.”

These people have got to be kidding. “I’m sure that every single thing on this estate remains in constant order,” I say. “Plus, Lucien has had his hands full in the last several hours. He hasn’t had a chance to tell anybody anything.”

“Still,” Ted says, now wheeling both my bags toward the front door. “Please give us some time to make sure everything’s ready.”

“Fine,” I say, changing course and heading for the kitchen, because this is not a hill I want to fight and die on. I’ll just stay out of the way for a bit and let these kind folks do their job. “I can just go to the— One sec,” I say, my attention diverted by a massive formal oil painting at the base of the staircase.

This one is more contemporary than those upstairs. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it when I first arrived—although, come to think of it, I was too nervous and overwhelmed to notice everything here on display in this mansion. It depicts a man who looks like an older version of Lucien sitting on the arm of a chair belonging to a beautiful red-haired woman with Lucien’s silvery-gray eyes. The man wears a tuxedo, the woman a velvet gown in emerald. They’re not smiling, but their shining eyes form the focal point of the painting along with the diamonds glittering at her ears, neck and ring finger and the signet ring on his pinky as it drapes over the back of the chair. It’s a stunning portrait, the kind of piece that draws you in and makes you feel as though you’re just a second too late to hear what they were laughing about, but they’re glad you’re here with them now. I’m suddenly sad that I’ll never meet them. “Wow. Are those Lucien’s parents?”

“They are,” Maddie says.

“I get the feeling they were nice people,” I say.

“They were,” Maddie says.

“It’s a great painting.”

“Yes,” Maddie says fondly. “Ravenna is an art fanatic. She chose many of the newer pieces around the house. And she commissioned this one for Lucien for their first wedding anniversary. He loved it, of course.”

Of course.

I tear myself away from the painting, my enthusiasm for it seriously dimmed by the Ravenna connection, and continue toward the kitchen. “Okay. Thanks for the help. See you later.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” Maddie quickly says, hurrying after me.

“Nope. I’m good. I’m just heading to the kitchen to grab some breakfast.”

“Oh, I’ll get it for you.” She gestures me toward the massive dining room that seats twenty if it seats two. “Just let me know what you’d like.”

“I don’t know,” I say, startled by this new obstacle to normal behavior. I’m not allowed to grab my own food now? “I was kind of hoping to take a peek around and see what looks good.”

She recoils as though I’ve suggested sticking my arm in the Amazon to see if I can find some piranhas. “Chef is here. He doesn’t let people poke around in his kitchen.”

“Oh,” I say, starting to feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies again. “Well, maybe I could just get a bowl of cereal and some coffee, or something.”

“Sounds good,” she says, brightening. “What kind of cereal, milk and coffee would you like? And what about fruit and pastries to go with it?”

“That sounds tasty,” I say. “Do you have Raisin Bran Crunch?”

The question seems to amuse her, but she smothers her smile and maintains her crisp professionalism. “We have everything. Matter of fact, let me go get Chef. He’ll want to know how you take your coffee and if you’d like some eggs. Plus, he needs to tell you what kind of pastries are available today.”

“Oh, no,” I hastily say before she can get too far. “I don’t want to put him to any trouble.”

Uncomprehending stare from Maddie. “It’s no trouble. It’s his job. Ravenna always wanted him to make a variety. She also oversaw the menus. She was very particular about what she wanted.”

And there she is again. Casting her long shadow over me. My heart sinks. I just want to get out of here and breathe some Ravenna-free air for a minute.

“It’s fine,” I say, backing toward the door and hitching my purse strap onto my shoulder. The idea of eating alone in that Buckingham Palace-banquet-hall-sized dining room after the chef (who was probably trained in Paris and has a couple of Michelin stars to his name) prepares my cereal bowl strikes me as way too complicated. Absurd, actually. “You know what? I think I’ll just, I don’t know, walk to the little town and grab something there.”

Now it’s Ted’s turn to object. “It’s a long walk. I’ll grab someone to drive you.”

This is getting ridiculous. I appreciate the extreme privilege I’m experiencing here. But, swear to God, the only thing I need is a little fresh air, some time to myself and a strong cup of coffee to help me over the residual jet lag and lack of sleep from last night. I’m not used to all this attention. I’m used to rolling out of bed and drifting into the kitchen to fix my own breakfast. Around here, I feel as though every small event is worthy of attention from the National Guard.

“I’ll go by myself,” I say. “It’s fine.”

There’s a delicate pause. I get the feeling the two of them have run out of all patience with me.

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