My Professor(72)

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my apology before he continues, “And when, three months later, my father told me he was marrying someone new, I could only assume he wanted this woman to replace my mother. Only equipped with what I’d learned in childhood fairy tales, I pictured this new stepmother like I would picture any big bad monster: with snarling teeth, a venomous bite, and long sharp claws.”

His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s conflict there, a war behind his gaze.

“But I never met Kathleen. I never found out if she was the villain I made her out to be in my mind. My father married her and never looked back, at least not until I was old enough to be useful to his company.”

I sit with his confession, trying to reconcile it with what I know of my mother and Frédéric’s relationship. Did she start seeing him when he was still married? Does it even matter now?

Let the sleeping dog lie.

It’s hard not to look at Emmett differently after what he’s just told me, not to see the sad, angry boy buried inside this beast of a man.

I wanted to hang on to my anger at him, but it’s useless.

He and I are more similar than I’ve previously cared to admit. Our childhoods weren’t identical, but the shared common thread tugs at my heart strings enough that none of our strife seems all that important anymore.

“Sorry, what’d I miss?” Alexander says, scooting in to reclaim his seat beside me.

Emmett is quiet, his dark brows furrowed as he stares out into the crowded restaurant.

“Nothing,” I reply, saving Emmett from having to answer his brother. “Just…us making nice.”

“No shit?”

“Yes. We can all be one big happy family now,” Emmett says with obvious sarcasm.

“I’ll get us all matching charm bracelets,” I tack on.

Emmett looks back at me, and though we don’t reach across the table and shake hands, it still feels like we’ve come to some kind of agreement. We can exist together, be civil, and who knows…down the line, maybe things will slowly change for the better.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





Emelia



* * *



I throw myself into work on Monday morning. It feels good to know Professor Barclay isn’t in the office and therefore can’t be a distraction, and it’s easy to focus because we have an important presentation coming up on Wednesday. While the engineering and architecture teams have been hard at work combatting the foundation issue at Belle Haven, the conservation team has been chipping away at the materials catalogue.

We’re a far cry from having the entire house accounted for, but engineering wants an update sooner rather than later so they can start to get a handle on what we’re up against if we’re planning on lifting this behemoth off the ground to replace the foundation. Wednesday, we’ll present what we have.

The most important elements to account for are those we can’t easily duplicate or replace, at least not to a degree that would convincingly mimic what already exists at Belle Haven. For instance, there’s a large bay window off the kitchen comprising three coordinating stained-glass panels that combine to make up a large mural. We know the stained glass was done by Tiffany Studios, most likely by Louis Comfort himself between 1905 and 1915 because the dragonflies included in it were only produced by the glass company during that ten-year span. While the windows have sustained some minor damage, they’re mostly in pristine condition. A panel of appraisers—most from Christie’s and Sotheby’s—have estimated that if the three panels were to be put up for auction, they would sell for well over two million dollars, and some doubt they’d go for less than three. It’d be a travesty if they were to be damaged during foundation repair work, and that’s just one of the priceless artifacts we’re trying to salvage in coordination with the other teams at Banks and Barclay.

Tuesday evening, I stay at work until almost seven finalizing the details in my section of the presentation. We’ve been passing flash drives around to get the most up-to-date files, adding to our own sections as we go. It’s not exactly the most efficient system, and Hugo’s been grumbling under his breath about us being stuck in the technological stone ages.

Lewis walks out of his office and locks the door behind him.

“Emelia, whatever you’re doing, it’s probably not that important.”

“It is,” I assure him, leaning closer to my computer screen because my eyes have gone slightly blurry from staring at pixels all day.

“Right, well, finish up then send the file to the printer—they need it by 7:30. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” I say, not really paying attention.

“Then go home. Eat dinner. Take a break.”

He doesn’t understand. I can’t take a break yet. At this point, I’m not adding in new content; I’m tweaking minute crucial details. Like two slides ago, I found a picture that wasn’t perfectly centered with the others, and some text Hugo added in earlier today had two typos.

“I will,” I assure him. “What time am I supposed to pick up the bound booklets tomorrow from the printer?”

“Before eight, otherwise you won’t be here on time for the meeting.”