by Gun Brooke
“What? Whatever for?” Daniel frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “A vegetarian? Sylvie?” The storm clouds gathered in her father’s eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I hate hunting. I hate how you all hang the dead deer upside down in the barn, and I hate how you send all the animals we breed to slaughter to feed us. Most of all I hate that you assume I want to be a part of it all. That will never happen. Never.” Her fists so tight now it hurt her knuckles, Sylvie watched with a weird kind of fascination how her father’s complexion turned a dark, bluish red. Was he ill? Did she cause this?
“Darling,” Camilla said and hurried to Daniel’s side.
Sylvie’s Uncle Jan had stayed out of the argument until now, when he seemed to think Sylvie might need reinforcement and moved to stand by her side. “Come on, Dan. You know kids. They get the craziest ideas. Vegetarian? One week on broccoli alone will change her mind, and she’ll be begging for a chicken leg or even a piece of the damn deer.” He chuckled and put her large hand on Sylvie’s shoulder. “Right, kid?”
Sylvie knew it would be smart to play along with her uncle’s way of defusing her father. She had to say it was probable, but she couldn’t. Her father looked at her with inexplicable anger, bordering on contempt. It just didn’t make sense. Why would he be so furious because she wanted to become a vegetarian?
“No. I’m a vegetarian from now on. Several of my friends at school are. I’ll join every single activist group and fight for—”
“You will not!” Daniel roared, making everyone jump. “You will not join any illegal organization and tarnish my good name.”
Ah. So that was why. Feeling stupid for not realizing it sooner, Sylvie refused to stand down. “I’m free to choose whatever friends I want and belong to any organization I please. Besides, vegetarianism isn’t illegal!” Her fury matched his, and she trembled with each labored breath.
“Those idiots releasing caged minks into the wild are criminals,” Daniel spat. “No daughter of mine will ever be caught anywhere near the same postal code as those fools. Can you imagine what the press will make of it?” He directed this last sentence at Camilla, who merely gestured helplessly.
“Daniel. She’s just going through a phase.” Camilla raised her hands, pleadingly. “This is her youthful sympathy—”
“It’s fucking insubordination!” Daniel growled and took a step closer to Sylvie.
Sylvie’s uncle wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Dan. Calm down. You’re being unreasonable. You can’t speak to her like she’s one of your employees. I don’t think you even address them like this. Sylvie’s a kid, and as far as I know she usually breaks her back to please you.”
“Oh, really. I sure as hell don’t feel pleased.” Daniel relented, but only marginally. The muscles on his neck were thick as ropes and his eyes narrow slits. “Sylvie, I won’t have you disobey me. I can’t force-feed you meat, but if I get even an inkling that you’re cavorting with these…these terrorists, then I’ll be even more angry than I am now. Is that clear?”
She couldn’t answer. This furious man, spitting his consonants as if the very language was foul tasting, vaguely resembled her father. Daniel was normally strict and could also be disdainful and brazen, but this man frightened her to no end.
“Is—that—clear?” Moving in on Sylvie, Daniel yanked her close. “Answer me.”
“Yes. Yes, Dad.”
“Fine then.” He stabbed the air toward her mother with his index finger. “Make sure you’re on top of this. And, Camilla? You’re done hunting.” Letting go of Sylvie, Dan began walking across the room.
“Daniel?” Camilla looked startled. “You can’t mean—Daniel?”
“Let him go blow off some steam, Millan,” Sylvie’s oldest uncle, Leif, patted his sister’s back. “You know Dan. He’ll return in an hour or two and pretend he never said anything wrong at all.”
“I’ve never heard him sound so furious.” Camilla rounded on Sylvie. “And all this because you had to play high and mighty over something you know nothing about.” She slapped her right palm against her thigh. “Honestly.”
“I do know. A lot.” Was this how being shell-shocked felt? Sylvie’s heart was pounding, but she stood as if rooted in place, cold to the core.
