Chapter 7 - The Transition Period
By November, the Beacon Hill mansion had undergone a silent, structural revolution.
The protocols remained, but they had been heavily amended. The rule against "lingering" was replaced by a mandatory three-o'clock tea in the conservatory, a room that had previously been used only to store dead ferns. The cook had returned from Sedona, not because she was ordered to, but because she had received a handwritten letter from Julian stating that his daughter’s friend required a specific brand of organic peanut butter that could only be sourced from a market in Cambridge.
Marisol no longer cleaned the east wing. She had been moved to the second-floor office, her title changed to Director of Residential Assets, a role that essentially involved her sitting across from Julian for four hours a day and telling him when his real estate acquisitions were being too cruel to the local tenants.
She still lived in her apartment in East Boston, despite Julian’s three attempts to buy her a brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue.
"It's too much, Julian," she said one Tuesday evening, standing by the high windows of his study. The first snow of the season was falling, large, lazy flakes that turned the iron gates below into silver lace. "People are already talking. The papers call me the 'Cinderella of the Prudential Tower.' They think I used my daughter to get into your pocket."
Julian rolled his chair up beside her, his movement smooth and silent. He had started a new physical therapy regimen in October—a brutal, three-hour-a-day process that left him sweating and exhausted, but yesterday, for three seconds, he had stood upright without the support of the parallel bars.
"Let them talk, Marisol," Julian said, his hand reaching out to find hers on the window sill. He didn't cover it with a glove. He just held it, his fingers long and warm against her skin. "The papers didn't see the ledger. They don't know that without you, I’d be sitting in a federal court right now explaining why my partner was buying yachts with municipal bonds."
Marisol looked down at their joined hands. "Sofia asks about you every morning, you know. She thinks your wheelchair is a rocket ship. She wants to know when we're going to the moon."
"We're going to Hartford on Thursday," Julian said dryly. "It's close enough."
He turned her hand over, his thumb tracing the small line of her palm. "Vivian called me yesterday from Palm Beach. She said she heard I was 'recovering' and wanted to know if I needed anyone to accompany me to the winter gala."
Marisol felt a sudden, sharp contraction in her chest, a familiar, old fear that had nothing to do with cash or ledgers. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her I already had a director of assets," Julian said, his gray eyes turning up to meet hers, his expression completely devoid of the old, cold armor. "And that she doesn't like the color of Vivian's car."
Marisol laughed, a soft, clear sound that caused the heavy mahogany room to feel suddenly small and warm. She leaned her shoulder against his, her dark hair falling against his charcoal jacket.
May you like
"You're a very strange man, Julian Ashford," she whispered.
"I am a businessman, Marisol," he said, his fingers tightening around hers as the snow continued to fill the low places of the city. "I know a good investment when I see one."
