Chapter 4: The House on Lakeshore
She called Carter the next morning and said yes.
He told her to arrive at the Mercer residence the following Monday at nine.
He gave her an address on Lakeshore Drive and told her to use the side entrance, not the front.
He did not explain why.
The house was not what she expected, which meant it was exactly what she should have expected.
Four stories of pale stone set back from the street behind iron gates.
Old money architecture with new money upkeep.
The kind of building that made no effort to impress because it had never needed to.
She used the side entrance.
A woman named Ruth met her inside — small, sharp-eyed, somewhere past sixty, with the manner of someone who had outlasted several previous versions of this household and intended to outlast several more.
"You're the new coordinator," Ruth said.
"I am."
Ruth looked her over the way a doctor reads an x-ray.
Quick.
Clinical.
Reaching a conclusion she kept to herself.
"Coffee's in the kitchen.
Mr.
Mercer will see you at nine-thirty.
Ms.
Whitmore is upstairs and has asked not to be disturbed before noon." A small pause.
"She asks that every morning."
Norah followed Ruth through a back hallway into a well-organized kitchen.
She accepted the coffee.
She did not ask questions she wasn't ready to hear answered.
At nine twenty-eight, Carter appeared in the doorway.
"He's ready."
Dominic Mercer's office was on the second floor — a long room with tall windows overlooking a private garden.
Books on two walls.
A desk that had clearly been used.
No decorative objects.
No framed photographs.
He was standing when she entered, which she hadn't expected.
"Ms.
Bennett."
"Mr.
Mercer."
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk.
She sat.
He sat.
He looked the same as he had in the restaurant.
Charcoal, silver watch, the same quality of stillness.
But here, without the theater of the dining room around him, he seemed less like a man performing restraint and more like a man who had simply run out of interest in performing anything at all.
"You took two days," he said.
"I had things to consider."
"Carter said you asked about Valerie."
"I did."
"And that didn't stop you from coming."
"It informed how I came."
He studied her for a moment.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm here to work for you.
I understand what that means and what it doesn't mean.
I won't pretend the situation is simpler than it is, and I'd ask you to extend the same courtesy."
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not quite a smile.
Something quieter.
"The previous coordinator lasted eight months," he said.
"She left because Valerie made the position untenable."
"How?"
"Interference.
Countermanded instructions.
Two incidents I won't detail." He set his pen down.
"I'm telling you this because I'd rather you know now than discover it in a way that costs us both time."
"What changed?
Why would this time be different?"
"Because last time I didn't choose the person myself."
Norah held his gaze.
"That's a significant amount of confidence to place in a woman you've watched carry trays for two years."
"I watched you carry trays for two years without ever seeing you." He paused.
"Then I saw you."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"Your responsibilities begin today if you're willing," he said.
"Ruth will walk you through the vendor schedule and the household calendar.
There's a backlog of correspondence that needs organizing.
Nothing urgent, but it's been sitting."
"All right."
He stood.
She stood.
"One more thing," he said.
"If Valerie gives you a direct instruction that conflicts with mine, you follow mine.
If she asks you why, you tell her to speak with me.
Can you do that without making it a confrontation?"
Norah thought about a nineteen-year-old's knees beginning to bend.
"Yes," she said.
"I've had practice."
She was back in the hallway, following Ruth toward the household office, when she heard heels on the staircase above.
She didn't look up.
But she heard Valerie's voice, sharp and carrying, aimed at someone on a phone.
"— I don't care what he said.
Find out who she is and where she came from.
All of it."
A door closed.
Ruth, walking ahead of her, didn't slow down or turn around.
May you like
But she said, very quietly, "Welcome to the house, Ms.
Bennett."
