The Night Shift(32)

Jesse scrunches her face. “And he thought sending you to public school would—”

“Do me a favor,” Ella says, interrupting her. “Don’t bring this up when you meet my mom.”

Ella’s mother never forgave her dad for his little experiment—removing Ella from boarding school, sending her to Union High—and even letting her have a part-time job, the thing that ultimately ruined Ella. It was the last straw that broke their marriage. Or, as Phyllis would say in her wannabe English manner, it was the drop that made the cup run over.

“Why?” Jesse asks. “Does she blame your dad for what happened to you?”

Ella doesn’t answer.

“How’d they get so rich?”

“You’ll have to ask my great-great-grandfather.”

Jesse thinks about this. “Is that why the stories about Blockbuster have hardly any information about you? I mean, like, because you’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter or something?”

“More like Martha Wayne,” Ella corrects. “I imagine my mom’s army of lawyers and political connections didn’t hurt.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“Where’s yours?” Ella shoots back.

Jesse cocks her head to the side, seeming surprised—or maybe amused—at the edge in Ella’s response.

Ella immediately regrets it. “My father died,” she says in a softer tone.

It happened when Ella was in college. But her father really died on New Year’s Eve 1999, if Ella’s honest about it. Correction: he died the night police arrived at the house about Shane.

Jesse doesn’t react, only says, “This is gonna add a nice twist to my story.”

Ella frowns. She needs to talk with Jesse about this story she’s working on. She’s humored Jesse so far, but now it’s getting uncomfortable.

Charles appears in the dining room. He nods. It’s time.

“You ready to meet Mother?” Ella says in a posh accent.

Jesse’s face lights up. “Am I ever.”

She’s excited about this. No fear whatsoever. Who knows? Phyllis may like this girl after all.



* * *



Outside on the veranda, Ella’s mother is dressed in an expensive-looking blouse, her hair up in a chignon.

“Eloise,” she says with a nod.

“Phyllis,” Ella replies. She ignores the frown. Her mother hates being called by her first name. But she hated being called Mommy too, so you couldn’t win.

“And who do I have the pleasure?” Phyllis says, studying Jesse.

“I’m Jesse.” She reaches out her hand.

Phyllis doesn’t take it. She stands, says, “That’s a man’s greeting. Don’t lower yourself to their rituals.” She walks over to Jesse and gives her cheek kisses, while Jesse stands ramrod straight. Then she gestures for them to take a seat at the table, which is covered in white linens.

Charles appears with a teakettle.

“Tea?” Phyllis asks.

Ella tries not to roll her eyes. Her mother is such an Anglophile.

“No, thank you,” Ella says.

Jesse shrugs. Like, What the hell, why not? “Sure, I’ll have some.”

“Did you eat?” Phyllis asks.

“Not yet,” Jesse says.

“Eloise Monroe, where are your manners?” Phyllis turns back to Jesse. “What would you like?” She directs her gaze to Charles, who is standing by.

“Um,” Jesse says, thinking.

“Anything at all,” Phyllis says. “French toast. Eggs. Whatever you’d like.”

“A cheeseburger, I guess.”

Phyllis’s lips are a seam, but she nods to Charles, who scurries off. Then she leans back in her chair, quietly scrutinizing them both. Waiting. A trick designed to unnerve, as Ella knows too well.

“Are those your horses?” Jesse says, looking toward the stables. It’s another break in that hard facade, and she suddenly seems like a young girl again.

“They are.” Phyllis turns to Charles, who somehow is already back from giving Jesse’s order to the kitchen. “Can you give the young lady a tour while we wait for her meal to arrive?” It’s not a question and it doesn’t matter because Jesse’s already on her feet.

Charles says something into his sleeve and a moment later a young groundskeeper arrives in a golf cart. Charles and Jesse climb into the cart and it zips away, the whine of the engine fading in the wind.

Phyllis looks at Ella again. Waits.

Nope, Ella thinks.

Finally, Phyllis relents. “So…”

It’s so like her mother to pack so much into a single word. With that word she asks, Why the hell did you show up at my door after midnight? Who’s the girl? What’s going on with Brad? And what on earth are you wearing?

“So,” Ella says. Mirroring, the communications experts call it. It’s one of those things she remembers from her time at boarding school, where half the curriculum was aimed at teaching you how to be charming at a dinner party or charity gala. It was one of the reasons Ella’s dad let her transfer to public school.

Phyllis smirks. “That’s the same thing you said when I discovered that stray dog you hid in your room.” She shakes her head. “You and your father always had a thing for strays.” Her glance turns to the stables, where Jesse stands on the first rung of the horse fence, feeding an apple to a Thoroughbred.