Page 5 of Girl Anonymous

Nate rumbled back a few words in a polite tone.

Mrs. Arundel rolled in, followed by her long-time assistant, Béatrice, a wispy woman with a face as expressionless as Nate’s. In her case, Maarja suspected an addictive use of Botox and a vacuous mind.

Maarja had met Béatrice during prior moves. Her thin blond hair draped around her long pale face making it look longer. She wore a pale pink lipstick and a bright pink blush, her eyelids drooped like a basset hound’s, and she always sniffed so much Maarja wanted to snap at her to blow her nose. But that was all external; Maarja didn’t like her because of her morose air; with her, she carried her own personal gray sky, and Maarja was convinced Béatrice remained employed based on Mrs. Arundel’s soft heart.

Dante beamed as he leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheeks. “Mère, did you come to say goodbye to your cherished library?”

She cupped his face in both her bony sun-marked hands and patted his cheeks. “I’ll miss San Francisco and my lovely townhouse, but I know you’ll recreate the library in my new home in Montana.”

“Every bookshelf,” he promised. “Every cove molding. Every hideous leering cherub on the ceiling.”

Maarja hid a grin. Good to know she wasn’t the only one who thought the naked cherubs on pink clouds were a little over the top…as it were.

“They’re not leering.” For such a small woman, Mrs. Arundel had a full-throated voice. “Those are the satyrs.”

“Those, too.” He straightened up and flicked the button on her wheelchair, putting it into manual.

Before he could move her, Béatrice said, “Mrs. Arundel, do you mind if I go back down to the office? Standing hurts my back.”

“Of course, dear. Go on.” Mrs. Arundel gestured her out.“I’ll catch up with you there. Remember to sort the mail while you wait for me.”

“Yes. The mail…” Béatrice used a die-away tone as if sorting would ruin her manicure, which was beautifully done with a light pink gloss, and drifted from the room.

“She’s having a bad day,” Mrs. Arundel confided to no one in particular.

“Does she ever have a good day?” Dante asked irritably.

“She couldn’t sit down in here?” Maarja must have thought it a little too loud.

Or Dante had his own psychic moments, for he replied, “Exactly, Maarja. Mère, we pay Béatrice to be your companion and assistant, not to watch videos on her phone.”

“You know the result of her injuries, poor thing.” Mrs. Arundel really sounded compassionate.

Dante did not. “Yes. Her lover left her after the explosion. Which proves he was the shallow bastard Father told her he was. Maybe she should have listened to her younger and smarter cousin.” He maneuvered Mrs. Arundel close enough to watch the packing. “You know Maarja?”

“I love Maarja. She’s moved things for me before.”

Maarja came to kiss Mrs. Arundel’s smooth cheek and face the same scrutiny she’d given her son. “Young lady, you’re more beautiful each time I see you.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.” Maarja judged Mrs. Arundel to be about sixty, thin and groomed, her skin glowing with her inner spirit and perhaps an advanced skin-smoothing laser treatment. Her stylish green T-shirt dress was ruched to emphasize her well-toned figure, and around her shoulder she draped a black throw that weighed heavily on her shoulders and down her back.

The elevator dinged again, and Alex strode in. She nodded decisively to Maarja and moved into position beside her.

“Mrs. Arundel, this is Alex. We’ve worked closely togethermany times, and you can be assured we hold your belongings as dearly as our own.”

“Alex—” Mrs. Arundel extended her hand “—it’s wonderful to meet you.” She smiled again, a mother’s tender version of the smile that transformed Dante’s face into something vaguely acceptable.

Alex lightly embraced Mrs. Arundel.

Which showed the happy power Mrs. Arundel exuded, for Maarja had known Alex since their teens, and Alex was chary with her hugs.

Mrs. Arundel utilized her wheelchair to allow her guests a sense of height, to put them at ease, to encourage them to speak tenderly, and to undermine any anxiety about dealing with a woman who’d suffered a broken spine and lost the ability to walk. “Alex, you don’t look like Maarja, but you share the same gestures and expressions. Are you sisters?”

The other thing about Mrs. Arundel: she observed what most people never did.

Alex glanced at Maarja. “We are sisters of the heart. We were raised in the same foster home.”

Mrs. Arundel leaned her head back on her headrest. “For you both to be such lovely young ladies, your foster mother must have been an amazing woman.”

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