Charade (Swept Away, #1.5)(4)
*
“How are you feeling, Bianca?” Rosie squeezed my hand as she peered into my eyes with concern. It had been two weeks since I’d started going through my father’s papers and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep ignoring Rosie’s calls, so I’d asked her to lunch.
“Tired.” I tried to smile at her. “But okay.”
“You can’t just ignore my calls.” Rosie looked upset. “I know you like to deal with emotional stuff yourself, but I’m here for you, Bianca. No man is an island.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a woman, then,” I joked, and she shook her head.
“I can’t believe you took a leave of absence from work. Are they paying you?”
“I’m trying for FMLA, but I don’t know if that’s going to go through. I had two weeks’ paid vacation left, so I’m getting money from that.” I shrugged and Rosie sighed.
“What are you going to do for money?” she asked me hesitantly. Rosie hated talking about money. She thought it was uncouth. I frankly didn’t care either way. I’d never had much money to talk about so it didn’t bother me.
“Maybe the bank will lend me some as an act of good faith.” I attempted another joke, but Rosie didn’t laugh. “Or maybe I’ll get a job in a treasury and help myself to some of the cash, like Katie Holmes and Queen Latifah did.”
“They did what?” Rosie’s eyes widened in shock. “They robbed a bank?”
“Well, not technically robbed.” I shook my head. “It was Diane Keaton’s idea. She was the mastermind behind the—”
“Diane Keaton robbed a bank?” Rosie’s voice grew louder and I realized that she was taking my story for truth.
“Oh, not in real life. In that movie Mad Money.” I gave her a small smile. “The movie wasn’t that good, but maybe it works best as a tutorial. Here’s how to rob a treasury, but stop before you get too greedy.”
“Bianca,” Rosie said, sounding irritated, “I seriously thought you were telling me that Katie Holmes robbed a bank.”
“Who knows if she hasn’t in real life?” I shrugged.
She laughed and shook her head. A dazed look crept over her face and then she stared at me; I saw a bright light in her eyes. “I have an idea.”
“What’s that?” I asked her suspiciously.
“So there are two things you know better than anyone else I know. You know about Henry the Eighth and his wives, and you know movies.”
“I know about more than Henry the Eighth and his wives—” I started and then stopped. “But carry on.”
“I know you’re still trying to get over your father’s death and you don’t want to go back to work yet, but maybe you can freelance from home?”
“I don’t think that I can do much historical research from home. I mean I can access JSTOR, but I can’t get into any of the archives since they aren’t digital yet. And I’m supposed to help teach a European history class to freshmen at City College this semester. I can hardly hold study groups from my apartment.” I made a face, imagining a bunch of teenage gunners trying to impress me with their knowledge while jammed into my small apartment.
“No,” she groaned, “I meant, maybe you can write movie articles for a living. You already post reviews online sometimes and a colleague of mine has a cousin that does something similar. I could get you some information if you want. I mean, I could lend you some money, but for some reason I don’t think you’ll take it. This is a job you can do from home. I know you love your research assistant job, but I can’t imagine that they’ll wait around for you all semester; I mean, who knows if you’ll really be out for just a couple of weeks.” She touched my shoulder softly. “This is a way to make some money while you still have some time to yourself.”
“You know I could never take your money, Rosie.” I smiled at her gratefully. “But, yeah, maybe I can write some articles. I’ll look it up online.”
“Good. I can’t believe your dad didn’t leave you any money.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Did he leave you anything at all?”
“No.” I shook my head. “He had nothing to leave.” It was at that point that I should have told Rosie about my father’s letter and his papers, but something stopped me. Maybe it was because I knew she wouldn’t have approved of my turning into a private detective. She knew that I wasn’t the bravest person—at least, I hadn’t been before. But since reading my dad’s letter, something in me had changed. I no longer worried about the creaks in the night, or double-checking my locks. The possibility that my mother’s death had not been an accident had ignited a spark in me that had been lying dormant for years. It reaffirmed to me something I hadn’t felt since I was about to start college. I could still remember the look on my father’s face as he had dropped me off at my dorm, and thinking my dad wanted to tell me something big. I had no idea what it was, but it was something I felt in the depths of my soul. But he never said anything, and I hadn’t asked. I regretted not pushing him now. There were many times in my life that I’d avoided situations or conversations that I thought were going to be awkward or uncomfortable because I’d been scared to find out something that would hurt me. All my life, I’d been too scared to question things that didn’t seem to add up. My father’s letter had affirmed to me that I couldn’t live my life that way anymore. Perhaps if I’d asked those questions when my father was still alive, I wouldn’t be so in the dark right now.