Chapter 2 - The Toy in the Pantry
By afternoon, the rain had set in, sheets of gray water lashing against the high diamond-pane windows of Hawthorne House.
While Nathan remained locked in his library with a private physician who had arrived at noon, June tasked me with deep-cleaning the ground-floor pantry—a sprawling room lined with floor-to-ceiling cedar shelving that held decades of unused crystal, antique copper molds, and forgotten silver serving sets.
I had brought Milo into the pantry with me. It was against the rules, but June was upstairs managing the linen inventory, and leaving a toddler alone in the unfamiliar staff bedroom for hours was impossible.
Milo sat happily on a braided rug in the corner of the pantry, playing with his favorite possession: a plastic, brightly colored toy cooking set I had picked up for six dollars at a local thrift store. It consisted of a red plastic stove that emitted a squeaky sound when pressed, three small pots, a miniature yellow spatulas, and a tiny plastic frying pan.
"Look, Mommy," Milo whispered, holding up a bright green plastic bell pepper. "Cooking for the big man."
"Shh, sweetie," I said, scrubbing the tarnish off a heavy sterling tea urn. "We have to be super quiet, okay? The big man is resting."
"He's not resting," Milo said matter-of-factly, adjusting his tiny plastic pot on the stove. "He's mad. His hands are broken."
I paused, looking over at my son. Children notice everything, especially the things adults try hardest to hide. "His hands aren't broken, Milo. He’s just sick."
"I can fix it," Milo declared, his small thumb pressing down on the squeaky plastic burner. Squeak. Squeak.
"Milo, quiet," I warned, listening intently to the hallway.
Suddenly, the heavy pantry door swung open.
I nearly dropped the sterling urn. I scrambled to my feet, wiping my hands on my apron, stepping instinctively between the door and my son.
It wasn't June. It was Nathan Hawthorne.
He had navigated his electric wheelchair down the wide service ramp alone, his right hand resting limply in his lap, his left hand controlling the small joystick on the armrest. He stopped in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from the corridor.
His sharp right eye swept the room, taking in the polishing cloths, the silver polish, and finally settling on Milo sitting on the rug with his plastic pots.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. This was it. The end of my three-thousand-dollar-a-week lifeline.
"Mr. Hawthorne," I said quickly, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "I am so sorry. I know children aren't allowed in the primary house. I was just keeping an eye on him while I worked on the silver. I’ll take him to the quarters immediately."
Nathan didn't answer. He drove his wheelchair two feet forward, the rubber tires humming quietly against the hardwood floor. He ignored me entirely, his gaze fixed on Milo.
Milo didn't shrink back. He didn't hide behind my legs. Instead, he picked up a small yellow plastic spoon, scooped up an imaginary meal from his plastic pot, and held it out toward the billionaire.
"It's soup," Milo announced loudly, his bright blue eyes wide with solemn importance. "Hot. Don't burn your mouth."
I gasped. "Milo, no—"
"Quiet, girl," Nathan rasped, holding up his working left hand to silence me.
The old billionaire looked down at the tiny child sitting on the floor. For eighteen months, Nathan had been surrounded by world-renowned neurologists, physical therapists, high-priced lawyers, and fawning corporate executives who treated him like a fragile, dying monarch. Nobody spoke to him without a rehearsed cadence of deferential pity.
Yet here was a three-year-old boy in faded sweatpants offering him a plastic spoon full of air.
Nathan drove his chair closer until the footrests nearly touched the edge of Milo’s braided rug. "What kind of soup?" Nathan asked, his slurred voice rough, but lacking the razor-sharp malice he had used with his son.
"Yellow soup," Milo said, standing up on his sturdy little legs. He shuffled forward, holding the plastic spoon out. "Open up."
Nathan stared at the child. For three agonizing seconds, the room was completely still. Then, slowly, the old man opened his mouth.
Milo carefully poked the dry plastic spoon against Nathan’s lower lip. "Good?" Milo asked.
Nathan swallowed, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. "Needs salt," he rasped.
Milo frowned, his little brows knitting together in deep concentration. He turned around, marched back to his plastic stove, picked up a blue plastic shaker, and shook it over the spoon with great flair. "Now salt," he said, returning and poking the spoon at Nathan again.
Nathan accepted the imaginary bite a second time. "Better," the old man grunted.
I stood frozen against the cedar shelving, my mouth slightly open. I had watched this man reduce a seasoned live-in nurse to tears three days ago over an improperly toasted piece of bread. Now he was sitting in a pantry letting my toddler feed him invisible soup.
Nathan’s sharp eye shifted back to me. The harshness hadn't entirely vanished, but the ice had cracked.
"Who is he?" Nathan asked.
"My son, sir. Milo."
"How old?"
"Three."
Nathan turned his head back toward Milo, who was now busy stirring his plastic pot with aggressive enthusiasm. The old man looked down at his own paralyzed right hand resting lifelessly on the armrest of his chair.
"He doesn't look at me like I'm a corpse," Nathan said softly, speaking more to himself than to me.
"He doesn't know what a corpse is, sir," I replied quietly. "He just thinks you're hungry."
Nathan let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He reached out with his left hand and picked up a tiny blue plastic frying pan from Milo’s set. He held it between his long, age-spotted fingers, weighing it as if it were made of solid gold.
"June!" Nathan called out toward the hallway, his raspy voice cutting through the house.
A moment later, June came rushing into the pantry, looking terrified. "Yes, Mr. Hawthorne! What's wrong? Is the girl—"
"June," Nathan interrupted, holding up the blue plastic pan. "Clear out the breakfast nook off the kitchen. Set up a table for two."
June blinked, utterly bewildered. "A table for two, sir? Is Mr. Preston returning for dinner?"
"No," Nathan said, his sharp eye resting on Milo. "The chef will prepare chicken broth and rice. Served at five o'clock sharp. For me and the conductor."
May you like
June looked at me, then down at Milo, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "The... the conductor, sir?"
"You heard me," Nathan rasped, turning his wheelchair around. As he drove out into the corridor, he didn't look back, but his left hand remained firmly clasped around Milo’s tiny blue plastic pan.
