Chapter 3 - The Order to Stay
Eleanor Carter was sitting upright in bed when Richard stepped into her room. The electric lamps had been dimmed, replaced by the warm, amber glow of beeswax candles Valerie had brought from the kitchen pantry.
On Eleanor’s head sat a turban of deep plum velvet, pinned with an antique gold brooch she had inherited from her mother. Her hollowed cheeks were dusted with a subtle touch of rose blush, and her lips carried the tint of cherry balm.
She looked frail—unbearably so—but she did not look defeated.
“You’re staring, Richard,” Eleanor said, her voice raspier than before, but holding that ancient matriarchal snap. “Stop hovering like an undertaker and sit down.”
Richard walked to the wingback chair beside the mattress, moving with a hesitation that was entirely uncharacteristic. He sank into the leather, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“You look beautiful, Mother,” he said, the words tasting strange, almost heavy, on his tongue.
Eleanor smiled faintly, her pale eyes tracking his face. “Valerie told you to say that.”
Richard did not deny it. “She has an opinion on everything in this house.”
“She has a heart,” Eleanor corrected softly. “Which is something this mausoleum has lacked since your father died. She shaved my head today, Richard. And while she did it, she held my hand and talked about her grandmother’s garden in upstate New York. She didn’t look at me with pity. She looked at me with company.”
Richard reached out, his large, scarred hand enclosing Eleanor’s thin fingers. Her skin was paper-thin, ice-cold. “I’m here, Mother. I’m right here.”
“You’re here for an hour, then your telephone will buzz, or Mr. Rossi will need someone’s legs broken, and you’ll slip out into the fog,” she whispered. “Don’t go tonight, Richard.”
The request was simple, yet it hit him like a physical blow. “I have a shipment coming into Pier 42 at midnight.”
“Let it sink,” Eleanor said, closing her eyes. “Let the whole damn ocean swallow it. Valerie is making soup. We are going to eat together. The three of us.”
“Mother—”
“I am not asking as an invalid, Richard. I am ordering you as your mother. Stay in this house tonight. Sleep in your own bed, not at the penthouse downtown. Eat the bread that girl made with her own hands. And sit across from me like you belong here.”
Richard sat in the flickering candlelight, listening to the labored, rhythmic breathing of the woman who had sheltered him through gang wars, federal indictments, and his father’s bloody demise.
“All right,” he murmured, bowing his head until his forehead rested against her frail knuckles. “I’ll stay.”
When dinner was brought up thirty minutes later, Valerie arrived carrying a heavy mahogany tray. She had changed into a clean apron, her hair tucked more neatly, but a few damp tendrils clung to her neck. She set the tray over Eleanor’s lap, serving bowls of golden chicken broth infused with ginger, thinly sliced radishes, and thick slabs of warm, crusty bread.
“There is enough for two,” Valerie said, keeping her gaze strictly professional, refusing to meet Richard’s eyes.
“Three,” Eleanor commanded. “Valerie, fetch another bowl.”
“Mrs. Carter, I am the staff—”
“You are the woman who made the soup, and you are the only one in this house who doesn’t bore me to tears,” Eleanor said firmly. “Sit down. Richard, pull the chair up.”
Richard stood, his gaze locking with Valerie’s. There was a challenge in her hazel eyes—a question of whether he was man enough to share a meal with the woman who scrubbed his floors.
Richard didn't say a word. He walked to the corner, pulled a velvet-upholstered armchair to the bedside, and pulled it out for her.
“Sit, Miss Cross,” he said, his voice deep and calm.
May you like
Valerie hesitated, the pink flush rising up her porcelain throat, before she smoothed her skirt and sat. For the first time in six months, laughter echoed down the marble corridors of the Carter estate well past eight o'clock.
***
