It’s Saturday, so we don’t have to do more schoolwork. Even though there’s still a backlog of worksheets from before I came here, I like to give her time off to rest and recharge.
Her head leans back on my forearm. I’m touched by the gentle trust she shows in me.
“I dunno. Maybe we could write in our diaries. Do you have one?”
“No,” I say, drawing the word out. “But if I had one, you definitely couldn’t read it.”
She sticks her tongue out. Then she gets serious. “I don’t know. Maybe Mommy did think someone would read her diary. She said that she thought someone would hurt her.”
Goose bumps run over my skin. I have to work hard to keep my expression neutral. I’ve seen too much domestic violence in my life to pretend like this is nothing. “Did someone hurt you?”
Her gray eyes are solemn. She shakes her head without breaking our gaze. “But I wasn’t with her when she died. What if someone did hurt her?”
My breath catches. All I know about her parents’ deaths is the one article. A boating accident, it said. Could a boating accident have happened on purpose? Then why would they both have died? “I don’t know. We could ask Uncle Beau about it. I’m sure he knows what happened.”
“No way,” she says. “I tried talking to him, and he told me I was wrong.”
I suck in a breath. Mr. Rochester does have a rather abrupt way of handling things, especially messy, emotional things. “Maybe he felt too sad to talk about it then. We could try again. This is important. If you feel afraid, then we have to talk about it.”
She tucks her head in my shoulder. Her dirty blonde hair covers her face. “You’re the only person who talks to me anyway.”
I plant a kiss on top of her head. “I know. It’s hard for Uncle Beau to open up. He’s not naturally very chatty, but I’m sure he’ll learn.”
“I don’t just mean now. Before, too. Daddy was always working. And Mommy would leave for her trips. They never had time for me.”
A wrench in my heart. I suppose it always feels like you’ll have more time. Maybe they were terrible parents. Or maybe they were good parents who were just too wrapped up in their lives to see the moments running through their hands like sand. “Who would stay with you?”
“Mrs. Fairfax.”
Oh. “I didn’t realize she was your nanny before me.”
A scrunched nose. “She didn’t play with me or anything, but she made sure there was food.”
I hide my cringe. That sounds like a bad situation for a child not yet six years old, to be alone in this house without a real caregiver. I wonder if Beau Rochester knew about what was happening with his niece while he was busy being a playboy. For that matter I wonder where he even was after he stepped out of the limelight. “I appreciate you telling me this,” I say to Paige. “You can always talk to me. I will never get mad at you for your feelings or for being honest, okay?”
She wriggles on my lap, and I wonder if we’ve lost the seriousness of the moment.
Then she leans close, her small arms wrapping around my neck in a hug. I squeeze her back and close my eyes, breathing her sweet child-scent in deep.
“I’m afraid,” she whispers against my throat, and I tense. “Whoever hurt her might come to the cliff. They might come for me next.” Before I can think of a reply, she jumps down off my lap and runs upstairs. When I follow her, she already has the Monopoly game out. She deals out the money and we play, pretending she didn’t say what she said, my mind reeling.
She definitely can still beat me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jane Mendoza
My contract with the Bassett Agency technically gives me Sundays off, although there is a clause for the family to ask for more work if needed or to change the day. For the most part I’ve spent Sundays with Paige. I don’t know anyone in Maine anyway, and I enjoy spending time with her. But this Sunday, I step into Beau’s office.
“I’m going up to Portsmouth,” I tell him, hoping my voice is casual. I’m already dressed for the excursion, in long sleeves, a puffy jacket vest, and a scarf. My boots are downstairs, and an Uber has been ordered. “For my day off.”
He sits behind his desk and raises his brows. “You get days off?”
“Ha. You know I do.”
“Fine. It’s probably a good idea for me to spend time with the brat.”
I hesitate, wondering how much I should tell him about Paige. Or if I should tell him anything. “Has she ever spoken to a professional? Like a therapist, about her parents?”
His expression turns hard. “Why?”
“It might be a good idea. A lot of kids need help coping with grief.”
“I thought you had her talking to that school person.”
“That’s been helping, but I mean something more specific to her parents. Her loss.” I blow out a breath. “She told me yesterday that she was afraid.”
It drops about five degrees in the room. “Afraid?” He looks both incredulous and slightly wounded, as if I’ve managed to shoot a bear. “Of me?”
“No,” I assure him. At least I don’t think so. “I guess she has the idea that someone hurt her mom? And her dad? I didn’t know what happened enough to say anything.”
He stands abruptly and looks out the window. There’s only gray. Gray like Paige’s eyes. Not like Beau’s though. His are dark brown. She must get hers from her mother’s side. “Find someone,” he says, his voice clipped. “No, find the best. Whoever deals with children and grief. Make an appointment and get her in to see them. If you hit any walls, let me know.”
Because he’d pull strings. Those famous-people, rich-people, privileged-people strings. I don’t resent them now, though. I understand them. You do anything for the people you love. And in my small way, I love Paige. “I’ll start looking for someone this afternoon when I’m back.”
He glances at me. “So where are you going? A coffee date?”
The words are thrown out casually, but I know they’re not casual at all. “No.”
“Lunch?”
I glare at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I’m not ever going to see Mateo Carter again unless he’s on the big screen. Happy now?”
“Far from it.”
“You have no right to be jealous, not when you’re the one who invited those men over. And especially not when you won’t say anything to me that’s kind unless we’re having sex.”
“To be honest I didn’t think I was kind while we were having sex, either.”
I give an exasperated laugh. “Have a nice morning with Paige. You should play Monopoly with her. That should last a few hours at least.”
“That little loan shark? She’s terrifying.”
I stick out my tongue. “And you’re the guy who built a billion-dollar business before he turned thirty. Surely you can stop her from getting a monopoly across an entire side.”
He looks unmoved. And contemplative. “My brother and me, we were always competitive. Really competitive. That Monopoly board Paige loves? That was ours from years ago. Half the games ended in physical violence.”