Chapter 5 - The Ride to Lincoln Park
The black Lincoln Navigator sat idling in the private, heated bay beneath the Bellweather Grand, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the harsh yellow glow of the overhead fluorescent lights.
A uniformed driver stood by the open rear door, bowing his head slightly as Arthur, Madeline, and Julian approached.
“Good evening, Miss Carter,” the driver said smoothly. “Mr. Carter.”
Madeline slid into the soft leather interior of the middle row, still wrapped in Julian’s jacket. Arthur climbed in beside her, while Julian took the front passenger seat after giving brief, hushed instructions to two security men standing near the elevator banks.
The heavy door closed with a solid, airtight thud, shutting out the muffled sounds of the city and the distant hum of the hotel’s valet operations.
As the SUV pulled out onto the wet, rain-slicked pavement of Wacker Drive, the interior remained quiet for several blocks. The city lights flickered across the glass—flashes of neon from theater marquees, the warm amber glow of streetlamps, and the towering, dark silhouettes of Michigan Avenue’s high-rises.
Madeline looked down at her hands. The linen handkerchief Julian had given her was stained with dark crimson streaks of wine.
“You should have let me hit him,” Arthur said quietly, breaking the silence as he stared out his window at the passing traffic.
Madeline offered a faint, tired smile, without turning her head. “You did hit him, Dad. You just used a bank instead of your fist.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “A boy like that doesn't understand anything else. He thinks because his grandfather built a few suburban motels, the world owes him a carpet everywhere he walks.”
“He was foolish,” Madeline said softly. “And drunk.”
“Being drunk is an explanation, Madeline, not an excuse,” Arthur replied, his voice firm. “He looked at you and thought you were weak because you weren't wearing three carats on your finger or shouting at the staff.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes warm despite the sternness in his voice.
“You’re too much like your mother,” he added softly. “Ruth never liked the loud ones either.”
Madeline felt a small, sharp pang in her chest at the mention of her mother, who had passed away seven years ago. Ruth Carter had been an elementary school librarian who, even after her husband became one of the wealthiest men in the Midwest, refused to move out of their modest, sun-filled house in Lincoln Park or buy clothes that needed special dry-cleaning instructions.
“I like my clothes, Dad,” Madeline said quietly. “They’re comfortable. And I didn't want to turn tonight into a display.”
“It became a display the second he poured that glass,” Julian said from the front seat, turning slightly so he could address her directly. “If you don't set boundaries with men like Preston Hale, Miss Carter, they interpret your dignity as permission.”
Madeline looked at Julian in the dim light of the dashboard. “You reacted very quickly back there, Mr. Vance.”
“It’s my job to react quickly,” Julian said smoothly. “And please, call me Julian.”
“Julian worked for the federal prosecutor’s office in Manhattan for six years before I lured him back to Chicago,” Arthur noted, a faint trace of pride in his voice. “He’s used to dealing with arrogant trust-fund boys who think their daddies can buy off the justice system.”
“It’s a remarkably consistent personality type,” Julian remarked dryly. “They always use the same line right before they realize they’re going to jail.”
Madeline let out a soft laugh—the first real laugh she had uttered all evening. It felt good, loosening the knot of tension that had been locked in her shoulders since the Cabernet hit her hair.
The SUV turned off North Avenue, slowing down as it entered the quiet, tree-lined residential streets of Lincoln Park. The grand graystone townhomes here were set back from the sidewalk behind low wrought-iron fences and old oak trees whose leaves were turning deep amber with the late autumn chill.
The driver pulled up in front of a three-story brick home with a warm, yellow light glowing behind the stained-glass transom above the front door.
“We’re here, Miss,” the driver said, stepping out to open her door.
Madeline began to slide out of Julian’s navy jacket, holding it out toward the front seat. “Thank you, Julian. For the jacket. And for standing there before my father arrived.”
Julian reached back, but instead of taking the jacket, he gently pushed it back toward her.
“Keep it for the walk to the door,” Julian said softly. “The wind coming off the lake is dropping fast. You can return it to the office on Monday.”
Madeline looked at him for a second, catching the steady, clear grey of his eyes in the streetlight.
“All right,” she said softly. “Monday.”
She turned to her father, kissing him gently on his weathered cheek. “Don't stay up all night reading legal briefs, Dad.”
May you like
“I have to stay up,” Arthur grunted, though his eyes were gentle. “I have to make sure Richard Hale’s loan file is sitting on top of the stack when the bank directors open their mail on Monday morning.”
Madeline shook her head with a affectionate smile, stepped out of the vehicle, and walked up the front steps of her home, her head held high as the black SUV pulled silently away into the cool Chicago night.
