Chapter 2 - The Bedroom of Stiff Linen
The south wing of the second floor was silent.
Unlike the rest of the ninety-room estate, which had been updated during the late nineties with central air conditioning, recessed LED spot-lighting, and automated blinds, Arthur Vance’s private wing remained exactly as it had been laid out in 1954 by his father.
The floors were wide-plank white oak, darkened by age and hand-waxed every Tuesday. The walls were covered in pale green damask silk that had faded near the windows into the soft gray of river stones. The air here didn't smell of hot catering grease or expensive floral spray; it smelled of dried lavender, cedar shavings, old leather books, and the faint, bitter tang of prescription iodine.
Elena knocked twice on the heavy mahogany door of Suite 204.
“Come,” a voice called out.
It was a rough, gravelly voice, like two granite stones being turned over one another in deep water. It lacked the smooth, sonorous resonance that Arthur Vance had used thirty years ago to address the Senate Finance Committee, but it possessed a dense, stubborn clarity that had not softened with his physical decay.
Elena pushed the door open.
Arthur sat in a high-backed wing chair near the bay window that looked out over the salt marshes toward Connecticut. He was seventy-five years old, but his frame looked older—his broad shoulders, which had once filled four-hundred-dollar custom suits, were now narrowed and bent forward under a dark woolen shawl. His hair was completely white, cropped short, and his hands, resting on the curved ivory handle of his walking stick, were spotted with brown age marks and swollen at the knuckles.
A silver tray sat on the small table beside him. On it was an untouched cup of tea, a small plate with two toasted water crackers, and a leather-bound volume of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations open to Book VI.
“You’re late,” Arthur said without turning his head.
“The linen trucks from Brooklyn were delayed by three miles of construction on the bridge,” Elena said, walking across the rug and picking up the tea cup. She touched the side of the porcelain with her knuckles. “It’s cold. I’ll call down for fresh.”
“Don't bother,” Arthur growled, turning his blue eyes toward her. They were the same sharp, pale blue as Jaden’s, but where Jaden’s eyes were restless and quick to scan a room for advantage, Arthur’s were fixed, heavy, and motionless. “If I drink three cups of warm water now, Marcus will make me sit in that wheeled chair for two hours so my legs don't swell. I intend to walk into the ballroom on my own two feet tonight.”
“Arthur—”
“I am seventy-five, Elena, not eighty-five,” he snapped, though his fingers trembled slightly against the ivory handle of his stick. “I am allowed to have cold feet for one night if it means I don't look like an invalid in front of the board of directors.”
Elena sat on the low velvet ottoman near his knees. She didn't look up at his face; she reached out, unbuttoned his wool house slippers, and checked the swelling in his ankles with her thumb.
“The swelling is down half an inch from yesterday,” she said gently. “The salt restriction worked.”
“The salt restriction makes the food taste like wet newspaper,” Arthur muttered. He watched her fingers as she skillfully pulled his black wool socks over his thin calves. “You’ve been crying.”
Elena’s hand paused for a quarter of a second against the hem of his trousers. Then she continued smoothing the sock.
“I haven't been crying, Arthur. The dust from the velvet drapes in the gallery is very thick.”
“Do not lie to an old man who spent fifty years reading deposition transcripts, Elena. Your left eye is red at the rim, and you’ve tightened your hair pins twice since you came through the door. You only do that when you’re trying not to slap someone.”
Elena gave a tiny, dry sound that was almost a laugh. She stood up, walked to the dark mahogany wardrobe near the dressing table, and pulled out his black dinner jacket.
“Jaden moved the Dean of Yale to table twelve,” she said, her back turned to him as she unbuttoned the waistcoat. “He gave his seat at the head table to Vanessa Ritchie.”
The room was completely quiet for five seconds. The only sound was the soft tock-tock-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner.
“And what did you say?” Arthur asked. His voice had lost its sharp rasp; it had dropped into a flat, deadly quiet.
“I told her that the Dom Pérignon was served at fifty-two degrees,” Elena said, turning around with the jacket over her arm. “And I told Jaden that the Dean had donated three million dollars to your library.”
“And my son?”
“Jaden told me to go put on the sapphire dress he bought in Paris.”
Arthur closed his eyes. His breath came through his nose in a long, rattling whistle. He rested his forehead against his hands, which were still clasped over the ivory top of his cane.
“Fifty years,” Arthur whispered to the carpet. “Fifty years I spent building Vance Industries from a two-truck gravel pit in Yonkers into a company that controls twelve percent of the deep-water shipping terminals on the Eastern Seaboard. And I raised a man who thinks a family legacy is a photo shoot in a glossy magazine with a woman who smells like a duty-free shop.”
Elena walked over, set the jacket across the back of his chair, and knelt beside him. She laid her small, warm hand over his swollen knuckles.
“Arthur,” she said softly. “It is your birthday. The press is downstairs. The governor’s car has just entered the main gate. Do not ruin your evening over a seating chart.”
Arthur opened his eyes. He looked at her face—at the faint lines of exhaustion around her brown eyes, at the pale skin that had seen so little sunlight over the past two months while she managed his medical records and his company’s charitable gifts.
“You met him when he was twenty-one,” Arthur said quietly. “He was wearing that green velvet jacket he stole from his roommate at Yale. He brought you to this house on a rainy Saturday in November, and you sat in the library for three hours talking to me about the trade routes of the Dutch East India Company.”
Elena swallowed hard. “I remember.”
“I told my lawyer that night,” Arthur said, his voice dropping so low she had to lean in to hear him, “that my son had finally done one intelligent thing in his life. I thought he had found someone who could keep him from becoming like his grandfather—a man who owned three yachts and didn't have a single friend who would sit with his corpse for an hour without charging a fee.”
“Arthur, please—”
“He doesn't see you, Elena,” the old man said, his blue eyes burning with an intense, furious clarity that made her chest tighten. “He looks at you and he sees a appliance that keeps his house clean and his reputation intact while he plays the young tycoon with that... that shallow creature in the red dress.”
“I see myself,” Elena said. Her voice was firm now, free of tears, clear as cold spring water. “That is enough for tonight.”
Arthur looked at her for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he nodded.
“Help me put the shirt on,” he said. “And call Graham. Tell him to bring the blue leather briefcase from the floor safe in my private office. The one with the brass key.”
Elena hesitated. “Graham is down in the library with the board members.”
“Tell him,” Arthur said, his eyes fixing hers, “that if he is not up here with that briefcase in ten minutes, I will fire him before the main course is served and hire the catering manager to execute my estate.”
Elena stood up. “Yes, Arthur.”
As she reached the door, he called out to her once more.
“Elena?”
May you like
She turned.
“Do not put on the sapphire dress,” Arthur said. “Wear the navy lace. The one you wore when we dedicated the children’s hospital in Newark three years ago. You looked like a queen that night. And tonight, you will need to look like one.”
