Chapter 7

I pulled to a stop in front of the gate and then just sat there with my mouth open. Beckett had told me to come to his "house," but that wasn't this. I checked the address and supposedly, I was at the right place—but no, this was not a house. In fact, it was more like what I might have called a castle. There was a long driveway leading to the building from this gate, but with the leaves just beginning to bud on the trees, the place was entirely visible. It was as long as a city block and went up at least three stories. And it was beautiful, with big windows, stone walls, and points on the roof that must have had a specific name. As far as I remembered from the books that Sophie had read out loud to us, all the architectural elements of a castle were called special—

"Juliet," the speaker beside the driveway stated, and I jumped a little. I'd had my window down and my hand ready to push the button to ring a bell or summon someone, but I'd paused to stare for a moment.

"Hi," I answered the little box, staring into the camera and waving. "Yes, it's me. Can you open the gate?"

It looked old and it also looked very fancy, but it swung smoothly and quickly. This was clearly a high-tech castle. I drove up to the front and as I did, the door there also swung open. I had expected a butler in tails or a maid in a cap and apron, but it was Beckett in jeans. Jeans? Somehow, I'd also expected that a blazer and tie would have featured in his weekend attire. He had on a polo shirt, too, and a belt, and loafers, but the jeans were what threw me.

"Hello," he said. He didn't move out of the doorway, so I waved and lifted the box from my back seat. I'd tried to put it in the trunk, but I'd had trouble getting that open—something might have happened to the latch, maybe because someone had tried to break into it outside of my apartment building. It was a really great, desirable place, but there was no designated, covered parking. It was just lucky that I'd removed my work outfits from the back seat, because they would have been stolen. Also, I wouldn't have had enough room for this box.

"Are you going to do all this over the weekend?" I asked as I trudged toward him, and he came down the wide steps to remove it from my arms. "How are you feeling?" I studied his face in the sunlight of mid-morning, and honestly, he did look a little ill. "Are you going to get another nosebleed?"

"No. Thank you for bringing this over." He walked back toward the house and I followed him inside, which seemed to surprise him when he put down the box, turned around, and saw me. Maybe he hadn't been inviting me in.

"I'll go," I said, and stepped backwards.

"No, that's all right. Come into the kitchen."

So I followed him again, down a long hallway with a ton of rooms off it, including one which seemed like…a ballroom? I tried to peer inside but the light didn't reach far past the double doors. From what I could see of everything, it was very fancy and matched the grandeur of the exterior. The furniture was the type that I might have expected to be barricaded off with silk ropes. The art on the walls was definitely the expensive kind, too, if I judged by the frames which were gold and very ornate, and had engraved tags on them with the name of the piece and the artist. But it was a little hard to see, because it was a little dark in here although the sun was shining brightly.

"Juliet?"

I realized that Beckett was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. "Sorry," I told him. "My sister is really into art and I bet she would be interested in these paintings."

"They're generally from the Mannerism period or Flemish Baroque. Members of my family traveled through Europe after the World Wars and connived and looted their way into a substantial collection."

"Oh. That's terrible." I took a step away from the artwork. "They stole this?"

"They paid negligible sums to people who were desperate. I've repatriated several pieces. Would you like some coffee?"

"Uh, ok," I answered. We walked and walked until we reached the kitchen, which was straight out of the nineties. It was very similar to my parents' house, because they'd never put a lot of money and effort into renovations, and it was funny to see the same ancient appliances in this gorgeous place. Beckett did have a nice coffee maker and I accepted a cup after he messed with it for a moment. He provided plant-based milk but no sugar, which I assumed he didn't have, and then he sat at the kitchen table to look through everything I'd brought over.

"I don't think I forgot anything," I mentioned. I hadn't, because I'd reviewed his list at least five times to be sure.

"Good." He kept flipping through papers, and then he turned on the laptop.

"You must still be feeling sick if you didn't want to go into the office yourself to get this stuff. You don't look too bad, though."

Now he stared up at me. "Thank you. I very much appreciate your concern."

"I wasn't trying to be rude," I explained. I had meant that usually he looked so…well, it was ok to admit that he mostly looked perfect, from the top of his dark blonde hair to the bottom of his polished shoes. Today, his outfit was still very nice (although much more relaxed), but more than that, he looked tired. "I was actually concerned."

