Page 41 of Things We Left Behind
“You really shouldn’t have done that.”
“It was the least I could do,” she said cheerfully.
“How thoughtful,” Petula said, reappearing at my side like an elite sniper. “Mr. Rollins will certainly enjoy your chowder for his afternoon snack.”
Holly beamed sunnily at us. “Just wait until I make you my tofu curry!”
We watched her all but skip away.
“Christ, what was I thinking hiring her?” I muttered.
“You were thinking she desperately needed a job that could support two kids. She thinks you’re a knight in shining armor,” Petula explained, opening the door to my office.
I wasn’t the knight. I was the dragon.
“Then she’s either criminally misinformed or delusional,” I muttered as I entered my space. It was designed to intimidate and impress. There was nothing homey or cozy about the glass desk, the stark white couch, the dark wood. It was formal, cold. It suited me.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world to have employees who aren’t blatantly terrified of you,” Petula said, busying herself by hitting remotes to open blinds, switching on my desk monitors, and organizing paperwork by priority while I hung my coat on the rack inside the door.
“Between Nolan and Holly, you’re going soft,” I complained.
“I insist you take back that insult, or I’ll tell everyone you cry during SPCA commercials.”
The wall of windows revealed an impressive view of DC’s business district. Most of it was still blanketed in a pristine coat of white thick enough to cover the stains and sins that happened behind closed doors in the nation’s capital.
“I prefer people to be terrified. Then they don’t try to talk to me about whatever the hell bubble braids are. And why are you so nice to her? You’re mean to everyone.”
Petula huffed. “I’m not mean. I’m efficient. Niceties are a waste of time and energy.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.”
“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, holding up the container of homemade fish chowder.
“Throw it out the window.”
She stared me down and waited.
“Fine. Put it in my refrigerator.” I’d throw it out when I was sure I wouldn’t get caught.
“Don’t throw out the container. She’ll need it back,” Petula ordered.
Damn it.
“Anything else?” I asked with irritation.
Petula aligned the folders on my desk with a sharp tap. “These are priority. You have drinks at 7:00 p.m. at the Wellesley Club with two of the vice presidents from Democracy Strategies. And that investigator will probably be here shortly. I informed her you were absolutely not available this afternoon, but she was rudely insistent.”
While she talked, I walked to the wall of glass and stared out over Washington, wondering what Sloane would think of this place and what I’d accomplished.
I’d become someone. Forged an empire. And I’d gotten strong enough, rich enough, powerful enough that no single threat could take what I’d built. I’d vanquished the ghosts of the past.
“Thank you, Petula. That will be all,” I said, suddenly anxious to bury myself in work.
She looked down her nose at me. “I know that will be all, because that’s all I had for you. I’ll let you know when that investigator arrives. And I’ll send Holly back with your coffee when it arrives.”
“Don’t—”
But she was already smugly sweeping out the door, dismissing me.
