“I’ve been waiting for you to fight. To decide what you want and demand it. You’ve been so useless to me since your return, I was beginning to think there was no hope. Do you know why I brought you here?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “One day, this will be yours, and it’s my duty to prepare you for that. Your disapproval of my methods doesn’t matter in the end, not if you rise to the challenge as you have today. For perhaps the first time, you’ve given me a reason to be optimistic.”
My stomach turned as she flipped open her notebook and picked up a pen.
“Let’s discuss these boundaries, shall we?” she said as she began to write. “You will attend all promotional appearances and board meetings regardless of whether or not you want to attend. That is nonnegotiable. As is your attendance in the Bennet proceedings.”
“All right.”
I must have answered too quickly, too boldly, because she looked up at me with a narrow, scrutinizing gaze.
“You are willing to attend the Bennet meetings without causing a scene? Without arguing or undermining me? You will be the picture of compliance regardless of what is said?”
“Yes. I knew you’d demand it of me.” And I want to know what you’re plotting.
“A well-thought-out deal. You surprise me.”
I kept my head up and hands still, but my thoughts were a bumble of buzzing bees as she went on to note a few more requirements from her, none unreasonable. Otherwise, I was free to do what I wanted without interference. All I had to do was keep up my end of the bargain.
Of course, we’d done this dance before, and we both knew who was leading.
We said our goodbyes, and I left the office on shaky legs, my disbelief and discomfort dimming my surroundings. I breezed past Shelby with a cursory nod, heading for the elevator that would take me down to the charity division where I planned to spend my day.
As the elevator doors closed, a thought unnerved me.
I’d pleased her. And nothing about it felt good.
It wasn’t the happy approval I imagined other mothers gave. Nothing about the exchange made me feel warm or tender.
Had she been holding me down to force me to fight? Was my assertion a response to something she’d planned? Had I been trained against my will to do what she pleased, like Pavlov’s dog panting for its dinner when she rang the bell?
Would I end up like her whether I wanted to or not?
As much as I flexed and fought, could I ever win? Or would that cycle continue on and on, our history destined to repeat itself? Perhaps I’d lose a man to the Bennets in a whole new way and disintegrate into bitter remains, just as my mother had.
No, I told myself. Because I would hold on with both hands to what I wanted. I would do my duty here in the hopes that I would someday earn the power to push back. I’d fight that future. I’d fight her until the bitter end if it meant I could avoid her fate.
And I assured myself I knew what I was doing even though I had my doubts.
12
You + Me
MARCUS
I couldn’t escape the clock.
From the second Maisie and I had parted ways, the day crawled past. First with the clock in my mother’s study, ticking incessantly as I attempted to coach her on deposition questions. Then it was the time on my phone while I worked on billing, the screen flashing every thirty seconds with messages as my siblings blew up our group text with a string of shit-talking. While I worked out, the clock on the wall moved at an infinitesimal speed in a defiance of the laws of science.
Even now, as I checked the temperature of the pork loin I knew wasn’t done, the time on the oven was right there in my face, the colon blinking at me like laughter. The microwave clock was no better, an aggressive shade of red that reminded me she wasn’t here yet.
So I paced around my house, straightened the silverware and place settings on the table. I refolded the blanket on my couch, hanging it artfully on the back in a drape that suited me a little better. On inspection, I noticed there was dust on my TV stand, so I beelined for the kitchen for supplies to right that infraction before somebody saw it.
But before I could, the doorbell rang, and my heart shot into my throat.
I hurried to the door, partly because I wanted to see her that badly, partly because the longer she waited outside, the higher the chance that someone in my family would pass by and see her standing on my doorstep.
When I opened the door, I found Maisie on my stoop, conspicuously looking over her shoulder. In fact, everything about her was conspicuous—the big, floppy hat and sunglasses that obscured most of her face, her tan wool coat, which was buttoned up tight, the lapels clutched in one small fist.
She whirled around in surprise, smiling sheepishly, her flush nearly masking the tiny freckles on her cheeks and nose.
“You look like Carmen Sandiego,” I said on a laugh, reaching for her hand to tug her into my entryway.
The door shut behind her.
And then we were alone.
The relief was instant, the separation from the world beyond that door tangible. Because here, we could just be Maisie and Marcus, not a Bower and a Bennet.
“I feel more like Inspector Gadget, clumsy and jumpy and getting by on sheer luck,” she said on a giggle, pulling off her glasses first, then her hat.
I helped her out of her coat, grateful to find her still in that red dress I’d been thinking about since this morning. “Was it hard to get away?”
“Not too bad.” She shook out her curly hair with her fingers. “Mother usually ignores me when she doesn’t need something from me. She ate separate from Dad and me, as usual, so I told Dad I was having dinner with a friend. He didn’t ask questions.”
“I told my family I was working late. I’m pretty sure they bought it.” I headed toward the kitchen, snagging her hand on the way.
She frowned. “But you live alone.”
“We have a family dinner every night. Not everyone makes it nightly, but I’ve only missed a handful of dinners in the last couple of years.”
I deposited her on a stool at the island, finding her smiling when I walked around. “I’ve always dreamed of a family like that.”
I snorted a laugh. “You’ve clearly never had dinner with my family.”
“I can’t imagine it would be worse than mine.” She said it lightly, as if it were a joke, but I heard the edge of a long-worn scar beneath the levity.
“Mother lives in her office, takes her meals there, spends every waking minute behind those doors. I wouldn’t be surprised if she occasionally sleeps there. That big, grand house, and she only uses one room.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Dad and I usually have dinner together. As anxious as I was to get here, I hated to leave him to eat alone. He eats by himself too often as it is.”
“That sounds very lonely.”
“It is,” was all she said.
So I changed the subject. “Red wine or white?”
“Either is fine.”
I reached for the bottle of pinot noir I’d set out, popping it open and pouring into waiting wineglasses. When hers was in hand, she extended it for a toast.
“To the things we want. May they all be ours.”