I’ve known Elle for many years, hired her as the public relations consultant through the foundation to put the Genius Grant front and center. “This might be a good sign,” I say, still smiling as I respond to her email confirming I will actually be leaving the house today. “Maybe the board is reaching out. I have to go.”
Ethan looks relieved, propping himself up on his elbow. “Guess we both need to get ready today.”
The grin doesn’t go anywhere as we get up. Ethan leaves to get Fitz ready for my mom’s, and I jump in the shower, prepared to sing into the spray.
An hour later I’m back in my CEO suit, which is maybe overkill for brunch—in the heat, especially. But I can’t stop myself. I finally have an excuse for good heels, full makeup, and a jacket lining cool against my skin.
I step outside as my Lyft arrives. The sun is bright, and I slide on my sunglasses, taking a deep breath of morning air. The driver plays soft classical on the short mile drive from our Hope Village neighborhood to Wayland Square. I keep looking for people staring too closely as we pass by strollers and kids on bikes.
While it’s not much distance, this part of town attracts a certain kind of Providencian. I used to think this area was older, more established, but not wanting to be on the “fancy” Blackstone Boulevard blocks. It feels more understated—as much as that’s possible among homes in the half-a-million-to-million-dollar range.
The streets are long and wind along hills with mature trees shading beautifully landscaped lawns. There do seem to be a lot more young families—well, families with money. It takes two very good incomes or one really great one to move here. A little trust fund on the side never hurts when that private school tuition comes due. As we’ll know soon enough with Fitz. Not that we have it.
“Here we are,” the driver says as we’re cruising along the one-way Angell Street. She parks in the crosswalk in front of the restaurant.
“Thank you,” I say. “Have a great day.”
I feel her watch me hurry into Red Stripe, and I wonder if she’s eaten here or writes it off as a place for East Side snobs. I certainly love it. The menu is more French bistro, even though the place is named for a Jamaican beer. That counts as multicultural in Wayland Square.
My heels click on the black-and-white tile, and I long to sidle up to the cool marble bar with its nicely lit wooden shelves. Even though I don’t know the good news from Elle and the board yet, I feel like celebrating even having hope.
But as soon as I see Elle’s anxious face in the corner booth, I know I won’t be celebrating anything today.
Chapter 6
Elle waves at me with a fake smile from across the crowded restaurant. I feel overdressed in my suit to her three-quarter-sleeve red blazer and dark jeans. As we air-kiss, her face spreads into an eager grin. She’ll tell her other clients about this lunch. It will fuel every cocktail conversation from here to the end of her time.
Did I tell you who I saw?
But I’m desperate, and she’s a public relations person who knows more than anyone else in this town about image and branding and how to get your message across. “You look amazing, like a Cate Blanchett dom,” she says as we sit. “And thin. It’s not the stress?”
I wave her off, uncertain if she means within the past two weeks or the few months I’ve been CEO. “Barre works wonders,” I say. “How are you?”
She takes the opportunity to chatter on about different clients as we investigate the menu and then order.
“But this rich guy is spending all of it,” she says with a laugh. She’s telling me about a man from Newport in the middle of a nasty divorce who doesn’t want his wife to get a cent. “He picked up the tab for everyone in the Safari Room. One waitress said it was almost one hundred grand after word spread. The whole room had surf and turf with bottles of good scotch.”
“That’s hilarious,” I say, and it would have been two weeks ago. I try to stay positive, hoping I misread her initial look at seeing me.
Maybe Elle has great news.
Maybe the board wants me back.
Maybe Miller is out, and they need me to rebrand the Genius Grant project.
Elle fidgets before she says, “So we need to talk.”
Maybe not.
“Sure,” I say brightly, as if whatever she says next won’t change the trajectory of my entire life.
“Well, sweetie.” She pauses to let out a little breath, like she’s about to jump off the high dive. “The board and Miller, especially, want Dez to handle the Genius Grant. In fact, we’re rebranding it the Legacy Project. To take Dr. Castle’s messages to communities impacted by violence. Dez has this big vision for the money and media plans. It’s all going to work out. We thought you’d be happy that it wouldn’t, well, you know, die with him.”
I nod, pretty sure that my happiness has nothing to do with this conversation. “So she’s keeping the million dollars I raised?”
“Raised for Dr. Castle. For his vision. That remains unchanged, despite the sad circumstances.”
I try to swallow the bitterness. “It’s my idea. I could help Dez.”
“Honestly, sweetie, I don’t know that your being a part of it is appropriate. Considering.”
Feeling my face redden, I know no matter the CEO armor and pleasant chitchat, I am humiliated. “Considering what?”
“You’re the only suspect,” she says softly.
The noise in the restaurant gets louder. Every plate clanking, pan slamming, and voice reverberating off the tiled floor blurs into a thrum in my ears. I try to breathe. Tell myself to calm down. It takes effort not to drop my head onto the empty bread plate.
“You okay, Jules?”
“Did the police say that? I am really their only suspect?”
She jumps at my voice, and I realize it was loud. People glance our way. “We’ve been told by several sources inside the police department that you are the only person of interest.” She smooths her napkin in her lap. “As of now.”
“Elle.” I lean forward and stare into her darting gaze. “You don’t think I killed him?”
“No!” She waves her hands. “Of course not. But . . . you were drunk that night. We all saw it. You shouldn’t have been meeting him after hours. It’s not a good look, even without . . . the evidence.”
I have to close my eyes. This can’t be happening. I thought surely, she’d have good news, not the worst news.
“I’m so sorry,” she says with such finality.
“It’ll get cleared up soon,” I argue. “Can’t you buy me more time?”
She tries to blink away the pity. “The board really appreciates your service to the Poe Foundation.”
“No,” I say. “Don’t do this, Elle. I gave them my whole career. Fifteen years,” I whisper, careful not to yell, though I want to scream and throw my empty bread plate. “This job is everything . . . what I’ve wanted . . . what I deserve. They can’t fire me.”
“Well, they can, Jules. Miller put all kinds of outs in your contract. I got him to listen to reason. He agreed to let me come here and offer you this.” She slides an envelope across the table. “If you’ll sign the NDA, the money is yours.”