Abbott chuckles. “Don’t be so naïve. My grandmother knew exactly who she was going to find when she snuck into my apartment.”
“Who did she think she was going to find?”
Abbott levels me with a stare. “You.”
10
Brooks
“Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!” My name is being called as I march through the lobby of my building and pass by the security guard at the front desk.
I hesitate, unsure. Mr. Bennett? Surely he isn’t speaking to me. My office is in a high-rise, located in the heart of the city, eighteen stories up—I’ve never met the doorman, the security officer, or anyone who works on the ground floor. The fact that one of them is calling my name gives me pause, and I spin on my heel, questioning.
“Me?” I point to my chest like a goddamn imbecile.
The man is dressed in a navy officer uniform, security patches emblazoned on his chest and biceps, his hat dipping low over his heavy brow.
Portly, sweating, and gesturing me over with a few meaty fingers.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning?” I wish he’d get to the point before my heart rate accelerates to an even more rapid pace.
“Are you Brooks Bennett, sir?”
Every time he calls me sir, my posture straightens and my chest puffs up with a bit more importance. I shift the weight of the blueprint I’m squishing under my armpit and stick it under the opposite arm.
“I am.”
“Would you mind showing me some form of ID? We have a package here for you.”
That’s weird—I don’t remember ordering anything…
My arm goes to the back pocket of my pressed gray slacks, and I pull out the black leather billfold holding my driver’s license, slide it out. Flash it at the security guard and wait a millisecond while his eyes flit back and forth between my photo and my face.
“Thanks. Give me one second.”
He disappears for a brief moment, reappearing from the storage room behind the front desk with a package, setting it on the counter.
Package indeed.
Not in a postal envelope or standard-issue box, this delivery isn’t something that was mailed to me. Guarantee it was hand-delivered. It’s not wrapped in discreet brown paper and taped up, nor is it slapped together haphazardly. Nope. This box is black lacquer, a high gloss, with nothing but my name and place of employment handwritten in gold, metallic ink.
What the…
“Hell is this?”
The man shifts on his feet, and now he’s staring at it too. “I wouldn’t know that, sir.”
Yeah, no shit. I’m aware that you don’t know what it is—the question was rhetorical.
He watches, anticipation evident on his face, but I’m about to disappoint him.
“Thanks. I’ll take this to my office.”
“Very good, sir.” Okay, now he sounds like a butler from the Plaza, or like he’s on one of those shows about a British household with all the servants…what’s it called? Bromton Dabbey?
Whatever. It’s boring.
I pluck up my box, surprised to discover how light it is. Give it a shake.
Not much jiggles around on the inside, so lacking in weight or sound there’s a possibility it’s completely empty. I won’t know until I make it to my desk, so I hustle, making haste to the elevator banks, down the hall past Taylor’s prying eyes, and shut my door like a rat about to devour a stolen sewer cake.
I pry the top off slowly, prolonging the inevitable, relishing the fact that I have an unexpected present, something I almost never receive, not even during the holidays.
We never had the money.
We were that family who needed assistance from their electric company so the power wasn’t shut off for an unpaid bill. We were that family who was adopted by other families during the holidays, except I never received toys. It was always socks and shirts and pajamas. Shit we needed, never anything we wanted—which I understand now that I’m an adult, but I resented it as a child.
So I take my time, loving every second of this moment, a grown man with a valuable prize, a beggar on the street hoarding his possessions.
My hand riffles through gilded tissue paper, feeling around for the treasure buried at the bottom of the sea. With every unfruitful swipe, my hopeful little heart loses some steam.
Until.
The tips of my fingers hit a hard square—an envelope? I grasp at it, pulling it through the paper, shaking it loose as tissue falls.
It’s a gift card for one of the most expensive restaurants in town, a place impossible to procure a reservation at. Along with that, there’s a gift card for SmithStone’s.
The sums are embarrassingly high, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair, unsure about how I should react. I can’t call anyone to thank them. I can’t call anyone and tell them the gift is too much—not just the amounts but the whole gesture.
There is no enclosure card. No note. No sender.
Nan.
Has to be. No one else would send a gift card in this amount; it’s beyond ridiculous, and I only know one person this extra. Well, besides Lisbeth, Blaine’s sister who hates me and was able to get us the smoking jackets.
Why?
Why would Nan do this?
I barely know the woman—I barely know Abbott.
It takes me no time at all to google her now that I have the proper spelling of her name, the yellow sticky note Taylor scribbled it down on still stuck to my computer monitor.
No time at all and I’m looking her up in the company directory at Margolis & Co. No time at all and her secretary—yeah, she has her own fucking secretary—is putting me through.
“Abbott Margolis speaking.” Her voice is crisp and professional, though there is no doubt she knows it’s me. I wouldn’t have gotten through to her otherwise. All her calls are screened.
I don’t waste time with idle pleasantries.
“I think your nan sent me something.”
“How did you get this number?” I can hear her eyes narrowing at me, imagining she’s toying with the phone cord, seated behind her desk. Maybe chomping on a bagel since it’s early and she seems like the type to grab and go.
“You’re so hard to find? Please.” I scoff at the notion.
She hmphs, ignoring me, then I hear her swallow. “I’m sorry, you were saying something about Nan sending you something?”
“Yeah—I got a package at my office, and I’m pretty sure it’s not from you.”
“Don’t insult me.” Abbott snorts. “I’m not above sending people random gifts—but you’re right, this one definitely is not from me.”
This piques my interest, and I latch on to the idea of her sending me something. “So what you’re saying is you’d send me a present.”
“That’s not at all what I said. Would you please focus and tell me what was in the box?”
“Can’t.” I throw a paper airplane into my wastebasket. “You already said you’re not above sending me nice gifts.” I pause as it hits the wall and lands on the floor. “What kind of nice gifts?”
“Your ego couldn’t handle me sending you something thoughtful. I’d never hear the end of it.”