"Thank you," he repeated, except now he sounded like he meant it. "I wasn't feeling very well yesterday or this morning. I'm better, now."

"I could help you with all the work I brought over," I suggested. "I bet you have more than one computer here." It still surprised me that he'd run out of the office without even that laptop, no matter how poorly he was feeling.

"Don't you have other things to do today?"

My mom had wanted me to come over and see the baby, since my brother seemed to have absented himself. I'd gotten more than a few angry texts about my inattention, but if my boss said that I was busy, who was going to argue? "I'm free until tonight, when I waitress," I answered.

"Then I would appreciate your assistance," he said, but as I sat there, it didn't seem like he actually did have very much for me to do. He put a file in front of me but then he mostly talked about what he was doing himself, like problems he was having with clients or the various local governments we negotiated with. I provided some of my own opinions in return and he seemed slightly surprised a few times by what I said.

"That's a good point. I hadn't thought about it that way," he told me after one of my remarks. "I suppose that after so many years of working for Whitaker Enterprises, you were bound to pick up something even if Annis…"

"Even if my old boss was lying the whole time, yes, I picked up some stuff. I didn't spend every day online shopping. Many of them, though," I did admit. "But I've been working hard since you got there." He looked smug until I added, "Everyone has been, and I think more people may be quitting." One was for sure, because I'd seen him saying goodbye to a few guys at the gym the week before. "But you're all set, now that you have Camille. She's very productive, from what you've told me. Many, many times."

"Camille is doing a great job," he agreed. "Why are you scowling?"

"I'm not," I said. "She drives around with her doors unlocked and her boyfriend is a club promoter. So, you know, no one's perfect."

"Those things don't affect her work. She's a highly skilled attorney, especially for her age. Close to your age," he reminded me, and I had the urge to imitate his words and then tell him they were stupid, and so was he. "I don't really understand the antagonism you seem to feel toward her."

"What? I don't feel any antagonism. In fact, I probably saved her butt last night," I informed him, and explained how I'd seen Camille at a club and how she'd walked out into the night by herself.

He didn't have the reaction I'd expected, which was praise for my generosity and humanity. "You were both clubbing?" His lip curled. "I can't think of the last time I went to one."

"Have you ever? Like, in your life?"

"I don't live as a monk," he said, his voice stern.

"You do," I answered. "You already explained your routine to me. You get up and eat a bowl of straw with pinecone milk, you work, you work out, you work, you sleep. Same thing every day, including weekends and probably holidays. What did you do on Christmas?"

"I was…" He had to think for a moment. "I went to the Bahamas for a few days."

"Oh, wow," I marveled. "Well, I was wrong—"

"It was for a conference," he continued. "I didn't see much beyond the hotel and my room there."

"Oh, wow," I repeated, with a lot less happy emotion in the words. "I guess it makes sense that you left your old job even if it was Big Law and so important, because you didn't have any balance at all. When was the last time you went out, actually?"

"I actually don't remember. I guess for you, it was last night."

"That was also work, not fun," I said without thinking, and then I had to cover quickly when I realized what I'd just admitted. "Did you inherit this house? Did it belong to your dad, like how he had that nice car that he doesn't need down in…"

"Hell," Beckett reminded me. "Yes, this property has been in my family for several generations."

"So you grew up here?"

"I lived here with my parents until I was eight. When my mother and brother passed away, I moved with my father to a loft in Detroit, and then I lived with my aunt from the ages of thirteen to eighteen. She traveled extensively for her job and we didn't see a lot of each other. She had a very successful career."

"Some people do. Why didn't you stay with your dad?"

"He wasn't interested in that kind of relationship," he said briefly, and I nodded. It was a lot like my brother, who just wasn't interested in his kid, either. It was very sad and hard for me to understand, especially with how much my parents had loved all of us. No matter what my sisters had to say about it now, Mom did feel that way, and so did Dad. They were different in how they showed it, but it was love.

"When your father died, this place just sat empty?" I asked.

"Yes, it was mostly untouched. It was mine, but maintained under a trust with executors. They didn't make any major alterations but did perform basic upkeep, which there's a lot of for a building this size. I didn't come back until I took the job with Steve. Stephen Whitaker," he finished.

