Page 31 of The Serendipity

Plus, I remind myself, this project is about more. It’s about me being different from my father. More down-to-earth. Less pampered and stuck in some kind of wealthy person’s tower with my silver spoon and my Amex Black.

Right now, though, I sort of miss the tower and spoon.

“I don’t need to go back right away. I could put it off until Sunday night,” Bellamy says, and the idea that he thinks I need hand-holding is the only thing worse than knowing I do, in fact, need hand-holding.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Well, then, I’d better head on to catch the last Boston train from Worcester. If you’re sure,” he adds. “Would you like me to at least do something about the trash situation before I go?”

Bellamy’s nose wrinkles when he says this, as though the very idea of emptying trash bins causes the reflex. It probably does. He probably hasn’t emptied a trash can since he was a child, if at all.

He and I have this in common.

“Wouldn’t want you to sully your suit,” I tell him.

The only thing Bellamy might love more than sweets is his wardrobe. I suspect his suit collection is more expensive than mine. I don’t care about brands or labels, only the fit and whether I can get dressed while making as few decisions as possible. But Bellamy religiously attends Fashion Week. I wouldn’t know the difference between an Armani and anything else. Especially since Armani is the only designer I can think of right now.

“Do I have any Armani suits?” I ask, and Bellamy’s mouth curves into a smile.

“No. You prefer the look and cut of Tom Ford, and I’ve always loved that you don’t know that.” He tilts his head, examining me with an amused smile. “Are you suddenly interested in fashion?”

“Definitely not. And please—go to New York. I don’t trust anyone else, and I assume you’re prepared to handle the board.”

“You know what they say about assuming.”

“That it’s better to assume the worst in order to avoid the worst outcome,” I say firmly, and Bellamy laughs.

“Not quite, though I like your version better.” He pauses. “Are you sure about all this? Leaving the city, not being the face of the company?”

“Positive. At least, for now.”

“Because you shouldn’t have to run away to avoid your father’s crimes. They’re his, not yours.”

“I know. And I’m not running.”

Notonlyrunning. Maybe I am running … a little bit. But even the idea of returning to New York has my stomach feeling like a pit of acid. I pull out my mints and let one dissolve on my tongue. The potent ginger makes my eyes water.

“Because,” Bellamy continues in a lighter tone, “I’ll happily stay here and eat cookies and round up handypeople andmanage the buildingpeople … this is fun, actually, just addingpeopleto the ends of words?—”

“Bellamy.”

“Fine, fine.” He stands, brushing crumbs from his suit pants. “I’ll be back in a few days. Want me to call you after the meeting Monday?” I must make some kind of horrified face, because he chuckles and says, “Got it. No phone calls. I’ll send an email or text.”

“Goodbye.”

He pauses in the doorway, frowning. “You’re sure I can’t help with the trash before I go? It seems like the most pressing of all the menial tasks.”

“I have everything I need. Including someone to deal with the trash.”

Iam the someone.

Although taking out trash has never once been something I’ve been asked to do in my life, it can’t be a complex task.

Remove overly full trash bags from the various cans in public areas around the building. Locate where trash should be deposited. Place it there. Replace bags.

Consider eliminating all trash cans in The Serendipity’s public spaces.

Once again, reconsider my recent life choices.

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