Chapter 4: What Maisie Heard
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Maisie pressed her face against my shoulder the way she had done since she was small.
I put my arm around her and didn't say anything.
Graham watched his daughter.
Something moved through his face that he didn't try to hide.
"Maisie, sweetheart," Bianca said.
"Go back upstairs."
Maisie didn't move.
"Maisie."
"I want to stay with Grandma."
"I said go upstairs."
Maisie's arms tightened around me.
I felt her breathing change.
"It's all right," I said softly.
"I'm not going anywhere yet."
Graham leaned forward.
"Maisie.
Did something happen this week that upset you?"
Bianca's head turned sharply.
"Graham, don't—"
"I'm asking my daughter a question."
Maisie lifted her face from my shoulder.
She looked at her father with the particular seriousness that seven-year-olds carry when they have been holding something too long.
"Mommy told Grandma she was lazy."
The kitchen went very quiet.
"She said it when Grandma sat down.
I was on the stairs.
I heard."
Bianca let out a short breath.
"I was joking.
She knows I was joking."
"You weren't laughing like a joke," Maisie said.
"You were laughing like when you're mean."
Graham's eyes closed for just a second.
"Maisie," Bianca said, her voice dropping lower.
"That is enough."
"She also cried," Maisie said.
"Grandma.
In her room.
I heard her through the door on Thursday night.
I knocked but she said she was fine."
I hadn't known she had knocked.
I looked down at the top of her head and kept my face still.
"Graham," Bianca said.
"This is ridiculous.
A child doesn't—"
"She heard what she heard." Graham's voice had gone quiet in a way that was harder to argue with than anger.
"Where's Oliver?"
"Still asleep."
He nodded.
He looked at Maisie.
"Can you go wake your brother up for me?
Tell him Dad's home."
Maisie slid off my lap.
She looked at me once before she left the room.
I gave her a small nod.
Her footsteps went up the stairs.
Graham waited until they faded.
Then he turned to Bianca.
"She cried."
"Children exaggerate."
"My mother cried in the guest room on Thursday night and you gave her a $2,000 bill on Saturday morning."
"I don't see what one has to do with the other."
"I know you don't." Graham stood up.
He picked up both invoices — Bianca's and mine — and held them side by side.
"I'm going to ask you one more time.
Did you plan this before she arrived?"
Bianca's eyes went flat.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A simple one."
"I'm not going to stand here and be interrogated in my own kitchen."
"Our kitchen."
She picked up her phone from the counter.
"I'm calling my mother."
Graham set both invoices down.
"Go ahead."
She stopped.
"Call her," he said.
"Tell her what you did.
Tell her you invoiced my mother for sleeping in our guest room after she drove three hours because you asked her to.
Tell her all of it."
Bianca's thumb hovered over the screen.
She didn't dial.
Graham looked at me.
"Mom.
I need you to stay."
"Graham—" Bianca started.
"I'm not talking to you right now." He said it without cruelty.
Just clearly.
"Mom.
Please stay."
I looked at my son.
He had his father's eyes.
He had always had his father's eyes.
"All right," I said.
From upstairs, Oliver's voice came tumbling down the hallway.
"Dad!
Dad, you're home!"
Graham's face changed completely.
He turned toward the stairs.
Bianca stayed where she was, phone still in her hand, the two invoices on the table between us.
She looked at them for a long moment.
Then she picked up only one.
May you like
Hers.
And folded it back into her pocket.