“You don’t know the intricacies of your father’s business. The board of directors’ decision to hand over the reins meant a great deal more stress, and now when he’s bought a nationwide meatpacking company, you go and spout your ready-made, romanticized ideas of how cruel we are to kill and eat Bambi. Don’t you understand what damage you could do as his only child? If you breathe a word about cruelty to animals, or even being a vegetarian all of a sudden, the press will eat you alive, and your father’s business—the same business that clothes you very well and keeps you warm and safe, I might add—might just receive a blow that’ll make the board of directors change their mind.”
Sylvie’s head spun. Images of her father’s dark-red hue as his blue eyes bore into her made her nauseous from pure fear, but mostly from a fury not unlike his. How could he be so unfair? She wasn’t a slave without a mind of her own. She’d spent so much time trying to make up for her problems in school, but this, this—he should reward her for standing up for her beliefs, not reproach her. Trust her father to see it his own selfish way. Daniel Thorn thought he could crush whatever didn’t benefit him like a bug beneath his loafers. It didn’t surprise her that Camilla had joined ranks with him after the fact, but it made her furious.
“All right,” she said, pushing her shoulders back and shrugging off her well-meaning uncle’s awkward pats. “I won’t join the demonstrations. I will, however, never eat meat again.” Her uncles looked at her with a new expression of respect mixed with confusion. She’d never stood her ground before, but now she did. They had no idea of the promises she’d made to herself to prove her father wrong. He’d counted her out years ago when her severe dyslexia made attending school agony. Sylvie was set on finding a way around her learning disability and making Daniel see that she deserved her seat among the Thorn titans.
She refused to fail.
Chapter Nine
The doorman in Sylvie’s building let Aeron through without even checking the ledger. “Ms. Thorn is expecting you, Ms. DeForest. She’s issued a visitor’s pass for you and your own key, should she ever be detained or delayed.” He handed over an envelope and showed the baffled Aeron where to sign in. “In the future, using the visitor’s pass will register your coming and going, and you won’t have to physically sign in like today.”
“Thank you, sir.” Aeron smiled politely and peered into the envelope at a card much like a pass card or hotel key card, along with a pamphlet informing her of all the amenities in the building open to visitors. The gym, pool, and atrium impressed her. The building looked deceptively generic on the outside, but the inside seemed to have been meticulously upgraded. White marble, blue carpets, and rose-gold fixtures gave a fresh and modern appearance without being too stark.
The elevator that took her to Sylvie’s floor gave her a feeling of déjà vu from the lawyer’s office, which in turn subjected her to yet another bout of strong doubts. So much of this situation made her wary. Being here, about to enter Sylvie’s private home and perhaps even spend time there even when Sylvie wasn’t around, was almost as nerve-racking as what she might find in Maeve’s papers.
Aeron stepped out on the twelfth floor, the carpet here aqua rather than blue, and made her way to Sylvie’s door. As she was about to ring the chime, the door opened and Sylvie appeared. She looked different when she was off the clock. Her hair loose in large waves around her shoulders framed her oval face. Wearing hardly any makeup, she looked a bit more approachable in loose-fitted, off-white linen pants and a gray T-shirt than before in her power suits.
“Welcome,” Sylvie said and stepped aside. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.” As Aeron crossed the threshold, she immediately like
d what she could see of Sylvie’s condo, which was the foyer, living room, and a study. It was modern, but not ultra, and actually looked rather homey.
“Let me take your jacket.” Sylvie hung Aeron’s leather jacket in a small closet. “Can I get you anything to drink before I give you the grand tour?” Her smile wasn’t without warmth but was guarded.
“I’d pretty much kill for a glass of orange juice. Or any juice.” It was true. Aeron’s mouth had gone dryer in the elevator with each passing floor.
“Sounds good. I’ll have one too.” Sylvie checked her watch. “I’m due for a teleconference in forty-five minutes and should be tied up with that for an hour or so. I hope. Sometimes these things drag on. After that, I’m all yours if you have any questions.”
Sylvie’s choice of words made Aeron’s already nervous stomach turn yet another somersault. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I mean, all of it.” She made some imprecise gesture.
