ON RICHARD’S FINAL night at the cottage, they decided to walk into the village to buy their dinner from the chip shop. The evening air was warm and fragrant as they sat on the village green, eating their last supper of fish and chips straight out of the paper. Ruby perched on the concrete steps of the War Memorial, throwing chips at pigeons as they swooped down trying to steal her food from her fingers. They watched the sun go down, their fingers coated with vinegar, salt, and grease.
A smudge of ketchup clung to the corner of Hanna’s mouth. Richard stretched out his hand to rub it away with his thumb. He felt the strangest urge to move his thumb slightly leftward, to plunge it inside her soft mouth, just to see how it felt. Instead, he put it to his own lips and licked the sauce off. Hanna stared at him with her rosebud mouth slightly parted, and he could see a small hint of tongue just behind her lips.
“Are you growing out your hair color?”
“I’m trying to reinvent myself for college. I’m going for more of a rock-chick look. Goth is so last century.”
Richard laughed at her idealistic enthusiasm, her belief that you could simply reinvent yourself with a change of hair color. If only it were that easy.
“Rock chick?” He looked at her skeptically.
“Yep, I’m getting bored of only wearing black. Even I need to wear color occasionally.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting the newly re-invented Hanna Vincent. Maybe you can send me a photo.”
“Maybe you can bite me, perv,” she replied, bumping him with her shoulder. Richard bumped her back and she fell from the wooden bench, landing on the hard, dry grass with a thump. Her outraged expression made him laugh long and hard.
The next morning, Richard left the cottage early to catch the first flight to JFK. The plane was crowded, but the Maxwell family always travelled first class. Even if Richard was a Larsen, his stepfather wouldn’t let him travel any other way.
A black Lincoln was waiting for him at the arrivals gate. The driver took his luggage, and Richard followed him to the parking lot. He sat in the back as the driver steeled himself to go up against the New York traffic. It was more than an hour before they pulled up outside the brownstone townhouse.
He was home, though it was a strange word to describe this place. The interior of the house was too pristine, too stark. Too much like his mother. Yet if anywhere, this was the one place that should be home to him. He’d spent the best part of fifteen years here.
Once inside the door, he walked toward the kitchen where he could hear Consuela singing as she cleaned the floor. She had worked for the Maxwells for a long time and was living at the townhouse long before Richard and his mother moved in.
“Ricardo.” A smile lit up her face. “You’re home. Come here and give me a kiss.”
He lifted her up and swung her around as she swatted at hi
s arms, trying to get him to release her.
“Where is everybody?” he asked, letting her back down.
“Your momma is in the Hamptons. And Daniel had to go to work with his father. He wasn’t very happy about it, either.”
Daniel was Richard’s seventeen-year-old stepbrother, the only son and heir of Leon Maxwell. With a multi-billion dollar empire encompassing everything from real estate to financial advisory services, Leon Maxwell had a vast range of investments spread across the globe.
Richard leaned around Consuela and took a still-warm roll from the cooling rack. She reached out and slapped his hand.
“Are we entertaining tonight?” He bit into the roll.
“Mr. Maxwell has invited the Brookes to join you for dinner.”
“At eight?”
“Yes, sir.” When she spoke to him, the “sir” was always accompanied by a teasing smile. It was different than when she said it to Leon or Daniel.
“Well, in that case, I’ll be in my room, sleeping off the jetlag.” Richard winked and left the kitchen.
When he got upstairs, he wasn’t surprised to find that his room was cleaner and more fragrant than when he had left it over a week ago. Consuela had attacked it with gusto during his absence. Throwing his suitcase in the corner and kicking off his shoes, he lay down on top of the comforter, closing his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Three
October 5th 2000
“So, Hanna Vincent, what is your USP?” Josh Chambers, editor of the student magazine, leaned back in his threadbare swivel chair, removing the pencil that he had put behind his ear some moments before. He tapped it against his teeth, as he stared at her.
Hanna frowned. What the hell was a USP? She wondered if it was some sort of journalistic term she should be aware of. She didn’t want to look stupid and admit she knew virtually nothing about writing for a newspaper.