"Now that it's yours and you live here, do you want to make changes? You could," I told him. "I bet that refrigerator hardly works anymore and that the ovens take five years to heat. My parents have the same appliances, but it's because they can't afford to upgrade anything. You could," I repeated.

"Maybe I will," he responded, but he didn't sound very interested in the idea.

"Are you planning to stay here, and at Whitaker Enterprises?" I asked.

"I won't make another career change in the short term," he said, sounding like a college website again.

"So you like it?"

"Do you like your job?"

"No," I answered immediately, and then, because I was talking to the man who employed me, I backtracked. "I don't mean that. I mean, the recent changes implemented by the current administrator have been…" I was no good at talking like a website. "I've been in a period of adjustment," I stated, which was something that I remembered him saying before. We all needed to adjust or get fired, that was what he'd told me.

"What would you rather be doing?"

"I wish I could go back in time," I said, "and be in high school and college again."

He seemed vaguely disgusted. "I was being serious."

"I was, too! That's what I would want to do, because those were such great years. I achieved so much." I sighed. "You don't know anything about the sport of swimming, but I was really good. Not good enough to go to the Olympics," I added, because that was what he was going to say next. "But I was talented and I was successful, and then that was over and I had nothing else."

"That's very dramatic. You have a college degree," he reminded me. "According to your résumé, you also accumulated work experience. You have your parents and a dozen siblings, as well."

"Six. Six siblings, because I'm one of seven," I said, but there was no point in arguing with someone whose literal job was to convince others of his opinion. "You're right," I concurred. "There's obviously no going back in time."

"What is so terrible about your life right now?"

"Nothing, it's great," I answered, nodding my head in agreement with my words. "I have it really good. I have a membership to a gym that's kind of ok, a dozen or so siblings who love me, and a job with the world's number one boss."

He rubbed his chin and then I saw…

"Are you smiling?" I asked, unsure if I was seeing things or not.

"That was a little funny," he answered. "Slightly."

"Wouldn't you want to go back to when things were better?" I asked. "Don't say that's a dumb question and we shouldn't argue hypotheticals."

I could tell that he wanted to say exactly that. "There are certain moments in my life that I would like to return to, but not because I want to experience the glory again. I wish I could change things," he answered, and it reminded me so much of when he'd talked about loneliness. He got the same surprised expression afterwards, as if he hadn't expected to hear those words coming out of his own mouth, or maybe he hadn't even known that he felt that way.

"What would you change?"

He looked at me for a long moment before shifting his eyes to his laptop. "I would have prepared better for the New Jersey Bar exam," he said finally. "I was an associate at the time and didn't score as highly as I would have wished."

"Seriously?" I shook my head. "I'll tell you a real regret of mine."

"All right." He waited, but there were so many things I wished I had done differently that I had a hard time pinning my thoughts on only one.

"Ok, I wish I hadn't bought my car. It's so nice, but the monthly payment is a lot and I can't get out of the contract. I've tried," I said.

"That car is all for show," he said dismissively. "It doesn't handle well, and it also has terrible resale value and multiple maintenance issues."

"Thank you for making me feel better," I told him.

"Was I supposed to do that?" Beckett asked, and I watched his eyes turn again to his screen as if he was searching for what to say. I'd been right! He had been typing out scripts for when we had meetings at the office. He must have prepared remarks that he thought he should use with his underlings. Now, of course, he didn't have anything ready because he hadn't expected me to be sitting at his kitchen table. Neither had I, in fact.

"When someone expresses regret, you could answer in a way that makes the situation seem more upbeat," I explained.

"But you were correct," he told me. "Acquiring that car was a terrible decision and you should regret it. You should be trying to extricate yourself from the situation, and if that's not possible, you should quietly resign yourself with a vow not to make a similar mistake again." He waited. "Aren't you going to say anything back? No smartass comment?"

"No, not really. I was just thinking of how much you remind me of my middle school club swimming coach."

"I think that I'll regret asking why, but I won't whine if I hear an answer that I don't like," he told me.

