Chapter 3 - The Arrival of the Guests
By the time I reached my room on the second floor, the shouting downstairs had dissolved into desperate negotiation.
Through my floorboards, I heard my mother arguing with my father, Ryan begging my dad to cover the charge, and Lisa's firm, professional voice explaining that payment was required before a single warming tray would be ignited.
Ultimately, my father paid it. He had no choice. Ryan’s primary guest of honor wasn't just any college buddy—it was Marcus Thorne, the senior director at the regional logistics firm where Ryan had been trying to land an executive sales promotion for six months.
Ryan had bragged for weeks that he was hosting Marcus at his "family's estate" to prove he possessed the refined taste and social standing required for the upper management role.
From my bedroom window, I watched cars begin to pull into the driveway.
Sleek BMWs, an Audi SUV, and Marcus Thorne's pristine Mercedes.
Around six o'clock, Lisa knocked softly on my door. She stepped inside carrying a small plate piled high with grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and fresh asparagus, along with a glass of iced tea.
"Here," Lisa said, setting the plate on my nightstand. "I hijacked some of the high-end catering for the person who actually deserves it."
"How does it look down there?" I asked, taking a fork.
Lisa burst out laughing. "It's an absolute circus. Your brother is sweating through a polo shirt trying to look like a gracious host, but your dad looks like he wants to swallow a handful of nails. The catering crew is set up on the patio, serving food like a five-star resort."
"Did Ryan pay Dad back?"
"Are you kidding?" Lisa snorted. "Ryan promised he'd 'work it out later.' But here's the best part: Marcus Thorne brought his wife, Evelyn. And Evelyn Thorne happens to be on the board of trustees for the Denver Children's Hospital."
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "Evelyn Thorne?"
"Yes," Lisa smiled wickedly. "And do you know what Evelyn asked your mother three minutes after walking through the back gate?"
"What?"
"'Who did your lovely floral arrangements and food prep?' She thought your mom hired our company because your family was dripping with old-money sophistication."
I looked at my brace. "Does she know about me?"
"Not yet," Lisa said. "Ryan told everyone you were upstairs 'resting after a minor slip.' He made it sound like you bumped your toe."
A sudden, sharp coldness washed over me.
A minor slip.
A bumped toe.
He was hiding me. He was erasing my injury—and the fact that he had tried to force an injured woman to cook his corporate dinner—so he could look like a flawless golden boy in front of his prospective boss.
I set the fork down on the plate.
"Lisa," I said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Hand me my crutches."
Lisa’s eyes lit up with pure, unadulterated delight. "Oh, Catherine. You're evil."
"No," I replied, pulling myself up and locking my brace into position. "I'm just tired of being invisible."
I hobbled out of my room, navigated the carpeted hallway, and reached the top of the grand staircase that overlooked the living room and the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the patio.
I didn't rush. The rhythmic thump-clack, thump-clack of my aluminum crutches echoed loudly off the hardwood floors.
Downstairs, the chatter paused.
I began my slow, methodical descent. Every step was deliberate. My left leg was held straight out in front of me, wrapped in rigid black fiberglass from ankle to upper thigh.
As I reached the main floor, I saw the patio through the open glass doors.
Marcus Thorne was standing near the pool, holding a wine glass, chatting with my father. His wife, Evelyn, dressed in an immaculate white linen jumpsuit, was sitting on a patio sofa near my mother. Ryan was hovering nearby, trying desperately to steer the conversation toward logistics strategy.
Then Marcus turned his head and saw me.
His eyes widened slightly. "Oh, my goodness. Is that your daughter, Daniel?"
The entire patio fell silent.
My mother’s face instantly lost every drop of color. Ryan froze, his wine glass halfway to his lips, looking at me as if I were a ghost that had come to drag him into hell.
"Catherine!" my mother squeaked, her voice an octave too high. "Sweetheart, what are you doing downstairs? We told you to stay in bed!"
"I came to say hello to Ryan's guests," I said smoothly, using my crutches to navigate through the sliding glass door onto the patio deck.
Marcus stepped forward immediately, offering a steadying hand as I navigated the small ledge. "Careful there! Good grief, young lady, that looks like a serious injury. What happened?"
"It’s a fractured tibia," I said, smiling warmly at Marcus. "I had a bit of a disaster on a hiking trail four days ago. Had emergency orthopedic surgery on Friday."
Evelyn Thorne gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Friday?! That was only three days ago!" She shot a shocked glance at my mother. "You poor thing! Should you even be standing?"
"My surgeon explicitly forbade weight-bearing," I replied casually. "He said if I stood on it for more than ten minutes at a time, I risked shifting the bone pins."
Evelyn looked around the patio, her eyes lingering on the catering staff, the elaborate food spread, and then on my brother.
"When Ryan said you were resting after a slip," Evelyn murmured, her tone turning decidedly cooler, "I assumed you had a sprained ankle."
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"Oh, Ryan has always been an optimist," I said smoothly, letting my gaze drift over to my brother, who was sweating so profusely his hair was sticking to his forehead. "In fact, up until two hours ago, he was convinced I was going to cook this entire ten-person dinner from scratch on one leg."
The air on the patio turned instantly to ice.
