Page 37 of Knot Her Beta

“Where to, sir?” he asks as he settles behind the wheel.

“Finch residence in Ashbourne.”

I haven’t had to give the address in years. The Finch house is a landmark in Ashbourne.

“You got it.”

The driver merges into traffic, and Connecticut slides past the window, strip malls giving way to older neighborhoods, then to the tree-lined streets of Ashbourne proper.

Maples and oaks, still bare from winter, line the road, their black branches etched across the dark sky. Through them, I glimpse familiar mansions set back from the road, each one immaculate in its own way. Colonial, Federal, and a few Victorians with wraparound porches. The kind of neighborhood where Christmas lights go up on the same weekend every year and come down by January second.

The car turns onto my parents’ street, and the three-story, white painted-brick mansion comes into view, carriage lanterns glowing on either side of the front door.

The car passes through the open, black-iron gate and drives up the circular drive to stop at the front door.

I pay, then struggle to climb out, my stiff knee not wanting to cooperate. By the time I straighten, my bag waits for me at the bottom of the steps, and the driver is climbing back behind the wheel.

Manicured boxwoods trimmed into perfect green rectangles flank the front steps, and as I drag myself and my bag up toward the door, where the porch light reflects off a brass knocker that’s been polished to a mirror shine.

My father opens the door before I reach the top step. “There you are. The flight was on time. Good.”

He steps back, holding the door with one hand and a tablet in the other. “I’ve pulled the Q1 projections. The timeline for the Bennett acquisition has moved up, and I want your read on the integration before Monday.”

He thrusts the tablet at me as I cross the threshold. Quarterly projections glow on the screen, certain cells highlighted in a pale, administrative blue.

“Dad, I’m barely through the door,” I protest. “Let me at least settle in.”

Behind him, my mother appears in the doorway to the living room. She crosses to me in three quick steps, kisses my cheek, and pulls back to study my face.

“Turbulence?” she asks.

“Not much.”

“Good. Dinner will start soon, and the Bennetts are joining us.” She smooths a hand down the front of her cream cashmere sweater. “Caroline mentioned she’s been following your Pinecrest work. I thought it would be nice for you two to catch up.”

I sigh and take in the familiar foyer with its black-and-white marble tile laid in a checkerboard pattern, the crystal chandelier overhead throwing prisms across the walls, and a side table of dark walnut that holds a vase of white lilies. Their scent fills the air, nothing like the wild roses that climb Emily’s porch trellises.

I set my suitcase beside the table and take the tablet from my father’s hand. Refusing it would start a fight I’m not ready to have.

“Overall, the integration works,” I say, scrolling through the spreadsheet with a thumb. “The media division overlap is where I’d focus. Bennett’s print holdings could complement the digital side if we reposition the subscription model.”

My father grunts with approval. “Exactly my thought. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”

He turns toward his study, already moving on to the next item.

My mother touches my arm. “Your room has been made up. There are fresh towels in the bath. Go change into dinner attire, please.”

I turn my head to stare at the broad swoop of stairs leading to the second floor. I had told my parents about my injury, told them how stairs were hard for me now, but only servants sleep on the ground floor, and no exception would be made.

I head for the staircase, cane tapping on each tread. My knee protests the climb, a hot spike driving up from the joint with every step. By the time I reach the landing, sweat coats my forehead, and I grip the banister hard enough for my knuckles to ache.

The hallway is as I remember it. Same cream wallpaper. Same landscape paintings in gold frames. Same runner underfoot, worn thin in the center from thirty years of footsteps.

My bedroom door stands open. Inside, the twin bed has been replaced with a queen, but the mahogany desk is the same, with the scratch on the left corner where I dropped a textbook in tenth grade. The bookshelf holds my old rowing trophies, dusted and arranged by height. The windows overlook the backyard, where the swimming pool sits covered for winter, a blue tarp stretched taut over the surface.

I set the tablet on the desk and lift my suitcase onto the foot bench to unzip it. Blazer, dress trousers, and a pressed shirt I packed at the bottom, where they wouldn’t wrinkle.

I change slowly, working around the cane, the bad leg stiff and uncooperative. The blazer fits, but the shoulders sit wrong since the last time I wore it. Since the accident, I’ve put on muscle from all those months of physical therapy, and the cut is too narrow across the back.