Chapter 2 - THE QUESTION ALEXANDER HAD SPENT TWENTY YEARS AVOIDING
For the first two days, Alexander pretended Lily Bennett was not in his house.
It was surprisingly difficult.
Five-year-old children, he discovered, were not naturally compatible with invisibility.
By eight Monday morning, three crayons had appeared beside his espresso machine.
At nine, a pink sweater was draped over one of the dining chairs.
At eleven, Alexander walked through the family room during a conference call and discovered a stuffed unicorn sitting upright on his leather sofa wearing what appeared to be one of his expensive pocket squares as a cape.
He stopped.
Lily looked up from the carpet.
“His name is Mr. Pickles.”
Alexander stared at the unicorn.
“I didn’t ask.”
“He’s a king.”
“That still wasn’t my question.”
Lily frowned.
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Alexander had negotiated hostile acquisitions with less difficulty.
He continued walking.
Behind him, Lily whispered loudly:
“He doesn’t talk good.”
Grace hissed:
“Lily.”
Alexander kept moving.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Tuesday was worse.
Lily discovered the grand piano in the formal living room.
She did not know how to play.
That did not stop her.
Alexander had just begun a call with the head of Reeves Capital’s European division when a sequence of violent, unrelated notes exploded from downstairs.
He closed his eyes.
“Give me thirty seconds.”
He muted the call.
Walked out.
“Grace?”
She appeared from the hallway carrying folded towels.
“I’m sorry. I told her—”
Lily leaned over the keyboard.
“Mr. Reeves, do you know songs?”
“No.”
Grace stared.
“You have a grand piano.”
“It came with the house.”
“That may be the saddest answer I’ve ever heard.”
Alexander looked at her.
Grace immediately straightened.
“Sorry.”
He should have been annoyed.
Instead, he looked at Lily.
She pressed one key softly.
“Mommy knows ‘Twinkle, Twinkle.’”
“Congratulations.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Lily considered this tragedy.
“We can teach you.”
“I have a meeting.”
“Oh.”
That single sound followed him back upstairs.
Wednesday morning, Alexander found a drawing taped to the refrigerator.
He stopped.
Nobody taped anything to his refrigerator.
His kitchen looked like something photographed for an architecture magazine precisely because there were no magnets, photographs, receipts, school schedules, or children’s artwork anywhere.
Now a sheet of construction paper occupied the center.
A crooked castle.
Three figures.
One woman with yellow hair.
One small girl in a purple dress.
One tall man in black beside them.
Above his head was an enormous gold crown.
Alexander stared at it.
Grace entered.
Her face changed immediately.
“Lily.”
The little girl appeared carrying toast.
“Yes?”
“Did you put that there?”
“Yes.”
“I told you not to stick things on Mr. Reeves’s appliances.”
Lily looked at Alexander.
“Do you hate it?”
He should have said it did not belong there.
Instead:
“Why am I taller than the castle?”
“You’re rich.”
Alexander blinked.
Grace covered her mouth.
“I don’t think those things are related.”
Lily shrugged.
“You have a big house.”
She bit her toast.
Then pointed.
“That’s Mommy.”
“I guessed.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
“I gathered.”
“You’re the prince.”
Alexander looked again.
“No.”
Lily frowned.
“No what?”
“I’m not a prince.”
“Okay.”
She seemed remarkably unbothered.
“You can be one Friday.”
Grace went completely still.
Alexander noticed.
“What happens Friday?”
“Nothing.”
Grace answered quickly.
Lily answered at the same time.
“My dance.”
Silence.
Grace’s eyes closed.
Alexander looked between them.
“What dance?”
Lily ran toward her pink backpack.
She removed a folded paper covered in glitter.
At the top:
ONCE UPON A NIGHT — KINDERGARTEN FAIRYTALE FAMILY DANCE
Children were encouraged to attend with a parent, grandparent, guardian, or another trusted adult.
Costumes optional.
Paper crowns provided.
Alexander’s stomach tightened for a reason he did not understand yet.
Lily pointed to a line decorated with silver stars.
“Everybody brings a prince or princess or somebody.”
Grace took the paper gently.
“Sweetheart, we discussed this.”
“I know.”
Her voice became smaller.
“Mommy has to work.”
Alexander looked at Grace.
“You’re working Friday night?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Here?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Something uncomfortable moved through him.
Friday evening he was hosting twelve investors for dinner.
Household staff had been scheduled until nearly midnight.
Grace had apparently known about Lily’s dance.
Then Alexander remembered Monday.
Mr. Reeves, I need to tell you something about next week.
Later.
Tuesday.
She had tried again near his office.
Later.
Thursday before the school break.
Again.
He had waved her away without looking up.
“How many times did you try to tell me?”
he asked.
Grace’s face flushed.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
Lily held up four fingers.
“Four.”
Grace looked at her.
“The kitchen didn’t count.”
“It counts if you talk.”
Alexander almost winced.
