Page 91 of The Good Girl Effect

Pressing my lips together, I quietly abide, walking over to my chair as Bea and Jack work to set the table and serve the meal. It’s cute, watching them work together. He instructs her which cutlery to use as she asks him to pull down the plates for her. It’s the most I’ve seen them interact in a while.

Again, I think that I should be happy about this. This is how theyshouldbe. How they probably would be if Emmaline had never died.

Of course, this makes me think of the picture again. The smiling woman who thought she had her whole life in front of her. She should be the one sitting here now, watching her husband and daughter in the kitchen.

But if she was still here…I wouldn’t be.

What a terrible thing to think.

But I can’t help it because this moment is so beautiful. And that’s a dangerous idea to let in. If this is how it’s going to be now that Jack’s home for dinner every night, I fear it will be far harder to maintain our boundaries than I expected. Because right now, this doesn’t feel like a nanny, her boss, and his little girl. It feels like a family.

As they both come parading into the dining room, Bea carrying three plates and Jack holding the casserole dish with a pair of pot holders, I shove the sad thoughts aside and smile at them for a job well done.

“Papa made sure you didn’t get blood on the chicken,” Bea blurts out as she sets out the three plates on the table.

I laugh out loud. “Bonne idée.”

“Papa, sit next to me,” she says as she crawls onto one of the chairs, sitting on her knees so she’s taller.

I can tell that Jack is trying not to grin too much as he takes the seat next to her. Then he looks up at me as he picks up his fork. “Bon appétit.”

For a moment, everything feels right.

And there’s something about that that feels so wrong.

Rule #31: You can’t be in a bad mood in the happiest place on earth.

Jack

“How many membership applications are we currently at?” I ask, glancing across the table at Phoenix.

She scans her computer before looking back up at me. “Just over two hundred,” she replies.

“It’s too low,” I grumble.

“I agree,” she says.

“We have to make it clear to them that we’ve changed. The clientele we need doesn’t want to be associated with some trashy nightclub.”

“I’ll get Amelia on it,” she says, standing up and walking away.

I’m sitting at the conference table alone when I notice my sister walk past the open doorway. After briefly drumming my fingers on the table, I stand up and follow her down the hall.

“Elizabeth,” I call. She pauses before realizing it’s me and continuing on.

“What, Jack?” she replies coldly.

When she slips into her office, I follow her. She won’t look up at me as she stands behind her desk, sifting through papers in her hand.

“The new stage design looks great,” I say, starting with a compliment.

“Thanks,” she snaps, “but it was mostly Amelia’s work.”

“I know,” I reply, “but I also know you had a hand in it as well, and it looks great.”

She lets out a sigh before looking up at me. “Anything else?”

God, she hates me. My sister has grit. She gets it from our mother. Her ability to hold a grudge is astounding. Of course, I’m glad she’s like that. She doesn’t take shit. She doesn’t give second chances when they’re not deserved, and she has no problem walking away when someone does her wrong. All qualities, I think, that are paramount for a woman in her position, but as her brother, someone whohasdone her wrong, I wouldn’t mind a little grace.