"I wasn't whining about my car. Yeah, you're exactly like my old coach. He lived to make us feel bad," I said. "He was an old guy and he thought that we were too soft, so he ripped us to pieces every practice. He ignored the kids who weren't good but if you were, then he never had anything positive to say. Even when I dropped a ton of time, he would tell me that I could have done better. I remember after one race, he yelled that I'd just showed everyone on the pool deck that I hadn't been working hard enough and that I was out of shape. That meant fat," I explained. "He would say he was ashamed that I wore the team swim cap. He told me that swimmers were generally considered to be the smartest athletes, but that obviously wasn't true about me."

"He was inspirational."

"He still coaches," I added. "He's probably even crankier now and he's probably still telling twelve-year-olds that same crap. Their parents are paying him to do it."

Beckett looked at his screen again and then typed something, fingers flying across the keys. "Why did he think that you're not smart?"

"Well, because it's true. I'm not very smart," I said. "I understand that now and it's ok, but at the time, it was hard to hear because I didn't get it yet. And true or not, it still wasn't right for him to broadcast that news to the whole team. For the three years that I had him as my head coach, between age- group swim and the senior group when I was in high school, I felt terrible. I felt terrible about everything, from my swimming, to my looks, to my intelligence, to my body. I thought I was fat and slow, stupid and ugly and destined for failure. A few years later, when I got recruited for my college team, I went over and told him and he just shrugged. He asked me why he would have cared, and he said that I had never made the impression on him that he must have on me."

"It sounds like he was correct."

"He was," I agreed. "He was, because I can still hear him saying some of that stuff, like it just happened in the car on the way over here. You know, when I was driving in my car that I've resigned myself to having."

"I didn't insult you. I insulted that automobile and the way you purchased it, but I never said that you were stupid," Beckett said.

"Never mind." I shook my head. "I better go."

"You must realize—" he started, but then stopped. "I apologize for saying those things. You don't have to leave. I'm sorry, Juliet."

I had risen a little in the chair but I pretended that I was only adjusting my jeans, and slid back down. "I don't have anything else to do," I mentioned. That was true and despite his insults, I didn't mind being here.

"Tell me how you got into the bad deal with your car."

Basically, it was because I hadn't understood anything financial but hadn't wanted to ask for help. I'd thought I could handle everything myself, as the adult, college-grad that I was. And my sisters had been so impressed when I'd driven it over for a family dinner when it was brand-new. They'd said things about what a good job I must have gotten and how well I was doing for myself. My dad had looked concerned and frowned, but he had never bothered with me very much. Sophie was his favorite, and I remembered how they'd spent hours together as they discussed her future and possible careers. He hadn't been very interested in my stuff, which was fine.

But right at this moment, Beckett seemed to be interested in me. He even typed notes as I talked about my loan and payments. I didn't want to tell him too much, because I didn't want to get into the other things I owed money for, but it was nice that he was listening to me. Then he asked more questions, like about my experiences in college and high school since I'd enjoyed those years so much.

"No, I wouldn't say that I enjoyed things back then," I clarified. "I meant that I was successful. That's the part I would like to recreate, even if it's dumb and hypothetical." As I recalled it now, I hadn't been particularly happy, even with all that success.

"My cousin was a swimmer in high school," he mentioned. "It was all she did, all the time."

"That sounds about right."

"She's my age, so eight years older than you are," he continued.

"What team was she on?"

He considered. "I think it was called the Eels."

"I haven't heard of that," I said. "It was in Grosse Pointe? Are you sure?" He wasn't. "The best team in this area is the Detroit Morays, and that was where I swam. A moray is a kind of eel."

"Maybe it was moray," he agreed. I asked his cousin's name and he told me, but I shook my head.

"I didn't know her," I said. "Do you keep in contact with them? With the aunt who raised you at her house, and with that cousin?"

"No," he said. "No, I haven't talked to anyone on my father's side in years. We were never close, but the deaths in my immediate family widened the fractures."

"What happened to your mom and your brother?"

He looked at me for a moment and then turned toward the window. "They were in an accident. They drowned."

"Holy Mary, I'm so sorry. That's terrible!"

"It was. Would you like more coffee?"

"Um, no thank you." But I glanced toward the old refrigerator. "Are you hungry?"

"Do you know how to make a meal? I assume that you do not, based on what you've said of your diet."

"And I assume that you also do not, based on this house. I bet you had a cook."

"I think we can both assume that we're correct in our assumptions. How about take-out?" he suggested, and I thought that he almost smiled again.

