Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN MY FATHER SAID I COULD NOT CHOOSE
For several seconds after I pointed at Emily, nobody moved.
Vanessa Montgomery stared at me as though I had just announced that the chandelier should become president.
Olivia Prescott actually laughed.
Not loudly.
Worse.
A small, disbelieving sound slipped from her mouth before she covered it with one perfectly manicured hand.
The other three women exchanged looks.
Camille Whitmore, whose family owned a pharmaceutical company, raised one eyebrow.
Sophia Langley, a television lifestyle personality with millions of followers, glanced toward my father as though she expected him to correct me immediately.
And Beatrice Cole, the youngest of the five, looked at Emily with something that almost resembled sympathy.
Almost.
My father did not laugh.
Michael Harrington stood beneath the chandelier with his shoulders squared and his expression so unreadable that half the people who worked for him would probably have left the room if they could.
I knew that face.
He used it when board members disappointed him.
When lawyers brought bad news.
When somebody tried to bargain after he had already made a decision.
“Ava,” he said.
That was me.
Ava Harrington.
Nine years old.
Daughter of Michael Harrington, founder and chairman of Harrington Global Infrastructure.
Daughter of the late Laura Harrington.
Apparently future stepdaughter of one of five women I had known for less than thirty minutes.
“Yes?”
Dad looked at Emily.
Then at me.
“You misunderstood.”
“No, I didn’t.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I told you these five women would be staying here because I am considering remarriage.”
“And I’m supposed to choose someone who will help guide me.”
“Yes.”
“So I chose Emily.”
Vanessa smiled as if speaking to a confused toddler.
“That is adorable.”
I hated her voice immediately.
She continued.
“But sweetheart, your father means someone appropriate.”
I turned.
“What does appropriate mean?”
Her smile paused.
“Someone prepared for your world.”
“What world?”
Vanessa glanced toward the ceiling.
The marble.
The servants.
The estate.
“Our world.”
Emily rose from the floor slowly.
She had wrapped a white cloth around her cut finger.
“Miss Ava.”
I looked at her.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
Emily’s voice remained gentle.
“But your father wasn’t asking you to choose me.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated.
That bothered me.
Not because I blamed her.
Because everyone else seemed to know a rule nobody had explained to me.
Dad finally said:
“Emily works here.”
“So?”
“It would be inappropriate.”
That word again.
“Why?”
“Ava.”
“Why?”
My mother used to say asking the same question twice was rude.
She also said adults sometimes called children rude when adults did not like the answer they were being forced to give.
Dad breathed out.
“Because employment and family are separate matters.”
I considered that.
“Then fire her.”
Emily almost dropped the cloth.
Somebody gasped.
I looked at her quickly.
“Not because she did anything wrong.”
“Ava,” Emily whispered.
“If she can’t be my mom because she works here, then she can stop working here.”
Vanessa laughed again.
Dad did not.
His mouth twitched.
Not amusement.
Maybe disbelief.
Then Emily did something nobody else had done since the five cars entered our gates.
She knelt so we were eye level.
Not because I demanded it.
Because she wanted to speak to me.
“Ava, choosing a mother is not like choosing a dress.”
“I know.”
“And being kind to you once doesn’t mean I’m supposed to become your mother.”
“It wasn’t once.”
Emily’s face changed.
For almost three years, Emily had worked at the estate.
She had arrived eight months after Mom died.
At first, she cleaned guest rooms.
Then the main level.
Then eventually she supervised some household maintenance because Mrs. Doyle, our house manager, trusted her.
But Emily also remembered things.
She knew I hated crusts on grilled cheese.
She knew I got headaches when I read in moving cars.
She knew I still slept with the stuffed fox Mom gave me even though I hid it before guests came.
When I had my first panic attack at school after Mom died, Dad sent a driver.
Emily was in the car because she had been delivering uniforms to the tailor.
She did not ask why I was crying.
She just sat beside me and counted traffic lights until I could breathe again.
That was not one act.
“You always notice me,” I said.
Emily’s eyes filled.
Dad looked away.
That mattered.
Maybe because he knew I was right.
Vanessa broke the silence.
“This is becoming absurd.”
I turned.
Her face had changed.
She was no longer pretending to like me.
“A child cannot possibly understand what is required of a woman marrying someone like Michael.”
Emily stood.
“You’re right.”
Vanessa looked surprised.
Emily continued.
“A child shouldn’t be required to understand what adults want from a marriage.”
Then she looked at Dad.
“But if you asked her opinion, Mr. Harrington, perhaps you should listen when the answer embarrasses the room.”
The mansion went silent again.
My father stared at her.
Nobody spoke to Michael Harrington that way.
Not employees.
Not board members.
Not politicians who wanted donations.
Emily had just done it with a cleaning cloth still wrapped around her finger.
Dad’s voice lowered.
“Mrs. Carter.”
“Ms.”
He paused.
“Ms. Carter.”
“Yes?”