Grace folded the dance flyer.
“I was going to ask whether I could switch shifts with Maria.”
“What happened?”
“The dinner schedule changed.”
Alexander knew exactly what happened.
He had moved the investor dinner from Thursday to Friday because one guest’s plane changed.
Everyone else adjusted around him.
He had not thought about whose life moved when his calendar moved.
Grace said:
“It’s fine.”
Lily stared at her shoes.
Alexander knew immediately it was not fine.
Then Lily looked up at him.
Her brown eyes were completely serious.
“Mr. Reeves?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be my prince?”
Grace nearly dropped the flyer.
“Lily!”
“What?”
“You cannot ask Mr. Reeves that.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s—”
Grace stopped.
Her employer?
A billionaire?
A man who had barely acknowledged them for two years?
All equally awkward.
Lily turned back to Alexander.
“Mommy says you don’t have a wife.”
Grace looked horrified.
“Lily Bennett.”
“And you have suits.”
Alexander’s throat tightened.
“And you’re tall.”
Apparently qualification complete.
“Will you?”
The room changed.
Not because a five-year-old had invited him to a school dance.
Because suddenly Alexander was eight years old again.
Harmony House.
A multipurpose room decorated with paper stars.
Plastic tablecloths.
Donated cookies.
A handwritten sign:
FAMILY NIGHT.
He had worn a secondhand navy blazer three sizes too large.
A caseworker told him the Morrisons were coming.
A couple from Evanston.
They had visited twice.
Mrs. Morrison brought him a baseball glove.
Mr. Morrison asked whether he liked dogs.
Alexander spent the entire week believing they might become his family.
At six o’clock, every child stood near the front window whenever headlights appeared.
At six-thirty, families began arriving.
At seven, other children danced.
At seven-fifteen, Alexander asked if the Morrisons were lost.
At seven-thirty, the caseworker told him they had decided to pursue placement with a younger child.
Alexander sat beneath a paper moon until the music ended.
Nobody asked him to dance.
Nobody came.
He had forgotten the paper crown.
Until now.
The crown had been blue.
A volunteer placed it on his head and said:
“Every prince needs one.”
Alexander tore it in half in the bathroom.
“Mr. Reeves?”
Lily’s voice returned him to the kitchen.
Grace was watching him now.
Not as an employee.
As someone who had seen his face change.
Alexander stepped backward.
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
Too sharply.
Lily’s smile vanished.
Alexander knew immediately.
Still, the old memory had already seized control.
“I don’t do dances.”
Lily looked down.
“Oh.”
Grace put a hand against her shoulder.
“That’s okay, baby.”
“It was only a question.”
Alexander turned away.
He reached the doorway.
Then heard Lily whisper:
“I guess he doesn’t want to be picked.”
He stopped.
Nobody else seemed to understand what the sentence did to him.
He did.
For twenty years, Alexander Reeves had built an entire life around never waiting to be chosen.
Companies competed for him.
Banks courted him.
Boards listened.
Employees moved when he entered.
He controlled who entered his house, his office, his calendar, his life.
And now a five-year-old had chosen him for something completely useless to money.
A kindergarten dance.
He had rejected her before she could reject him.
Alexander went upstairs.
He did not return for dinner.
At eleven forty-three that night, unable to sleep, he entered the room at the far end of his private study.
A room Grace cleaned but never reorganized because Alexander had made that rule explicit.
Inside one drawer beneath old legal records sat the envelope.
Cream-colored paper.
Yellowed at the corners.
His name written across the front.
ALEXANDER.
His mother’s handwriting.
Or so he had been told.
For twenty years, Alexander had carried it unopened.
Chicago apartment.
New York apartment.
First house.
Second house.
North Shore estate.
Sometimes he forgot it for months.
Sometimes he woke at three in the morning knowing exactly where it was.
He had always imagined the letter began with some version of:
I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep you.
Or worse:
I knew you were better off without me.
Every abandoned child develops a private explanation.
Alexander’s was simple.
She had chosen a life that did not include him.
Better never to confirm it.
He sat at the desk.
Lily’s question echoed.
Will you be my prince?
Then another sentence.
I guess he doesn’t want to be picked.
Alexander turned the envelope over.
His fingers shook.
That irritated him.
He had signed billion-dollar agreements without shaking.
Opened lawsuits threatening everything he owned.
Read Rachel? No. Different story. There is no Rachel here. His own life contained no spouse lost; that's Nathan story. We must not contaminate. Good.
He slid one finger beneath the seal.
Stopped.
Then tore it open.
Inside were twelve handwritten pages.
A photograph.
And a smaller envelope marked:
PLEASE READ THIS SECOND.
Alexander unfolded the first page.
His mother’s handwriting filled the paper.
The first sentence was not:
I’m sorry I gave you away.
It was:
May you like
My beautiful boy, if there is only one thing you believe after reading this, please believe that I never stopped trying to come back for you.
Alexander stopped breathing.
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