Page 14 of The Ruling Class (The Fixer #1)
Justice Marquette’s death was big news at Hardwicke.
From what I could gather, the still-absent Henry Marquette was well liked—and he’d lost his father the year before.
Add to that the number of Hardwicke parents who were politicians, journalists, lobbyists, or otherwise entangled with the Powers That Be in Washington, and a dead Supreme Court justice wasn’t just news. It was a game changer.
It was personal.
“Tea?” The question snapped me from my thoughts. Ivy poured herself a cup as she waited for a reply.
“No,” I bit back. “Thank you.”
Ivy took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “We could order something else if you’d like.”
Somehow, my sister had taken my I don’t want your cookies speech the day before to mean I would prefer to go out for afternoon tea .
“I’m fine,” I told her through gritted teeth. All around us, women chatted with each other over delicate pastries. I could practically taste the gentility in the tea room air.
Ivy picked up a delicate silver spoon and stirred her tea contemplatively. “Scone?” she asked.
I just stared at her. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m eating a scone,” Ivy replied. “When I figure out what you’re doing, I’ll let you know.”
I got the feeling that I could hurl obscenities at her, and she’d just keep on sipping her tea.
“What do you want?” After the day I’d had, I was too mentally frayed to beat around the bush.
“I want you to give DC a chance.” Ivy waited for those words to sink in before continuing. “I won’t ask you to give me one. I’m not sure I deserve it. But you do, Tessie. You deserve to have a life here.”
“I had a life,” I told her sharply. “I was …” Happy? I couldn’t make my lips form the word. “I was fine.”
“When I left you there,” Ivy said, “three years ago, when I left you with Gramps, I thought I was doing the right thing. For you.”
Then why did you invite me to live with you in the first place?
I refused to say the words out loud. When I was thirteen, I’d tried to ask her why.
I’d called, and she hadn’t answered. I’d called again and again, and she hadn’t answered.
A month later, she’d called to wish me a happy birthday, like nothing was wrong.
After that, I stopped calling her, and I stopped asking why.
Across from me, Ivy began applying clotted cream to her scone. “What do you want, Tess?”
“Not tea and crumpets,” I muttered. “That’s for damn sure.”
An older lady at the table next to us shot me a dirty look. I stared down at the lace tablecloth.
“I didn’t ask you what you don’t want,” Ivy informed me.
“I asked what you do want. Don’t think of this as a heart-to-heart.
Think of it as a negotiation. I want you to give this arrangement a chance.
” Ivy’s voice never changed—not in volume, not in tone.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what I can do. ”
I wanted to go home. I wanted Gramps to come home. But even the great Ivy Kendrick couldn’t turn back the clock. She couldn’t make him well.
“Have you heard from the doctors?” My voice sounded dull to my own ears.
“I got an update this morning.” Ivy set her tea down. “He’s got some cognitive impairment, disorientation, mood swings.”
I thought of Gramps yelling, demanding to know what I’d done with his wife.
“He has good days,” I told Ivy.
Her voice was gentle. “They’re going to get fewer and farther between. There are some treatment possibilities. A clinical trial, for one.”
“I want to talk to the doctors.” I swallowed, pushing down the lump in my throat. “I want them to explain the different options. And I want to talk to Gramps.”
I’d tried calling but hadn’t been able to get through yet.
“I’ll get you the doctor’s direct number,” Ivy promised. “What else do you want?” She paused. “For you ?”
I didn’t reply.
“I want you to give yourself a chance to be happy here, no matter how angry you are with me.” Ivy leaned forward. “What do you want?”
She wasn’t going to stop asking until I answered. I gritted my teeth. “No more afternoon teas.”
Ivy didn’t bat an eye. “Done. What else?”
She wants a negotiation. Fine. I locked my eyes on hers. “I want a car.”
Ivy blinked. Then she blinked again. “A car?”
“I don’t care if it’s used,” I told her. “I don’t care if it’s borrowed or barely functional. I want transportation.”
I didn’t like depending on other people. I needed to know that if push came to shove, I could take care of myself.
“Driving in DC isn’t like driving in Montana,” Ivy told me.
“I can learn.” My words sounded strangely loud. For a moment, I thought I’d raised my voice. Then I realized that I hadn’t—I was talking at the exact same volume; it was the rest of the restaurant that had changed.
It was silent.
I glanced to my right. The old women sitting at the table next to us were gone. And so were the women at the table beside them. The sorority sisters on the other side, the mother with the three little girls … They were all gone.
The entire restaurant was empty, except for us.
Ivy took in the silence, the empty chairs, and she sighed. Then she picked up her tea and took another drink, waiting.
For what?
The back door to the restaurant opened. A man wearing a suit stepped through. He had an earpiece in one ear and a gun strapped to his side.
“Mark,” Ivy greeted him.
He nodded to her but didn’t say anything.
A second later, a woman stepped through the door.
She was in her early sixties but could have passed for a decade younger.
She had blond hair that had gone only slightly silver with age, perfectly coiffed around her heart-shaped face, and wore navy blue like she had invented the color.
A second armed man followed her into the room.
“Georgia,” Ivy said. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Don’t lie, darling,” the woman replied. “It doesn’t suit you.” She crossed the room and pulled a chair over to our table. Then she turned warm hazel eyes on me. “You must be Tess.”