We got a delivery, actually, and stayed in the kitchen kind of working, but mostly talking, until it arrived. Then, unlike his meals at the office, he didn't look at his computer as we shared our sandwiches, which were healthy but also pretty good. Afterwards, he suggested that we adjourn to the study. I followed him through the murky hallway and learned that a "study" was actually a fancy home office, all paneled wood with a fireplace, a seating area, and French doors which led to a huge stone patio outside. Beyond it, I could see a broad lawn that ended at the shore of Lake St. Clair.

"It's beautiful. This place must be so fun in the summer," I said.

"When I was young, we were never here after school let out for vacation. We went up north to our cottage on Lake Michigan."

Based on the size of this place and that he called it a "house," I wondered what a "cottage" would have been. At least six or seven bedrooms, I guessed.

"I remember that when we were here downstate, everything had a schedule," Beckett went on. "The nanny always kept us to it, every moment of the day. When we were at the cottage, that was gone and we did what we wanted."

I turned to look at him, because his voice had sounded different. It was deeper and slower, and I saw that his eyes were closed and he'd leaned his head back against the couch. "That sounds fun," I said quietly. "It sounds like how I grew up. After a certain age, it was supervision-free." Nicola had done her best—and my mom had too, of course, and my dad had been so busy working.

"Supervision-free," he agreed. "You're right. It was fun."

"Do you still go there?"

"I own the cottage now but I haven't been in years. Years and years," he said, his voice just a low rumble. I watched his chest rise and fall slowly under his neat polo shirt and I thought that it wasn't very warm in this big house. It wasn't too cold outside today, but it probably took thousands of dollars of energy to keep things even marginally heated in these huge rooms. These many, many huge rooms.

I looked around the study, but there wasn't anything like a cozy blanket to cuddle up under. I set out to search for one and as I did, I thought that in my next place, I would have a lot of cozy things like blankets and soft pillows. The couch in that room didn't seem so great to sleep on, either, but at least it didn't look like it should have been roped off, as most of the other furniture did. I would have a deep, soft couch in my new apartment.

Finally, I discovered what might have been a guest room, tucked off in its own wing, and I also found a folded blanket on a shelf in the big closet. It took a while with a few detours, but I made my way back to the study.

Beckett was frowning in his sleep and the way he was lying there, kind of stiff and still wearing loafers, made me think that he couldn't have been anything like comfortable. If he had been someone else, I might have messed with pillows, pulled off those shoes, and adjusted his legs. But since he was my boss, and especially since he was Beckett himself, I only stood a yard away and gingerly dropped the blanket over him. Maybe he wouldn't be comfortable, but at least he looked a little warmer. Then I wandered through the big house, which seemed darker and gloomier now that the sun had sunk down from its apex, and out to my car.

The big gate swung open smoothly and quietly at the end of the driveway, but after it closed behind me, I sat there for a moment. I wasn't sure what I should do with myself; it was too early to go to the restaurant for my waitressing job, but I also didn't want to return to the depressing scene in my apartment. Since last night, it was even more of a dirty mess there. At least I didn't have looted art on the walls.

I'd gotten two texts about deliveries but I ignored them for now, although that was probably not a good idea. After being with Beckett at his nice house, in this world of wealthy normalcy, I didn't want to do any drives. But there was something else that I had to do, although I'd been putting it off because I'd been dreading it. I sighed and directed my car toward my parents' house. It was Saturday and my dad would probably be at the office, but I guessed that my mom and/or my sister Sophie would be at home with my brother's baby.

"Juliet!" my mom burst out when she opened the door and I walked into the kitchen. My name had sounded like an accusation when she'd said it, rather than a greeting. She was holding the baby and apparently trying to cook, probably dinner for everyone because she had a houseful of people again: my sister Grace still lived there, my dad too (of course), my brother should have been around, and Sophie was also a semi-resident since she'd morphed into the baby's caregiver.

"Hi," I said, and my mom forgot about the dinner to give me a piece of her mind. She did that by explaining all the horrors that had been happening as of late, from the all-night feedings and diaper problems to the constant crying, from Sophie's terrible wardrobe to my dad's continued absence while he hid out in his office. It did sound pretty bad and I was sorry that I'd left her like this. Guilt had been keeping me away, but it didn't feel any better to confront it, either.