“You are an employee in my home.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then I suggest you remember the boundary.”
Emily’s eyes did not drop.
“I remembered it when your guest insulted me.”
Vanessa stiffened.
Emily continued.
“I remembered it when she called me stupid.”
Another silence.
“I remembered it when nobody asked whether I was bleeding.”
Vanessa’s cheeks reddened.
“And I remembered it when Ava was the only person who came down to help.”
Emily picked up the final crystal fragment and placed it on the tray.
“If you prefer that I leave, I will.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
Then at Emily.
He was trapped.
If he fired her, I would know exactly why.
If he did not, everyone would know Emily had challenged him and remained standing.
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
Then Mrs. Doyle entered.
Sixty-one.
Silver hair.
House manager for eighteen years.
She took one look at the room.
“What happened?”
Vanessa immediately said:
“Your employee destroyed a crystal glass.”
Mrs. Doyle looked at the shattered pieces.
Then at Emily’s hand.
Then at Vanessa.
“That glass belonged to the Harrington estate.”
Vanessa blinked.
“What?”
“It is one of Mrs. Laura Harrington’s Baccarat pieces.”
My mother’s.
Vanessa’s face changed.
“I assumed—”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Doyle’s voice was dry.
“You did.”
Then she looked at Emily.
“Medical kit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding on Mrs. Harrington’s marble.”
Emily almost smiled.
“Terrible employee.”
“Constantly.”
Mrs. Doyle took her toward the kitchen.
I started to follow.
Dad stopped me.
“Ava.”
I turned.
“We are going to discuss what happened.”
“Okay.”
“Privately.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I don’t want to be private.”
I looked at the five women.
“They’re here because of me too.”
That was what he said.
One of them would become my family.
So they could hear.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
The CEO disappearing.
My father appearing underneath.
Tired.
Widowed.
Controlling because controlling companies was easier than controlling grief.
“I am not marrying someone because you select them today.”
“Then why did you tell me to choose?”
“I wanted to know who made you comfortable.”
“Emily.”
“Yes.”
“And now you know.”
He went quiet.
That should have ended it.
Instead, Olivia stepped forward.
“With respect, Michael, this experiment has gone off track.”
Experiment.
I stared.
“You’re experimenting?”
Dad said:
“Olivia.”
She stopped.
Too late.
“What does she mean?”
Dad looked uncomfortable.
Vanessa rescued him.
“Our families thought it would be wise for everyone to spend time together.”
Families.
Not love.
Not dating.
Strategy.
I looked at Dad.
“Did you already choose?”
“No.”
“Do they know?”
“They know I’m considering remarriage.”
“Why these five?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
Camille Whitmore did.
“Compatibility.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“My family’s healthcare investments overlap with Harrington holdings. Olivia’s father sits on several philanthropic boards with your father. Sophia has social influence. Beatrice’s family owns hotels your father uses for development projects.”
Vanessa’s face tightened.
Apparently Camille was not supposed to say that part aloud.
I looked at Dad.
“You picked business women.”
“They are accomplished women.”
“That’s not what I said.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
I looked toward the kitchen door Emily had disappeared through.
Then back at the five designer dresses.
“Mom wasn’t a business deal.”
Dad flinched.
The first real wound of the afternoon.
Laura Harrington had been a public-school art teacher when Dad met her.
No important family.
No trust fund.
No strategic marriage.
She laughed at his suits.
Made him attend farmers markets.
Painted the blue flowers still hanging in my bedroom.
Then cancer took her in eleven months.
Dad had not recovered.
Neither had I.
He looked at me now.
“No.”
His voice softened.
“Your mother was not a business deal.”
“Then why does the next one have to be?”
Nobody spoke.
Then Mrs. Doyle returned alone.
“Emily needs stitches.”
My stomach tightened.
“Hospital?”
“Urgent care. Driver is taking her.”
I ran toward the hall.
Dad called:
“Ava.”
I ignored him.
Emily stood near the front entrance wearing her coat.
Her hand bandaged.
I hugged her.
Carefully.
“Don’t quit.”
She froze.
Then bent down.
“I’m not making any decisions today.”
“Promise?”
“I promise I won’t disappear without telling you.”
Good enough.
She kissed the top of my head.
Then looked toward Dad.
For one second, something passed between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
History?
Recognition?
Pain?
I did not know.
Emily left.
Dad stood at the bottom of the stairs.
His face had become very still.
Mrs. Doyle approached him.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“There is something you should know.”
Dad turned.
Mrs. Doyle held a small envelope.
Old.
Yellowed at the edges.
“I found this two years ago inside Mrs. Harrington’s desk after we moved the art room.”
My heart stopped.
Mom’s desk.
Dad stared.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“It wasn’t addressed to you.”
Mrs. Doyle looked at me.
Then toward the door Emily had just left through.
“It was addressed to Emily Carter.”
May you like
And suddenly the woman I had chosen was no longer simply the housekeeper who had been kind to me.
My dead mother had known her.
