Page 200 of Scoring the Player
“How very sweet of you.” She pulls some grocery bags from the trunk. “It was touch and go at first, but I think we figured out the right meds schedule.”
I move to help her, but she says, “It’s okay. They’re light. Come in.”
“Is she in a lot of pain?” I ask.
“She’s a silent sufferer, like her brother.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out her keys. “I only know because I’m keeping track of her meds, and she’s needed more painkillers than the schedule allows. The doctor said it’s fine, as pain management is important for the first few days, but she had a tough morning.”
She opens the door and removes her shoes, and I follow suit. I look down at my socks, not sure what I’m feeling. She catches me and smiles. “Heated marble.”
“Oh.”
I keep meaning to look into that.
I follow her past a polished brass and glass elevator that has a chandelier with crystal birds sitting atop a brass branch.
She quirks an eyebrow over her shoulder.
“Sorry?” I ask, realizing I missed something.
She nods to the box.
“Oh, I made her favorite.”
This time her brows sweep down and bunch together.
“Uh, Fraisier cake,” I say.
“Oh.” She nods. “She calls you her new bestie.”
I smile. “Beautiful home,” I observe as we pass a grand room with sculptures and mounted art.
“Thank you,” she replies, placing her bags on the kitchen counter and helping me offload the cake.
“May I?” she asks, her hands on the lid.
“Of course.” I step back so she can peel it open.
Phew. It didn’t shift on the drive.
“Salem…it’s stunning.” She covers her mouth. “Are those real flowers?”
“Mm.” I stare at the flower crown dusted with sugar pearls atop the traditional French cake made from sponge, cream, and fresh strawberries. “They’re edible.”
She pulls out her phone. “It reminds me of water lilies for some reason.” She snaps a picture of the cake. “Have you ever been to Monet’s garden in Giverny?”
“Uh, Giverny?”
“In the region of Normandy in France.” She snaps another picture. “With your eye for beauty, I think you might enjoy it. One second.”
She returns with a glass cake platter. After I lower the sides of the box, she lifts the cake and slides it on.
“Goodness, it really is exquisite.”
“You have to taste it first,” I tease.
She laughs as she retrieves plates, utensils, and a cake knife.
The glass-paneled elevator faces a window,and as we rise to the third floor, it feels like we’re scaling the row of trees.
