“I’m sorry, Miss Serafini. The shared schedule does not have that information.”
Now Chrissy’s anxiety spiked. Pearson insisted she update the shared schedule daily. No way that information wasn’t on the schedule. “That’s unusual.”
“Do you want me to forward this call to Mr. Pearson’s private line? Perhaps there is something you should help him with.” Marta’s voice sounded snottier than usual.
“Please do,” Chrissy replied. What the hell? Marta apparently forgot who was her direct boss. Pearson had employed her before Chrissy, but Chrissy wouldn’t let Marta get away with disrespecting her.
But today wasn’t the day to take on the rigid Marta Grayles.
The dial tone cut off almost immediately.
“This is Pearson. Leave a message.”
Damn.
“Hi, Mr. Pearson. This is Chrissy checking in. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know how things are going.”
She hung up, frustrated and now extremely concerned. Somehow, some way, things weren’t right. Why couldn't she reach either Pearson or Jessica? That shouldn't be possible, not in the scheme of James Pearson’s rigid world.
Chrissy came to the junction of the two interstates that met in New Haven, and veered right. This was the least labyrinthine way to Yale Hospital, where her father was now resting. She navigated the heavy traffic on the off-ramp and the side streets to the hospital proper before pulling into the concierge line to have someone else find a place to park her car.
Someone else can park the damn car for me.
Her gut continued to roil uneasily as Chrissy clomped through the marble-floored halls until she pulled herself up short and huffed.
This was no way to greet her father.
She popped into the cafeteria and bought three cups of coffee and three breakfast sandwiches, and then added a few donuts. Whoever sat at her father’s bedside would be hungry.
What a good little Italian girl I am, making sure there’s food for everyone.
That was the problem, wasn't it? All her life other people had expected her to act in a certain way. And for just as long she’d struggled not to. Just like her reaction to Saks' proposal earlier, she went too far to declare and assert her rights. Too stubborn and independent, and insisted on paying for her own school, or a career, and running away with James Pearson instead of facing up to Saks and her parents... Instead of facing up to it herself.
No. It was difficult growing up the daughter of a crime boss. You can't cover that shit with frosting and call it a cake. She’d grown up in a house full of secrets and lies. Her father disappeared for strange stretches of time. People came at all hours of the night. Men brought in the injured or bleeding, who stayed mysteriously in the always-unoccupied maid's room off the kitchen. Her father's gun in the desk. The whispers of the other girls in the Catholic school.
“Don't be her friend. She's a Serafini.”
Who was she fooling? That's exactly who she was. All the college degrees and high-end jobs in the world wouldn't change that.
It wouldn't change her family.
Where the hell did she get the idea that she was too good for Saks? Maybe he didn’t have her education or her résumé, but at least he was honest about who he was. Unlike her.
He was so much more mature than her in all the ways that counted. It was immature and dishonest to keep secrets. It was time she grew up and told them about the truth of her and Saks, damn the consequences.
She ended up at her father’s room almost automatically. Chrissy was glad to see him awake and on the phone. He’d always been a huge talker, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said roughly. “Keep me up to date.”
Chrissy glanced at her mother, who had her head buried in a book, pretending not to listen to her husband’s obvious business call.
“Hi, Dad!” she said brightly.
“Chrissy,” he said with a wan smile. “How are you?”
“Fine, Dad. How are you doing?”
“Good. They had me up walking today. I’ll go home tomorrow.”