They exchanged words I couldn’t hear, and then she was back on the line. “Did anyone see you?”
I told her no.
“Good,” she said.
They spoke some more. My father sounded angry.
I waited patiently, massaging my head. It had hit the steering wheel on impact, and I felt the beginnings of a headache.
Her voice came back on the line. “Daddy is sending Cliff. He’ll bring you to the house.”
Cliff was my father’s driver. He lived in a little apartment on their twelve-acre property. I thanked her, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice, and gave her directions to where I was.
What had I expected? My mother hopping in her little, red Mercedes and driving to my rescue? A hug? I wiped the tears from my face and shrugged away the hurt feelings.
“Don’t be such a fucking little baby,” I told myself.
Cliff arrived ten minutes later. He parked his pickup in an empty lot and jumped in the driver’s seat of my car. I looked over at him gratefully.
“Thanks, Cliff.”
He nodded and shifted the car into drive. The good thing about Cliff was that he wasn’t a talker. When we pulled through the gates of the mansion, all of the lights were out. I stumbled through the front door — which was left open for me — and felt my way up to the spare room. No mother waiting, no father waiting.
I cleaned up in the bathroom, put a band-aid on the cut on my forehead and swallowed three Advil for my headache. Crawling into bed, I drifted off, thinking of Caleb.
I woke up to the sound of my name. It was my mother’s voice, impatient. I sat up quickly and flinched at the pain that zigzagged across my scalp. She was standing next to my bed, fully dressed, her hair coiffed on top of her head in a perfect chignon. Her lips were ruby red and pulled tight. She was angry with me. I flinched again and pulled the sheet up to my chin.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Get up.”
“Okay …”
“Your father is very angry, Johanna. This is the third time this year you’ve had an incident with your car.”
I shifted uncomfortably. She was right.
“He’s having breakfast. He wants you to come down so he can speak to you.”
I nodded. Of course he would send my mother. Ever his envoy, my father never spoke to me unless he sent my mother to summon me to a meeting. Even when I was a little girl, I remember being called this way when I did something naughty.
I hurriedly dressed in my clothes from the night before and followed her down the stairs to the dining room. He was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table, with the paper spread out in front of him. At his elbow was a cup of coffee and a goat cheese and spinach omelet. He didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Sit,” he said. I scooted into a chair, and the housekeeper brought me a coffee and a small, white pill.
“Johanna,” he said, snapping his paper closed and peering at me with his hard, grey eyes. “I’ve decided that it’s in your best interest to come work for me.”
I started. I already had a job. I worked as a teller at a local bank. My father did not employ family; he called it a conflict of interest. Just last year, my cousin begged to be taken on as an accountant and my father refused.
“W — why?”
He frowned. ‘Why’ was not a word my father enjoyed hearing.
“I mean — you don’t believe in mixing family and work,” I rushed. My palms were sweating. God, why did I drink so much last night?
My father was handsome. He had olive skin and light grey eyes. He had spent ten hours a week in the gym for years and had the physique to show for it. With my flaming red hair and pale skin, I look nothing like him.
His eyes locked onto mine and in that moment, I knew what he was saying.
A dull ache worked its way across my chest as if it was searching for something. It found my heart, ripped it open and climbed inside. I picked my emotions up from the floor and looked my father in the eyes. If he wanted me to leave my job and work for him, I would leave my job and work for him.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“You’ll start Monday. You can take the Lincoln while your car is in the shop. Leave your keys with Cliff.”
He reopened his paper, and I knew I’d been dismissed.
I stood up, wanting to say something else, wanting him to say something else.
“Bye, Daddy.”
He didn't even acknowledge I’d spoken.
My mother was waiting for me in the hall. She handed me the keys to the Lincoln. This was such a well-oiled operation.