Chapter 2 - Mr. Mercer’s OrangeAt noon, Claire found Emma standing in the service hallway with both hands behind her back.
Claire’s heart dropped.
“Emma Grace Dawson.”
Emma froze.
The use of all three names meant the situation was serious.
“What did we say?” Claire whispered, hurrying toward her.
“Stay in the kitchen,” Emma recited.
“And where are you?”
Emma looked at the hallway, then at her shoes.
“Not the kitchen.”
Claire closed her eyes.
She was exhausted. Afraid. Ashamed of being afraid. Every mistake felt like it could cost her rent, food, heat, and Emma’s new winter boots. There were no small accidents anymore.
“What are you holding?”
Emma slowly revealed an orange.
Claire stared. “Where did you get that?”
“From the shiny bowl.”
“The shiny bowl in the front parlor?”
Emma nodded.
Claire felt the blood leave her face.
No staff member touched anything in the front parlor unless assigned. The fruit in that crystal bowl was not for eating. It was decorative, flown in from somewhere sunny, arranged every morning by a florist who charged more per hour than Claire made in a day.
“Put it back,” Claire whispered.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Emma looked down. “I already licked it.”
Before Claire could decide whether to laugh, cry, or resign, a man’s voice came from behind her.
“Was it good?”
Claire turned so quickly she nearly stumbled.
Julian Mercer stood at the end of the hallway.
He wore a dark suit, no tie, and an expression impossible to read. Two guards stood behind him, silent as statues.
Claire clutched Emma against her side.
“Mr. Mercer, I’m so sorry. She wandered off for less than a minute. I’ll replace the orange.”
Julian’s eyes moved to Emma.
“You licked my orange?”
Emma nodded solemnly.
“Why?”
“To see if it tasted like sunshine.”
The guards did not move. Claire thought one of them might explode from the effort of not laughing.
Julian’s face remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes.
“And did it?”
Emma frowned. “No. It tasted like cold.”
Julian extended his hand.
Claire stiffened.
Emma looked at his palm, then placed the orange in it.
Julian studied the fruit as if it were evidence in a murder trial.
“Then we cannot return it to the bowl.”
“No,” Emma agreed. “That would be rude.”
Julian looked at Claire.
“How many hours is she here today?”
Claire’s throat tightened. “Until six, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“That was not what I asked.”
Claire blinked. “Until six.”
He nodded once.
“Mrs. Alvarez can give her lunch from the household kitchen. Not scraps. A meal.”
Claire opened her mouth.
No words came.
Julian turned to Emma. “Do you like oranges?”
“Only if they taste like sunshine.”
“Then I will have better oranges brought tomorrow.”
Claire forgot how to breathe.
Tomorrow?
“There won’t be a tomorrow,” she said quickly. “My neighbor—”
“Mrs. Dawson,” Julian interrupted, calm but firm. “Children get sick. Sitters disappear. The world is unreliable. If your daughter needs to be here until you arrange something steady, she may remain in the kitchen during your shift.”
Behind Claire, Margaret appeared, face unreadable.
Vanessa appeared a moment later.
Her expression was not unreadable at all.
“Julian,” Vanessa said sweetly. “Surely you are not turning the staff wing into a nursery.”
Julian did not look at her.
“I am making a decision in my own house.”
The silence that followed was small, sharp, and dangerous.
Emma tugged Claire’s sleeve. “Mommy, is he mad?”
Claire whispered, “No, honey.”
Julian glanced down.
“No,” he said. “I am not mad.”
Emma lifted her orange-sticky hand and pointed at Vanessa.
“She is.”
Vanessa’s smile froze.
May you like
Julian finally looked at his fiancée.
For the first time since Claire had known her, Vanessa Whitmore was the one who looked exposed.
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