Page 83 of The Summer I Saved You

Just after we arrive home, a call from my mother flashes on my phone. I strongly consider not taking it because this day’s been hard enough, but relent at the last second.

“I just heard about what happened to Henry,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m only hearing now.”

I roll my eyes.Because you’ve been such a devoted, involved grandparent? The kids don’t even know who you are. “What do you want, Mom?”

“I’m extremely concerned. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t left Jeremy. You know that, right? You should have been watching them yourself.”

I laugh. “The way you watchedmegrowing up? Should I have watched them like that?”

“I had no choice. You do.”

I’d worried that adversity might turn me into my mom. That I’d become the sort of person who bullies everyone around her as a form of self-protection. I feel fairly certain, now, that I won’t—but I can definitely put a bully in her place when necessary.

“I’m a better parent on my worst day than you were on your best,” I reply. “If I ever need advice, you’ll be the last person I seek it from.”

And then I hang up.

WHENIARRIVEat work on Monday—both relieved by Caleb’s absence and emptied by it at the same time—there’s an email waiting from Mark:

Congrats. Knew I was right about you.

I click the article he’s linked to—"Five People Changing the Workplace.”There, in bold lettering, is my name, followed by a description of the walking program and team retreats, giving me way more credit than I’m due for the improved retention rate.

It’s bittersweet, this moment. I’ve done things here, good things. Growing up in the shadow of Robert Underwood and his aunt provided me with skills no legitimate job could have. It just took putting them to use to understand it for myself. That doesn’t mean I can stay, however. If you want to let an old dream die, you’ve got to stop dreaming it first. And how am I supposed to do that if the old dream is a guy I still work for?

I walk out and run into Mark, who’s scrubbing a hand over his face and doesn’t even seem to see me. “Oh, Lucie,” he says,narrowly avoiding me and appearing a decade older than he did last week. “Sorry. Congrats on the article.”

“Thanks. Are you okay?”

He gives me a tired smile. “Just got off the phone with Caleb. He’s in a mood.”

He starts to walk past me, but there’s a question I’ve wanted to ask nearly since I arrived here, a question I’ve tiptoed around for too long. “Hey, Mark? Why did you guys close the seventh floor before?”

His eyes widen, and then he frowns. “Well, Caleb was concerned about the utility costs.”

I shake my head. “Except the utilities are minimal relative to the rest of the budget. Did something happen there?”

He looks over his shoulder before he answers. “This stays between us,” he says, “but the last event we held up there was a baby shower for Caleb and his wife. Make of that what you will.”

I flinch. It’s an even worse answer than I expected, one that simultaneously makes me wish I could spend my whole life fixing Caleb’s while recognizing that he has wounds no one can fix until he admits they’re there.

I search my email for the recruiter who reached out a few weeks ago. Caleb never wanted me here in the first place and it’ll be easy for my replacement to pick up where I’ve left off if they actuallywantto fill the position. My guess is that after the merger, it will be someone in New York overseeing both companies anyway.

“I’m so happy you called,” the recruiter says. “I actually have a client who’s asked for you specifically. I’m sure you’re familiar with Underwood Industries?”

After a half-second of startled silence, I simply sigh. I have no idea if it’s a coincidence or my father perhaps trying to offer me some high-salary job to buy my silence, but it doesn’t matter. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Except I wouldn’t work forRobert Underwood if my life depended on it. Please tell them I said so.”

She gives a small, awkward laugh. “Okay. But are you open to other possibilities if I come up with something?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I’m open. I’m looking to leave here as soon as possible.”

ON FRIDAY MORNING, Molly comes over to watch the twins for me since kindergartners have a delayed start—St. Ignatius once again assuming all students have a stay-at-home mom or nanny at their disposal.

She’s glowing with excitement when she arrives—the date with Michael last weekend went spectacularly well (she screamed, ‘Five times, Lucie. Five times!’ into the phone so loudly that Sophie demanded to know what had happened) and they’re going away together this weekend as soon as I return to pick up the kids.

“I’m going to do your makeup,” Sophie announces.

Molly raises a brow. “I was going to teach you about derivatives.”

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