Page 16 of Blindly Yours

“It smells delicious.” I set my bag on the entry table and follow her into the kitchen, where my parents’ housekeeper is busy at the stove. “I think you’re going to outdo yourself again, Miss Helene. My mouth is already watering.”

She turns and a warm smile spreads to her cheeks, pulling her laugh lines into their familiar places. “Oh, it’s not so hard. I could teach you sometime.” She’s been employed by my parents for over twenty years, so she feels like family.

I chuckle. “I’d burn it, for sure.”

Helene shakes her head and turns back to her work. “How was your day, Rosie?” It warms a spot in my heart when she calls me that. I feel like I’m eight years old again.

I pull out a stool at the counter and trace a vein of marble. “Not great. There was a leak in the ceiling of my office.”

“Oh dear. That sounds like a mess.”

My mother uncorks a bottle of wine and pours us both a glass. “I heard about that. I do hope it's sorted out quickly.”

I reach for my glass, but another hand beats me to it.

“Gotta be quicker than that,” my brother, Henry, mocks in my ear as he steals the glass and takes a sip.

I spin around and punch him in the shoulder. “Jerk.”

My mother sighs and pulls another glass from the cabinet. “Really, Henry. Have you decided when you’ll finally grow up?”

“No time soon.” He slides onto the stool next to mine and takes another sip.

I grab my new glass, rest my elbows on the counter, and turn to him. “How old are you, now?”

He scratches his five-o-clock shadow. “Seven.”

For the record, he’s twenty-eight, and arguably the smartest of the three of us. George is thirty and fits well into the eldest child stereotype, but hidden behind Henry’s goofy middle-child status is a sharp mind and a heart of gold.

My mother swirls her wine casually in her glass. “I spoke with Malcolm’s mother on the phone today.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Mom,” Henry cuts in. “Let Rose move on.”

She clears her throat. “We spoke about the Pruitt wedding this summer at Berkshire’s. Both families are invited. We were thinking it would be great to make a weekend of it.”

“I’d love to go. It’s been so long.” I grin eagerly, choosing not to linger on the fact that Malcolm will be there. Berkshire’s is a resort lodge up on Caribou Lake in Superior National Forest. We spent our summers there as a family. It’s quite literally in the middle of nowhere, but it felt like a magical wonderland back then. There were endless organized activities for the children and bottomless wine for the adults. It’s a luxurious retreat set against a backdrop of crystal-clear waters and towering pines. Think Kellerman’s from Dirty Dancing, but with sparkling chandeliers and personal butlers.

Henry sighs. “Surely we have better things to do than gossip with the wealthiest families in the state for a whole weekend.”

“Ella will be there, you know, Henry.” My mother raises a hopeful brow.

Henry stands and peers into the refrigerator, ignoring our mother. “Is that your famous tiramisu cheesecake, Helene?”

She begins to plate our meals. “Mhmm. But you have to eat your vegetables before you get any.”

He laughs as he shuts the door. “I’m twenty-eight, Helene. I think I can handle it.”

“Thought you just said you were seven.” She smirks as she passes him on her way to the dining room.

We all follow and sit down to dinner, where my father and George join us. It’s the best meal I’ve had in weeks. Nothing quite beats home-cooked, even when it’s made by your housekeeper instead of your mother.

The five of us all sitting around the table—it doesn’t happen very often anymore. I can almost transport myself back to my childhood, except George is still wearing his suit from the office, my dad’s sporting about half the hair he had back then, and Mom’s wrinkles are trying to show themselves behind all the daily serums she smears on.

Sometimes I dream of traveling back to those days. When Henry would hide my dolls, and I’d punch him until George pulled me away, and then I’d ride the elevator up and down for an hour, pretending to be a Lift Girl pressing the floor numbers for our neighbors. Then I’d sit and draw or try on my mom’s old dresses and heels because no one expected anything of me. Because I could just be me.

But now, I have a legacy to live up to, and the pressure is tangible.

“I heard you met with Mr. Lancaster today, Rose.” My father looks up from his plate. “Have you persuaded him to talk with his daughter about entrusting her funds with us yet?”

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