The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (14)

5





Introductions


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24



The immense fa?ade of 7 East 88th Street towers above us. At its red-brick summit, a golden weather vane flashes and fades as it wavers in the evening light, guarded at every corner by stone gargoyles. I watch as its arrow swivels high above the city rooftops like an omen of what is to come—an instrument to divine which way the wind is blowing.

I slam the car door and the Holbecks’ town car pulls away, leaving Edward and me on the curb. Of course they sent a driver. I stare up at the grandeur of their Manhattan townhouse, one of the many Holbeck homes dotted across the globe. A six-bedroom, three-floor city pied-à-terre just behind the Guggenheim. They possess such incredible wealth that I find it hard to comprehend what it all really means.

Edward takes my hand in his, and I drag my eyes from the glowing windows high above us in time to catch his expression. He’s grinning at me. He’s clearly enjoying the effect that fifty-seven million dollars’ worth of real estate is having on me. I give his hand a firm squeeze; I’m going to need a little help tonight. Help is something that I’m slowly learning to ask for, and thankfully he responds on cue.

“It’s just a house,” he tells me, pulling me close. “Everyone gets nervous meeting their in-laws.”

“But this isn’t quite the same, is it?” I reply.

“No,” he says with a smirk, following my gaze back to the warmly lit penthouse windows. Then he looks back down to me, pushing a strand of loose hair behind my ear and kissing me lightly on the lips. It’s a promise. A reminder of why we’re here.

I close my eyes and let the feel of him, so close, so real, clear my head. We are here tonight because he gave me a ring; because I will become a part of this family.

Beginnings are always hard, almost as hard as endings, I remind myself.

From behind the gold and glass of the building’s entrance a doorman appears, in off-black livery. He holds open the door with a silent professionalism that does nothing to put me at ease.

Inside: a marble lobby and a buttonless elevator activated by the doorman’s magnetic card.

As we travel up to the Holbecks’ penthouse triplex I try to imagine what it must have been like to grow up with all this, the Guggenheim next door. “Did you spend much time here, as a kid?” I ask Edward over the gentle hum of the elevator. I can’t really imagine a tiny flush-faced Edward dashing around this place in the 1990s Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt I’ve seen in his childhood photos.

“No, not really. Dad stayed here, during the week, for work. Mother went between here and home. We were always either at school or at The Hydes.”

The Hydes. The Holbeck family home in upstate New York. I can only speculate, along with the rest of the world, on what Edward’s family house looks like inside. There are no pictures online, only paparazzi shots of the gates bordered by dense woodland and a high perimeter security fence. Its interiors have never been photographed for a magazine or an architectural supplement and it hasn’t been on the market since J. L. Holbeck built it in the late 1800s. Edward has mentioned it and clammed up when pressed on it. The place has remained a mystery, and while I try not to press him on it, each new crumb of knowledge slowly builds a picture of something more than I dare to think about right now.

He squeezes my hand as the lift slows. “You doing okay?”

I nod and attempt a smile, then watch as he straightens his collar in infinite reflections in the elevator mirrors. He’s nervous too, I can tell, though he’s hiding it well. That tightness around his strong jaw I’ve noticed during work calls, the same tightness the evening of our first official date. An almost imperceptible tell that I’ve picked up on over time; an oddly comforting glimpse of his human vulnerability beneath. This matters to him, a lot.

I tuck my errant strand of hair back into my loose chignon. Under my coat a dark-red jumpsuit, to match Great-Grandma Mitzi’s ring. I wonder if Edward’s mother will notice the gesture.

The lift pings and glides open to reveal a Carrera marble atrium, a sculptural glass chandelier glistening high above us. There isn’t a Thanksgiving pumpkin or turkey decoration in sight.

Edward leads me from the elevator, our shoes tapping on marble, the quiet murmur of voices and music drifting to us from somewhere deep within the apartment. I try to quell the sudden surge of fear and nausea rising up inside me; I need to stay calm. But when a man in gray suddenly appears from a doorway to our left, I literally jump.

“Mr. Holbeck, Ms. Reed,” he murmurs, sotto voce, giving a muted apologetic smile. He’s British. A British butler, of course they have a British butler. I’m going to sound like the help, aren’t I? I squeeze Edward’s hand as our guide gestures for us to continue on down the corridor. “The family’s just taking drinks in the drawing room.”

“Who was that?” I whisper as we round the corner away from him.

“No idea, never seen him before in my life.” Edward shrugs. “There’s a pretty heavy turnover around here.”

“Oh.”

The voices coming from the door ahead of us become clearer as we approach, then I catch the jovial tinkle of Matilda’s laugh. They sound friendly at least.

At the closed door Edward holds my gaze for a second; he’s waiting until I’m ready. I take one last fortifying breath before giving him the nod, and he opens the door.