Chapter 14: Gardens Of Recovery
Two weeks after the confrontation in the study, the frost had finally cleared from the estate grounds, leaving the gravel paths damp and crisp underfoot. Eleanor Sterling walked without a cane today, her arm linked securely through mine as we navigated the stone terrace overlooking the south gardens. The cashmere shawl from our first meeting had been replaced by a light wool coat, and the color in her cheeks was a testament to proper nutrition and the elimination of Harrison's toxic regimen.
"Arthur Harrison always looked like a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice too much," Eleanor murmured, pausing to inspect a bed of late-blooming chrysanthemums. Her voice was steady and rich, carrying the unmistakable authority of someone who had built an empire from the ground up. "My late husband trusted him because he went to the right schools. That's the trouble with men like Vance—they confuse pedigree with competence."
"He trusts you, though," I said, adjusting my stride to match hers as we turned back toward the conservatory. "And he's learned to look closer at the details."
"He's learned because of you," she said, turning her head to look at me with sharp, assessing eyes. "You saved my life on a ballroom floor while half a dozen people in thousand-dollar gowns stood around screaming for smelling salts. Then you walked into my house and dismantled a corrupt physician's career without raising your voice. Tell me, Clara—what were you doing serving canapés at the Grand Continental?"
The question was direct, stripped of polite social cushioning, but there was no malice in it. It was simply the curiosity of a woman who understood how the machinery of the city worked.
"The banquet company paid thirty dollars an hour," I said honestly, looking out toward the wrought-iron gates that bordered the property. "My rent went up thirty percent in October, and my savings account ran out when my brother needed dental surgery. You take the shifts you can get."
Eleanor nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly on my arm. "Poverty is an expensive condition. It forces capable people into impossible corners." She stopped walking and turned to face me fully. "Vance has been talking to the board of the Sterling Medical Trust. He wants to create an independent patient-advocacy oversight committee. He thinks you should run it."
I stared at her, the wind rustling the dry leaves along the path. "Mrs. Sterling, I don't have a college degree in administration. I worked the linen cart at Saint Jude's before I took night shifts catering."
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"Degrees teach people how to follow protocols," Eleanor said dryly. "Experience teaches people how to keep from being killed by them. Think about it. Or don't. But you're no longer a temporary employee in this house, Clara. You're family now, whether you signed the papers yet or not."
Before I could answer, the glass doors of the conservatory swung open, and Vance stepped out onto the terrace. He wore a dark wool coat, his tie slightly loosened at the collar, holding two paper cups of coffee from the diner down the road. When he saw us standing together by the garden wall, his expression softened into something steady and unhurried. He walked toward us, bridging the distance without a word, handing me the warm cup as the late-afternoon sun broke through the gray clouds.
