Page 97 of For Her Own Good

“Thank you.”

A waitress comes to take our drink order, and while I’d been dreaming of a full-bodied Douro red, the idea of it now makes my stomach turn. Goddammit, I was really counting on alcohol to ease the way of what will no doubt be an extraordinarily difficult conversation.

When she departs, Jerome’s intense gaze settles on me.

“How’s your health?”

“Excuse me?”

That’s pretty fucking rude. And yeah, I expected this to be difficult, but not from this angle. How’s my health, a.k.a., how far away am I from checking into Harbinson as an inpatient again? That’s what he means and I’m not here for it. What the hell?

“I don’t mean to be overly familiar—”

“You’re failing spectacularly, then.”

His mouth tightens, but I’m not even sorry.

“Look— May I call you Starla?”

“Sure.”

He’s already poked at my mental health, so what the hell difference does it make if he does it using my first name or my last?

“Starla. I’m fully aware of your depression diagnosis. I know you treat it very successfully with ECT. I would imagine the grief of losing your father compounded what you deal with every day. I have no illusions that your depression makes you helpless or anything less than formidable. It’s—”

He seems to take a breath, collect himself, and I’m curious what he’s going to say.

“I’m not sure you know my sister has bipolar disorder. So, I don’t know what it’s like to be you, but I probably have a better idea than most people.”

“I didn’t know that. I hope she’s well.”

I genuinely do. Depression can be really fucking rough, but I’m not dealing with the one-two punch of depression and mania.

Jerome shrugs. “We’re lucky we have an effectively unlimited amount of funds to throw at it. She’s been able to access the best treatment available, and I’ve done my best to let her be independent to the fullest extent possible, but there have definitely been some rough times. Right now she’s doing well. She’s an incredibly talented artist. Would you—” His face lights up, and then as quickly falls. “No, I’m sorry. That’s wildly unprofessional.”

“What were you going to say?”

He looks a bit sheepish and spreads his hands on the table, as though he’s laying out all his cards for me to see, inspect.

“I suppose your father told you I’m a ruthless businessman. Which can be true. But I’m also a total softie when it comes to my family.” He shrugs again, the considerable breadth of his shoulders rising and falling as he takes a sip of the wine he’s ordered. “I was going to ask if you’d like to see some of her paintings, but this isn’t show-and-tell nor is it a nursing home where it’s fair to expect everyone to ooh and ahh over pictures of your grandchildren. I apologize.”

He’s embarrassed, and I get the feeling there’s something about me that renders him vulnerable, soft. Which I could—should—use to my advantage. But I’ve never been inclined to be cutthroat. I’ve been one of the people who end up bleeding out from the knife wound across their windpipe for too long to find that appealing.

“I’d love to see them.”

“Really?”

This whole thing could be a ruse, but I’ve fallen for it. I won’t buy it hook, line, and sinker, though, nor would my advisors let me. But what’s the harm in looking at Jerome’s sister’s paintings? What’s the harm in either him thinking more kindly toward me or that he’s fooled me?

“Yes. I’m not much of a collector, but I majored in art history. Over my seven years of college.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, but probably trying not to laugh, he tames it. I used to be embarrassed it took me so freaking long, but now I’m mostly proud I did it at all. Jerome ultimately reaches into his coat pocket to pull out his phone, the enthusiasm blooming on his face again. He hits a few buttons and then hands me his phone.

“That’s her website, you can scroll down and see more.”

It’s hard to tell from the images how large the paintings are, but they’re vibrant and saturated with color. Mostly bright and lush with shades that make me think of the rain forest but sometimes the colors swing darker, moodier. This isn’t overblown brotherly pride, though, she’s really quite good. Bertryse Garrett. At the end, there’s a photo of a woman who I assume is Bertryse standing next to one of her paintings. It’s a huge canvas, and her smile is almost as wide. She’s gorgeous, as are her paintings.

I hand him back his phone, saying, “She’s lovely, and very talented. You must be very proud.”

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