“Come with me and I’ll show you the kitchen.” Sylvie waved toward the area to the left of the foyer. “You’re welcome to take anything you need from there. My housekeeper, her name is Lilly, stocks the pantry, fridge, and freezer every week.” She stopped when they reached the kitchen. “God, I sound like a cruise-ship concierge, don’t I?”
“Yes, a little. But very informative.” Aeron couldn’t keep from teasing her. “Thank you again for allowing me to be in your home. Are you sure you’re comfortable with my being here alone?”
Pursing her lips, Sylvie seemed to ponder the question. “Are you planning to run off with my stainless-steel cutlery?” She took a carton of juice from the refrigerator.
Snorting, Aeron shook her head. “Now there’s an idea.”
“Here you go.” Sylvie gave Aeron a tall glass of orange juice. “I don’t have a very big place so the tour will go quickly.” She nodded toward the living room.
Aeron walked after Sylvie through the condo. She’d been certain the CEO of Thorn Industries US would reside in a townhouse, or at least a penthouse. This condo, clearly decorated either by Sylvie herself or through close collaboration between Sylvie and a designer, was a home, not a corporate showroom. Sort of like Maeve’s condo. The comparison came out of nowhere. They weren’t similar in style, not at all, but this home resembled its owner just as Maeve had put a clear stamp on her home. Which of course had been Aeron’s home too until she voluntarily stayed away.
Sylvie’s living room had eggshell-colored wallpaper, a blue-and-black intricately patterned Persian rug, and leather furniture. A vast copper coffee table drew her eyes, as did the copper-plated fireplace. Blankets and pillows in muted colors made the otherwise stark, black leather less severe.
As it turned out, Sylvie’s condo held an open-plan kitchen that morphed into a breakfast nook and family room. Four rooms with en suite bathrooms served as the master suite, a guest room, a study/library, and a room that didn’t have a purpose other than some unassembled gym equipment and a big shelf with binders. The back room. Now it did serve a function, however. Five large boxes and three smaller ones sat on a folding table. A leather desk chair that looked brand-new sat behind the table, which was positioned so she could enjoy the Manhattan view.
Would she ever be able to enjoy this view without yearning for the quiet Adirondacks? She thought of the silence and how only the wind through the trees created background music instead of honking horns, loud voices, and echoes of childhood memories. Glancing furtively at the boxes, she wished herself back so hard, she was fully prepared to be in her rustic cabin kitchen when she opened her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Sylvie spoke carefully. “I know it seems a lot, but I bet you’ll feel relieved after you’ve gone through it all. For what it’s worth…” Sylvie pushed her hands into the wide pockets of her pants. “I’m not a stranger to having a, um, challenging relationship with a parent.”
Aeron stepped farther into the backroom, lingeringly touching one of the smaller boxes sitting on the folding table. “There’s one in every family, I suppose. I mean, one that gives us a lot of headaches.”
“That’s my experience, yes.” Sylvie nodded toward the boxes. “Will this be okay, you think? I didn’t have time to get a real desk—”
“Hey. This is great. Thank you. I’ll be fine.” Aeron meant to deliver the words with bravado, but the small frown between Sylvie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows made her unsure if she’d managed it. “You need to get to that teleconference, right?”
“I do. I’ll poke my head in afterward to see if you have any questions.”
“Thanks.”
Sylvie left, and Aeron tried to figure out which box to start with. She broke the seal on each of them and tried to judge from the top paper what order they were in, if any. That’s when she spotted a Post-it note on the top binder in each that suggested the order. Of course. She should’ve trusted Paulina to think of this too. She’d packed the boxes, as they couldn’t trust anyone else.
Paulina had mentioned something about the tabloid press sending people under cover to pose as flower or pizza deliverers, or even policemen and firefighters. Aeron didn’t envy Paulina and her husband living in her old home. God knew how long the vultures would find their way into the building and knock on the door.
