I meet Winona’s eyes with a nasty scowl. “Have fun on your date,” I say icily.
Nice. Winona and I are both being absolute bitches.
When I get to my floor, I glance at the door at the end of the hallway. I should go in there. I’ve been hiding from it for twenty years. Maybe I’d draw strength from it. Maybe it’s time… No.
I wait until I get back to my office to collapse in my chair with a tortured groan. Note to self: don’t ghost a chick who has self respect.
I’m steeped in gloom, and I probably blew any chance I have at a relationship with Winona. I need to know that at least my sacrifices are not in vain. I pick up my phone and call my sister. Alice, Steve, and Tamara are coming into town on Sunday to celebrate her birthday with a day on the town, but this can’t wait.
She answers in two rings. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?” she asks.
“Why would anything be wrong?” I say, taken aback.
“You’re calling me during work hours and it’s not my birthday, Thanksgiving or Christmas. What’s wrong?” she repeats.
I sigh. God, please, spare me from overly perceptive women.
“You understand the importance of taking the company public, right? Of having stores overseas? Of fulfilling Dad’s vision?”
She goes silent.
“Hello? Are you still there?” I snap.
“I understand that it’s important to you,” she says finally.
I swallow the sour frustration that’s brewing up inside me. “Because it was important to Dad. This was always his vision, and I’m making it a reality.”
She sighs. “That was his vision decades ago. And I’m not arguing against what you’re doing. Maybe against the way that it’s consuming your life.”
“Consuming my life?” I splutter. “I have a life! Hudson’s is my life! What’s wrong with that? I enjoy what I do here.” Do I? I wonder. I’ve been so frantic to get all this done, for months now, that I can barely tell.
“My husband is dedicated to his job, but he makes it home for dinner and never works on weekends.” She clears her throat impatiently. “What’s really going on? Did something happen with Winona?”
“We’re not talking about Winona.” That came out angrier than I intended. “I just…you were older than me when Mom and Dad died. You remember them more. You didn’t resent how much they worked, did you? You understood what they were working towards?
“Look. Let’s live in the present, shall we? Something happened with Winona, didn’t it? That’s what I’m hearing from my Hudson’s sources. Try to fix it, because she’s good for you. And consider this. You’ve got so much money you could fill swimming pools with it and swim like Scrooge McDuck, but you never let yourself enjoy it. You never let yourself be satisfied with your achievements. Maybe it’s time to make some changes in your life. I mean, after the board vote. I’m just worried that if the vote goes your way and you open up the shops overseas, that’ll be the next big thing that’s consuming your life. You never stop to just…live.”
“Mom? Is that Uncle Blake?” Tamara’s cheerful voice sounds in the background. “Can I talk to him?”
“No, you cannot, because you’re just going to ask him about the doll, and we’re not talking about the doll.”
“You’re mean. I object!”
“Overruled. Also no more watching Court TV.” Any other time, their interchange would make me smile. Today my mouth won’t move from its grim line of anger and frustration.
She returns to the phone. “Got to go. See you Sunday.”
“Yeah.” I try to inject some happiness into my voice. “Can’t wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Winona
I barely make it to Norfolk’s on time, rushing in from work on clattering heels. Stepping into their foyer feels like being whisked away to a British social club in the nineteen hundreds. The potted palm trees and the walls of leatherbound books and oil paintings of famous members give off a distinctly Somerset Maugham vibe.
Marshall is waiting for me in the lobby, clad in a seersucker Armani suit, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.
He smiles, flashing big white teeth, and waves as I walk towards him. “You came.”
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting! I was working a little late.”
“I could tell.” He nods at my outfit. “Didn’t have time to change? It doesn’t matter, you look very nice.” Then his smile fades. “Sorry, did that come out insulting? I’m not very smooth conversationally. So I’ve been told. I’m a little bit on the spectrum. That’s a common thing with software developers. I hope that’s not a problem. And I’m talking too much.”
“No, not at all!”
I glance down at what I’m wearing. It’s a glammed-up version of an Oxford shirt with a frill on the collar. My black jacket is nipped in at the waist, with a dramatic flare and a high-low hem. The outfit is finished with a pencil skirt and pointy black shoes with metal buckles on them.
An uncomfortable feeling prickles under my skin. He’s right. My ensemble screams “office!” I had plenty of time to change, and racks and racks full of exquisite dresses to choose from. I could have borrowed a dress with Thérèse’s permission. Or I could have thought ahead and brought something slinky from home and changed before I came here. I did not.
Why am I sabotaging myself? Marshall is handsome, successful, and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. I want to enjoy this date. I will enjoy this date.
A waiter appears, to guide us to a booth in the dining room. My gaze wanders over to the bar, where apparently the requirement to be seated is “Must be a Hemsworth or better on the hotness scale”.
Marshall peruses the wine menu, then orders us a nice red. We agree on an appetizer of canapes and crostini.
"So, tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with work." He says it like he’s reciting it. Like he memorized it from a “how to talk to women” website.
No, that's an ungenerous thought. Why am I doing this to myself? My mother would have conniptions. I mean, Marshall has it all. Handsome, single, successful…it’s the marriage-minded mama’s trifecta of perfection.
"I love dogs."
He smiles even wider. "Oh, me too!" Ha. And, he checks off at least a couple of the requirements on my list.
"Oh, what kind of dog do you have?"
His smile slips a little, and he shrugs awkwardly. "Unfortunately I don't have time for one right now. When we grew up, we had a very nice Springer Spaniel. Her name was Molly.”
Then he falls silent.
“Tell me about Molly,” I prod.
He cocks his head, looking puzzled. “Like…what about her?”
“What kind of tricks could she do?”
“She, uh…she could sit.” Silence descends. He sits there, looking pained and a little embarrassed. Then he brightens. “Oh, I know! What’s your favorite food?”
Yep. He has definitely memorized a list of date questions.
And I know now that Blake was wrong about him. Marshall isn’t a Casanova type at all. He’s rich as hell, so of course beautiful socialites flock to him, but I’d bet a pretty penny that he’s not the one who chooses to end things.