Page 62 of One Big Little Secret

Salem’s cheeks go pink. “Oh, um, thanks, Mrs. Rory. It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you, all good things with your art contributions.”

She nods warmly. “Please, call me Delly. And this must be your son?”

“Arlo,” he says shyly. “I’m going sledding after this boring meeting.”

“How exciting! Young man, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you bored while the adults talk. Come with me.” Mom takes his hand.

After glancing back at Salem, who nods her consent, Arlo heads down the hall with her.

“Evelyn’s in the library, Patton,” Mom says over her shoulder. “She’s very excited about her property. Please be gentle.”

“I will.”

Salem still doesn’t say anything, staring after Arlo, her face tight.

All things considered, the introductions have gone about as well as I could hope—the kid hasn’t kicked my mom in the knee, which is something—so I don’t know why she’s so uptight. Nerves, maybe?

“Can I get you anything? Water?” I ask. She looks at me like she forgot I was there.

“No, I’m fine,” she rushes out. “Ready for the big meeting.”

“Don’t stress. Evelyn Hibbing’s a perfectly pleasant woman and a longtime family friend,” I assure her, putting a hand on her back to move her forward. When she moves against my palm, I can feel the heat in her blood.

“I’m sure she’s great,” Salem says, folding her arms. “I’m sorry, I just—I’m not normally in houses like this one. This place is spectacular.”

One long look around shows me what she means.

When you grew up in this house, it’s easy to forget.

My parents inherited this house from my grandparents, and Mom did everything in her power to retain its history and keep it fresh, which means the décor fuses the traditional—old-style gilded mirrors, heavy furniture, thick carpets—with modern touches. Paintings by local artists on the wall and geometric sculptures that look like a cross between five different animals. Healthy potted plants and touches of gold.

Light shines through the massive windows, highlighting the art like a proper museum.

“My mother’s not a minimalist at heart,” I say. An understatement.

“Wait.” Salem stops next to a wall of photos. “Is that… Harry Truman?”

Of course, with all the extravagance displayed here, she’d find the one thing I don’t want to talk about.

Family history.

If we’re not careful, it always defines us Rorys.

It’s too easy to become the local aristocrats, born with silver spoons in our mouths, rather than individuals who’ve lived and loved and suffered across generations.

“The one and only. Hell of a president, right?” I stop beside her. The same black-and-white photo has been replicated all over the place. Anyone who’s lived in Kansas City has seen it on the walls of restaurants or hanging in schoolrooms.

For us, it’s different.

Mom doesn’t want to forget where we came from. Archer’s the same way, proud to a fault, and Dex—well, fuck if I know what Dex thinks about anything when he’s so tight-lipped.

All I know is I hate it when our family gets looked at like an artifact. An extension of a distant president my great-grandfather helped up the political ladder with his old connections in the Kansas City political machine.

If people focus too much on our family’s past, they don’t appreciate the present.

They look at Higher Ends as a sure thing running off old money, and not the scrappy start-up that’s had to fight with teeth and claws for every success.

What we’re doing now has nothing to do with Truman or my grandparents.

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