God knows there’s no hope left for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, I feel like there are a hundred tiny little men trying to break out of my skull with pickaxes.
I didn’t sleep at all the previous night. I spent a while pacing back and forth until my legs started to shake, and then I curled up by the window and pressed my cheek against the glass, staring out across the estate until the sky brightened with the light of pre-dawn.
I’m currently on my fourth coffee. I was able to finish my last few tasks in the gift shop before Ward showed up, and I’m more grateful for that than I want to admit. I don’t want to know how I would have responded if he’d made me another offer to continue our, ahem, acquaintance.
As usual, Mr. Haymore’s running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Edward Carolson and his family arrived late last night, and my boss wants everything to be ready for the luncheon at noon today. That means I’ve got my errand-girl hat on, but I’m more than happy with the busywork. It keeps me from thinking about Ian’s email. It also allows me to spend most of the morning willfully ignoring the knowledge that I’m about to meet Edward Carolson in person for the first time.
Only when I head with Mr. Haymore to the large formal dining room to prepare for the banquet does it sink in: I’m about to be face-to-face with the man responsible for turning my family’s home into this theme park. The one person I hate more than any other person on the planet.
Why couldn’t he have just moved in here and left it at that? Heck, why couldn’t he have torn this whole place down? Better than turning it into a product. A joke.
I rush around after Mr. Haymore, helping him straighten centerpieces and trying to keep him out of the way of the waitstaff. Thank God most of our full-time servers were already undergoing training this week, or we’d have had to call in people from an outside staffing company. The kitchen was able to wrangle a few extra hands to get all of the food prepared. We even had some fresh flowers brought in from a little company in Barberville.
Still, Haymore’s freaking out, and I’m not feeling much better. My hands are shaking, but I’m not sure whether that’s from the coffee or my nerves about meeting Carolson.
I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so worked up. Carolson’s just some businessman. And I’m supposed to be Addison, Mr. Haymore’s assistant. I need to calm down.
When Haymore runs off to say something to the kitchen manager, I move over to the wall, out of the hustle and bustle. For a moment, I just watch the people running to and fro and try to catch my breath. After a couple of minutes, though, I find my eyes being drawn up to the ceiling.
The mural is still there—the beautiful pastoral scene my grandparents commissioned after a trip to Italy. Unlike the cherubs they’ve painted throughout the rest of the house, there’s a beauty, a grace to this piece. And it brings back so many memories, both big and small, that I have to close my eyes.
There, in the pit of my stomach, is the hollowness again. I reach for it, calling it up, letting it slowly fill me until the memories are gone. Until everything is gone but that dark, gaping hole. Until everything’s been replaced with numbness.
When Mr. Haymore finds me again, I’m calm. My hands are no longer shaking, and I follow his orders with mechanical efficiency.
Finally, he grabs my arm and says, “He’s here.”
He expects me to follow him to the doorway, and I do. My steps are heavy, but I don’t feel the need to tug nervously at my hair or talk myself up. Carolson is just a man, after all, and I’m past caring today.
I spot Carolson right away. I’ve seen photos of him before, and he looks exactly like he does in pictures. Today, he’s wearing a blue suit that probably cost more than that beat-up car of mine sitting in the employee parking lot. His salt-and-pepper hair is clipped short and straight, and he has a wide politician’s smile that he flashes when he catches sight of Mr. Haymore.
“Charles,” he says, “you’ve outdone yourself.” He sounds like a politician, too. His voice is bright but controlled.
Mr. Haymore looks pleased at the compliment. “I hope you enjoy the menu they’re preparing, sir.”
They fall into talking, and I find my eyes wandering to the people behind Carolson. I recognize them, too. There’s Laura, Carolson’s wife, talking to a younger woman in a dark suit who’s probably one of the family’s personal assistants. Laura has bottle-blond hair and wears a strand of pearls with a pale pink sheath dress. She looks like the classic executive’s wife.
And there, just past her, are the couple’s two children. They’re as well-dressed and polished as their parents. Their son, Troy, is about my age, and if someone said “former prep school crew captain,” he’s exactly the picture that comes to mind. A life-sized Ken doll. Their daughter, Rebecca, is a couple of years younger. She takes after her mother, though her hair is still naturally blond.
It’s strange. It’s like the Stepford version of my family. Except with both parents still alive. And the children still speaking to each other. It doesn’t feel right, having them in my house.
Their house.
I close my eyes, falling back into the numbness. After a moment, I can breathe again, and by the time I open my eyes, Mr. Haymore’s already leading the family to the table at the front of the room. He turns to me.
“Sit at the table next to ours,” he says. “I want you close in case we need something. Talk to their assistants, if you can. See if you can pick up on anything for me.” And then he turns and shows the Carolsons to their seats.
And that’s it. After all the nerves, after building it up in my head, Carolson and his family never even spared me a glance. I might as well have been invisible.
I’m more okay with that than I should be. Maybe it’s just the emptiness eating away at me, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling right now.
I take my seat at the table Haymore mentioned. Other staff members are slowly filing in, taking places at tables around the room. Most are smiling and chatting with each other. Probably excited to have an extra-long catered lunch break today. I’ve never seen this many people in this room before. Even when I was younger, when we still had a full staff on the estate, they never reached these numbers. And this is just the start—when the press gets here next week, the numbers will jump up again. And when the doors open for the grand opening…
I blink once, twice, letting that thought slip away into the void.