Page 33 of The Heiress
I hurriedly took a final gulp of my latte, my mind racing with this newfound knowledge, catastrophic and profoundly sad, though a little bewildered by our hasty departure.
I rummaged in my bag, scrunching up some notes in my hand indicating that I’d take care of the tip, placing it under the saucer. Gathering my own bags, I offered to carry the picnic. Laura took several of my bags and I balanced the picnic box between my arms. Izzy appeared ahead of us and opened the door, her ponytail bouncing up and down.
“Thank you,” Laura said, “have a good day.”
“You’re welcome,” Izzy said, still holding the door. But she suddenly pulled on my arm and the box wobbled. “Hey,” she whispered shyly, discreetly showing me the bills in her fist, “I don’t think you meant to leave this much.” There was twelve dollars in crumpled notes.
I merely nodded and said with a smile, “The lattes were divine and the service was excellent.”
Dad had always said good service should be rewarded, and admittedly I felt a little sorry for Izzy having to work over the holiday weekend. Not that I knew anything about her family or her circumstances. For all I knew, her family might have owned the cafe.
But the amount of money I gave her was insignificant in my eyes, and there was something more pressing going on in my head—Phoenix’s accident. Something tore at my heart, not only Phoenix’s injury, but how it affected Laura too. And in that moment something stirred deep within, something that made all my issues seem flighty and frivolous.
I’d been sent to boarding school for my own well-being, to be given a chance to live a normal life, but I’d seen it as being wronged, played a victim role.
I wasn’t a victim; never had been. I was a privileged girl with every opportunity, and I’d been given the most valuable one of all—fitting into this world and making genuine connections and living a normal, ordinary, everyday existence. That’s what my parents wanted for me—not a life of wealth and scrutiny and living in a goldfish bowl, but for me to find my place in the world.My place.
For me to find me.
Chapter 11
Phoenix
Ientered the weightroom full of angst. Mom was acting all naive, falling for Elisha’s situation about being alone for Thanksgiving. There was nothing surprising about her parents going abroad—probably didn’t want to put up with her surly, snappy attitude. The girl could bite, no doubt about it. Perhaps that was the reason she’d been sent to Covington Prep—to give her parents some peace and quiet.
But Mom’s ears were deaf to my warning, and she offered to take Elisha shopping. I mean, I’d tried to be friendly. When she said she’d played tennis, well, there was an opportunity for us to hang out, but she cut me down immediately.
All of that, plus Dad’s impending lawsuit pushed me to work harder, fifteen reps instead of twelve, increasing my weights. And a treadmill run. Up to now, I’d only walked on the treadmill, afraid the impact might upset my pelvis, an illogical thought that the jarring might loosen the plate and screws. It took time to heal and I didn’t want to undo the surgeon’s good work. It had been reiterated that six months was the base for recovery, and a too aggressive return to activity could cause setbacks like a re-fracture or hardware breakage.
But it had been a little over six months now, and deep down I knew I feared failure. Because if I didn’t try, it meant I hadn’t failed, and my future could be bright. If I tried to run—and couldn’t—I had nothing.
But I had run out there on the court today—and Elisha had seen it. Though I was under no illusion that a few steps could hardly be classified as running, but it was a start. And when Max came back from his visit to his grandparents’ house, maybe I’d be able to hit with him properly.
I walked first, gradually increasing the treadmill speed, forcing my legs into a jog. Not brave enough to let go of the hand rails, I kept the pace constant, letting the clock tick by. I’d start with a five minute goal, pathetic when I used to run 5k at the drop of a hat, but it wasn’t my legs that were struggling—it was my lungs. I was seriously unfit, and considering I’d spent ten weeks in complete bedrest, it shouldn’t have been a shock. It was daunting to think I was virtually back to square one in my training.
I wrote my new goal on the whiteboard, to increase my running by five minutes a day. For Mom’s sake, I had to amp up my training and set more specific goals and making the spring tennis team was number one; I wrote that down, jamming it in beneath all the other goals. After five minutes, I hopped on the bike, a good way to build my cardio fitness without overdoing my legs.