"Here, take your niece so I can get this into the oven," Mom concluded her speech—or at least, she paused momentarily. She handed me the baby and I sat in one of the kitchen chairs, holding her.

The tiny girl and I watched each other, and although I wasn't too sure how well babies' eyes worked, she seemed to be staring right at me. She looked like Patrick, despite her dark hair instead of the red of the Curran siblings. Esme and my brother had the same color eyes—which were the same color as mine, too, so maybe she also looked like me. Then Mom started up again about the difficulties that a new baby presented and how her own children had never behaved like this, no way, and I tried to make her feel better.

"I'm glad we were easier for you. Where's Patrick?" I asked when she took a breath, but she didn't know. She didn't want to admit that to me, but I could tell that she was trying to cover something and it was probably that he was somewhere that she didn't want him to be. I understood her desire to look on the bright side, so I just nodded and asked, "What about Sophie?"

Sophie had gone back to her own home for a while but would come over again soon. "Thank goodness for her," my mom said. "I didn't know that she had it in her, but she's so wonderful and loving with Esme. Did I tell you how the two of us have been doing yoga together, too?"

"Good," I said. It was a good thing that they were growing closer, because Sophie had always been snotty and mean to our mother. I couldn't help feeling a little jealous but I had put myself into this situation by not being wonderful and loving with Esme myself. I had been the person who'd pretended that she would show, and then I had flaked when people needed me. I looked down at the baby and decided again that it was better for her. It was better for Esme to be around someone like Sophie, someone smart and successful enough to have a ton of extra money to loan to her stupid sister who'd messed up so badly.

"Are you staying for dinner?" my mother asked. "I have plenty and I don't know if Grace will bother to show, or your father." I noticed that she didn't include Patrick in that headcount but I was also aware that his presence was infrequent at best, no matter how many angry texts I sent his way.

"No, I can't stay. I have to work tonight." I needed to head to the restaurant but I'd gotten several more messages about deliveries, all of them ratcheting up the pressure. I would get those finished first.

"Your new boss is pushing you too hard," Mom said. "I think you should look for a different job, JuJu. You need time to be young and to enjoy yourself. And speaking of, I think that Addie's boyfriend is going to propose, and I think that Sophie and Danny are going to get together! Do you remember him? He's such a sweetheart. They'll be a great couple." She paused briefly. "What about you?"

"No, I'm not going to settle down with anyone," I said quickly. "I want time to be young and have fun, like you said."

"I was married when I was your age and I already had Nicola," she reminded me. "Sophie was on the way. Don't have so much fun that you forget to think about your future."

"I want what you and Dad had," I explained. "I want someone to see me and fall madly in love. I want a guy who I can meet just once and know that he's the person I'll be with forever." I looked down at Esme. "That's what you should do, too. Don't settle until you find the person who gives you that instant connection. You'll find him and know." But then I shook my head. "Actually, I hope that doesn't happen to me. I'm not interested in being stuck with someone."

My mother put a big pan into the old oven. "You've always said that, but look how happy your sisters are. One by one, my girls are pairing off and I think it's wonderful. Except, I really should be more involved in the planning of all these major events."

"If I ever get married, you can plan my wedding," I promised, but she didn't seem appeased by that.

"I thought I'd be holding Patrick's baby with Liv by now," she said sadly. "Of course, I love my granddaughter so much, but…"

We had all been disappointed when Patrick had broken up with his former fiancée. "Don't say that when Esme can understand it, though," I warned. "I don't ever want her to think that she's not good enough. It would be horrible if she believed that she didn't measure up or that she wasn't important enough to be loved."

"She'll never feel like that," my mom answered confidently. "Your brother is a wonderful parent."

I tried to put a lot of confidence into the words when I answered, "I know."

"And anyway, Esme also has Sophie, and did I tell you how well your sister is doing with her yoga practice?"

"I better go," I mentioned, and stood with the baby in my arms. She was lucky to have my big sister Sophie. I wished…

It was too late to wish that I had done things differently, to think about silly hypotheticals. Since there was no way to go back, all I could do now was keep going forward, so I handed Esme to my mom. I put my phone into the special, un-trackable bag before I drove to pick up my next delivery.