Chapter 9 - Entanglements
I stared at the screen. Margaret Mercer’s name flashed in bright letters, accompanied by a photo she had personally approved for my corporate bio.
“You should probably get that,” Elena said quietly, looking back down at her sketchbook, though I could see the slight tension returning to her shoulders. “Sounds important.”
“It’s just my mother,” I sighed, declining the call and slipping the phone back into my pocket. “She’s in Palm Springs, but somehow she still manages to micromanage my life from five hundred miles away.”
Elena chuckled softly, flipping the page of her pad. “Mothers have a special radar for that. My mom was the same way before she passed. Always knowing when I was eating cereal for dinner or skipping my coat.”
There was a vulnerability in her tone that caught me off guard. Up until now, our banter had been light, safe, and shielded by humor. But mentioning her mother peeled back a layer, revealing a shared depth of loss that neither of us had formally acknowledged yet.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “When did she pass?”
“Two years ago,” Elena replied, her pencil resting idly against the paper. She didn't look sad, exactly; rather, she looked like someone who had carried a heavy stone up a mountain and finally learned how to balance its weight. “It’s why I threw myself into landscape architecture. Plants don't lie to you. They grow if you care for them, and they wither if you neglect them. It’s honest work.”
I looked at her, realizing just how different she was from everyone in my social circle. For years, the women my mother paraded through our estate were defined by pedigree, fund-raising committees, and hidden agendas. Elena was defined by dirt under her fingernails, raw talent, and an unshakeable authenticity.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat slightly to break the heavy silence. “If you’re done for the morning, I make terrible scrambled eggs, but I make decent coffee. Care to join me on the main patio?”
Elena looked up, a mischievous twinkle returning to her eyes. “Only if you promise to let me grade your cooking honestly this time.”
We walked back toward the main house side-by-side, the morning breeze carrying the scent of salt and pine. As we rounded the corner of the west wing, however, the heavy oak doors swung open, and Teresa stepped out onto the patio holding a tablet.
Her face wasn't wearing its usual cheerful grin. It held a look of tightly managed urgency.
May you like
“Adrian,” Teresa said, stepping forward. “We have a slight complication. Your mother just called the landline. Her flight was canceled due to weather in Palm Springs, which means she chartered a private jet and is landing at the local airstrip right now. She’ll be back at the estate in twenty minutes.”
I froze. My mother arriving unannounced meant one thing: chaos, interrogation, and zero privacy.