According to the note, one of the smaller boxes was the first one. A brown envelope that looked rather old sat on top of it, and Aeron opened it. At first she thought it was her old school papers, such as report cards and grades, but it turned out to be Maeve’s. Her mother had gone to an all-girls private school on the Upper East Side. She pulled out a report card from the sixth grade. Maeve had generally made Bs in most academic subjects, but straight As when it came to English, arts, and physical education.
“Imagine that,” Aeron murmured and turned the card over. A teacher had written a fairly long note in the comment box.
Maeve DeForest—1983
Maeve is a strong-willed girl with little or no respect for authority. Her grades are passable, but she requires proper monitoring when it comes to doing her homework. She has had every excuse under the sun this semester why she hasn’t completed her assignments. What pains me as her teacher is that she could have straight As if she applied herself. Her test scores are always in the top five percent of her class and, I would even go so far as to say, among all the students her age group.
As for her less-than-stellar record when it comes to behaving responsibly in the classroom, I feel we must schedule a meeting. Maeve should attend, and all three parties need to sign a contract regarding anything we agree on during that meeting. Maeve’s future depends on it, and please know I have only her very best interest at heart.
The report card was signed Ms. Charlotte Donner. Aeron leaned back and held the card with trembling hands. So her mother had been some sort of rebellious kid? As she didn’t have any memories of her grandparents, she couldn’t begin to guess how they might have reacted to Ms. Donner’s note.
Aeron pulled one report card after another from the stack. They were all worded similarly. Her mother was gifted but not especially motivated. Some teachers sounded terser than others, and nowhere did she find a report card signed by anyone who appeared to genuinely like Maeve.
The last card was from Maeve’s second semester her sophomore year. Now her grades were even more polarized. Still straight As in the subjects she had excelled in during the sixth grade. In the rest of the subjects she received Bs, Cs, and even one D.
Maeve DeForest—1988
First of all, Maeve is a charming girl with a multitude of plans for her future. I have found her especially proficient when it comes to writing fictional stories. Her sense for drama is unparalleled, and I cannot stress enough how she could benefit from joining the school’s writers’ club. Maeve seems reluctant to join any extracurricular activity, which I hope you and I can help persuade her to do.
As for Maeve’s poor results when it comes to conduct and discipline, I think this is the biggest issue standing in her way to succ
ess. Both Principal Jones and I have tried to address the problems with Maeve, and with you, her parents, but with little success.
Our school standards are clear. If Maeve receives a third strong warning, we will be forced to expel her, something we would loathe to do. I include this message on her report card only because you and Mr. DeForest do not call us back or reply to our letters.
I am certain if we all work together, we can help steer Maeve onto a path toward a great future.
Mrs. Dorothy Heller
Aeron looked for more report cards but didn’t find any. There should be some from her junior and senior years, but if they existed they weren’t in the box. Instead Aeron found an envelope with what looked like legal papers. Reading through them, she began to cry.
“Oh, my. Are you all right, Aeron?” Sylvie’s concerned voice from the doorway made Aeron flinch.
“Yes. Sure. Of course.” She wiped hastily at her damp lashes and cheeks. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying. This has got to be hard on you.” Sylvie stepped into the back room, and Aeron finally noticed her carrying a stool from the kitchen. “I thought I’d join you, if that’s okay. Perhaps I can help somehow?”
Relieved to not be alone with the boxes, Aeron nodded shortly. “Why not?”
Sylvie sat down on the opposite side of the folding table, pulled one leg up, and placed her feet on the rest halfway up the stool’s legs. “What upset you so much?”
Aeron swallowed past the tears that constricted her throat and coughed to clear her voice. “Maeve was expelled early in her junior year.” She handed Sylvie the document.
“Really?” Sylvie didn’t read it but regarded Aeron closely instead. “Tell me what it says.”
“She got pregnant. With me. So this high-and-mighty private girls’ school obviously thought her condition was contagious or beneath them or something and kicked her out. They had some obscure regulation that any pupil having children out of wedlock had forfeited their spot. It was non-negotiable. I’m thinking she was home-schooled after that, if she was schooled at all.”
