Chapter 8 - The Brownstone on Elm Street
Margaret Vance stepped into the executive office through a side door, dressed in a soft cream cardigan, carrying a small silver teapot on a tray.
Behind her came a young assistant, practically hyperventilating as he tried to take the tray from her, but Margaret shooed him away with a sharp flick of her fingers.
"Margaret," Elena gasped, stepping forward instinctively to help her with the heavy silver tray.
"Sit down, child," Margaret commanded, placing the tray on a low marble coffee table near the window. "Arthur makes terrible tea. He buys those expensive Japanese leaves that taste like wet grass. I brought Earl Grey."
Elena sat on the leather sofa, her mind still trying to process the speed at which her life was changing. Less than fourteen hours ago, she had been standing in the cold alley behind a diner, her apron at her feet, worrying about an electric bill.
Now she was sitting on the seventy-eighth floor of a skyscraper, drinking Earl Grey tea out of porcelain cups with two people who owned half the street below.
"Did he give you the speech?" Margaret asked, nodding toward her son, who was standing by the window with a faint, rare smile on his face.
"He offered me a job," Elena said.
"He offered you a position," Margaret corrected gently, pouring two fingers of tea into Elena's cup. "A job is what you do so you don't starve. A position is what you do when someone values your time. You take care of people, Elena. That's a rare thing in a city where everybody is counting their change."
"I don't have a college degree, Margaret," Elena said honestly, looking at Arthur. "I don't know how to navigate... offices like this."
"You don't need to navigate offices," Arthur said, sitting down in the chair across from her. "You need to navigate my mother. Which, I assure you, is far more difficult than managing a real estate portfolio."
"He's not joking," Margaret smiled, taking a tiny sip from her cup. "Yesterday I told my cardiologist he was an uninspired parrot who relied too much on statins. He nearly cried."
Elena couldn't help it—a small, real laugh escaped her chest, the first genuine laugh she had uttered in weeks.
"When do I start?" Elena asked.
"Monday," Arthur said. "First item of business: your brother's enrollment papers for St. Francis Prep need to be signed by four o'clock today so he can start the new term after the weekend."
Elena dropped her eyes to her teacup, her sight blurring with sudden, warm tears she refused to let fall. She thought of Leo, sitting at that formica table in the cold dark kitchen, trying to solve geometry problems under a desk lamp.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Don't thank him," Margaret said, reaching over to touch Elena's knee with her warm hand. "He's getting a bargain. Now... drink your tea. We have to go to The Copper Spoon."
Elena froze, her cup halfway to her lips. "What?"
May you like
Margaret's gray eyes gleamed with that bright, dangerous light.
"We have to get your final check, dear," Margaret said smoothly. "And I want to see the look on that manager's face when he realizes who cleared out his desk."
