Chapter 5 - THE WEST WING
The master suite in the west wing of the Falcone mansion had eight windows that faced directly south toward the open ocean.
When Rebecca woke up at 5:15 the following morning, her mind automatically performed its eighteen-month routine: slide out from under the blanket, find the black trousers, check the phone for the lemon tea order, step into the hall before the supervisor sees you.
She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.
She was not in the eight-by-ten room above the garage.
She was lying in a bed six feet wide, wrapped in white Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like cool milk against her skin. The ceiling above her was carved plaster, painted with pale blue clouds and gold leaf that caught the first grey light of the dawn breaking over the Atlantic.
Beside her, buried under a pile of four feather pillows, Clementine was sleeping so deeply that her small mouth was open, her yellow duck clutched safely against her ribs.
On the mahogany table beside the bed lay three things:
A fresh, hot cup of black tea—not lemon tea—with a single cube of brown sugar beside the saucer.
A small, handwritten note on heavy cream cardstock.
And a clean, soft woolen sweater in a dark forest green, folded neatly on top of a pair of tailored grey trousers that were exactly Rebecca’s size.
Rebecca reached out for the cardstock.
The handwriting was thick, dark, and slanted to the right—Adriano’s hand:
Rebecca,
Genevieve left for Warwick at 4:00 AM. Her father was taken into custody by federal marshals thirty minutes ago at his home in Newport.
The estate’s domestic contract with your agency has been terminated. The firm’s owner has been instructed to return your original references and record files to my attorney by noon.
Your husband’s name will be cleared on the front page of the Providence Journal tomorrow morning. The port authority’s board of directors has agreed to a full settlement of Thomas’s pension and death benefits, which will be deposited into a trust for Clementine.
You do not work here anymore.
If you wish to stay in the west wing until you decide where you want to live, the room is yours for as long as you need it. If you wish to leave for West Virginia, Leo has a car ready at your convenience.
Coffee is served in the small dining room at 8:00.
Adriano.
Rebecca held the card against her chest for a long time, her eyes fixed on the grey ocean outside the tall windows.
The rain had stopped.
The sky above Narragansett Bay was breaking into long, brilliant lines of orange and pale gold, reflecting off the dark water like fire on metal. Below her window, she could see the pool—its blue water still and clear, the golden initials A.F. gleaming at the bottom under the morning sun.
A quiet knock sounded at the heavy double doors of the suite.
Rebecca stood up, wrapped the soft forest-green sweater around her shoulders, and opened the door.
Maria, the senior housekeeper—a woman of sixty who had worked for Adriano’s mother thirty years ago—stood in the hallway holding a silver tray with two hot plates of eggs, toast, and fresh fruit.
Maria did not look at the floor.
She did not look at Rebecca’s feet.
She looked directly into Rebecca’s eyes and offered a warm, deep, respectful smile.
“Good morning, Miss Hail,” Maria said softly. “Mr. Falcone asked me to bring breakfast for the little girl. He said she likes the strawberry jam from the orchard.”
Rebecca stood back, allowing the older woman to carry the tray into the grand room.
“Maria...” Rebecca said, her voice catching in her throat.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Where... where is Mr. Falcone?”
Maria set the tray on the mahogany table near the window, adjusting the silver salt shakers with a small, practiced flick of her wrist.
“He is in the garden,” Maria said, looking out toward the lawn. “He has been sitting by the pool since five o'clock.”
Rebecca looked down at her small blue shoe box sitting on the marble dresser near the mirror. She walked over, picked it up, and pulled out Thomas’s silver wristwatch with the cracked glass face.
She held it to her ear.
It was still stopped at 4:12.
It would always be stopped at 4:12.
But as she set the watch back down inside the velvet lining, she realized that the cold, crushing weight that had sat on her ribs for three years—the weight that had made her lower her eyes every time a rich person walked past her with a tray—was gone.
She walked to the large French doors leading out to the private balcony overlooking the garden.
Below, sitting on the simple wooden bench where the garden path met the lawn, was Adriano Falcone.
He was wearing his dark trousers and a simple white shirt, his big hands resting on his knees, his face turned toward the rising sun. He was not looking at his phone. He was not talking to Leo. He was simply sitting in the morning quiet, listening to the birds in the maple trees.
Rebecca turned back toward the bed.
Clementine had woken up. She was sitting up in the middle of the giant white mattress, rubbing her eyes with her small fists, her dark curls standing up in a wild halo around her head.
“Mommy?” Clementine blinked, looking around the huge, light-filled room with wide, bewildered eyes. “Are we in a hotel?”
Rebecca walked over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and pulled her daughter into her arms, burying her face in the warm, sweet-smelling hair at the crook of Clementine’s neck.
“No, baby,” Rebecca whispered, her tears finally coming—not from shame, not from bleach water, but from the sudden, unbelievable realization that they were safe. “We’re not in a hotel.”
“Are you going to clean the big house today?” Clementine asked, looking toward the door.
Rebecca looked out the French doors at the big man sitting in the garden under the morning light.
May you like
“No, Clementine,” Rebecca said, her voice clear, strong, and steady as the ocean tide rising against the stone wall below the hill. “Today, we’re just going to go for a walk.”
And for the first time in three years, Rebecca Hail held her head high as she walked down the marble stairs, her daughter’s small hand tucked securely inside her own.
