Chapter Four

Eli

My gaze narrows at the woman across from me.

Fiery hair cut like a boy's. Butterfly earrings. White sweater. Green corduroy overalls. Black sneakers.

Who is she? A maid? But she's not wearing the uniform. A nanny? She isn't wearing that uniform, either. Janice's friend? But isn't Janice just as new to this place as I am?

My assistant turns. "Mr. Strauss," her shoulder straighten, "this is Ms. Quinn Hardy. She's the one Mrs. Shaw recommended to be Marianne's teacher."

Teacher?

The other woman swallows. "It's nice to meet you, Mr...."

She tries to take a step forward but Marianne won't let her. She stumbles and they both fall to the ground.

"Oops," she says.

"Careful." Janice helps them both up and grabs Marianne's shoulders.

Quinn shakes the dirt off her palms and wipes them on the legs of her overalls. Then she puts on a wide smile as she walks towards me.

"As I was saying..." she stretches out her hand, "it's nice to meet you, Mr. Strauss."

How old is she? Twenty-five? I thought she'd be older.

I tuck my hands into my pockets and turn to Janice. "Take Marianne inside and lock her in her room. That should keep her from wandering off."

Marianne starts crying as Janice drags her towards the house. I swear all she's ever done is cause trouble since Julie brought her back to me. She won't do as she's told. She throws a tantrum every day like it's part of her routine. She bites the nannies. She breaks things. She won't sit still. Sometimes I wonder how someone like her could have come out of Meredith. It's not possible she got switched at the hospital, is it?

If I could give her back to her grandmother, I would. But when Harry got diagnosed with prostate cancer, Julie had her hands full. And now that both her daughter and her husband are gone, she's depressed. She needs time. And Marianne needs someone to take care of her. I'm the only choice.

Thank goodness there are nannies who I can relegate that task to. Expensive ones, too, though a lot of them have ended up being a waste of money since they couldn't do their job properly.

My gaze goes back to Quinn. I wonder if she can do hers.

As Marianne approaches the house, she darts towards Quinn again. I stand in the way so she bumps into me, and she falls down and then runs into the house bawling.

"Is this how you usually treat your own daughter, Mr. Strauss?" Quinn asks me.

I look at her. "How?"

She shrugs and rubs her arms. "Coldly."

I've heard the word before. "How I act towards Marianne is none of your concern."

Quinn pouts. "I'm sorry, but are you really her father?"

"Are you really a teacher?" I ask as I let my gaze sweep over her outfit.

Her sneakers tap the ground. "What? Was I supposed to show up in a blazer, blouse, miniskirt and heels?"

"You're supposed to look less childish."

"Children feel more comfortable around people who dress like they do."

"You're her teacher, not her friend," I point out. "She's supposed to respect you and learn from you, not feel comfortable around you."

Quinn puts her hands on her hips. "Are you telling me how to do my job?"

"Weren't you trying to tell me how to do mine?"

"Oh, I see what's going on here. You got hurt because I was implying that you were a bad father and so you decided to imply I'm a bad teacher."

"I was not hurt."

But she's not listening. "For the record, I never said you were a bad father."

"You just implied it."

"I just thought you should have at least talked to Marianne."

"She never listens."

Quinn nods. "Well, she must have gotten that from someone."

I narrow my eyes at her. Did she just say what I think she said?

"Also, I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but as Marianne's teacher, how you act towards her is my concern. You see, my job's not just to teach her about numbers and how to read and how plants grow. That's only half the job, and the less important half at that. More importantly, I have to teach her how to become a good person."

I snort. "Good luck with that."

"But I can't do it alone. You and I are partners here."

"Partners?"

"At the very least, I can't have you tearing down what I build up or we'll never make any progress."

Well, that's the first time I've had a teacher tell me that.

"So what? You want me to hug her and braid her hair and play with her dolls?" I shake my head. "Sorry, but I'm a busy man."

"I'm just - "

"Listen, Ms. Hardy," I cut her off as I lift a finger, "if you're taking this job, and it seems like you are, then you will do as I say. That's what I'm paying you for. And paying you well, I might add."

"You mean like your assistant and your nannies and whoever else you have on your household staff?" She lifts her chin. "Why don't you try paying Marianne, too? Then maybe she'll start listening to you."

"Ms. Hardy - "

"I don't work for you, Mr. Strauss." She places her hand on her chest as she steps back. "As your daughter's teacher, I'm supposed to work with you, and if I can't do that, well, then find another teacher. No, not a teacher. A slave. A robot you can program to do your will. Just remember that robots don't have hearts, so they can't care about your daughter, can they? But hey, why should they when you don't?"

My hands clench into fists inside my pockets. How dare she? No one's ever talked to me like this before. No one.

Maybe it's because of that, though, that I can't say anything. In spite of my seething temper, not a word comes out of my open mouth as Quinn disappears from sight.

Damn it. I guess I'll have to find another teacher for Marianne.

I go inside the house and climb up the stairs. I nearly bump into Janice at the top.

"Where's Marianne?" I ask her.

"In her room," Janice answers. "Where's Quinn?"

"She left."

"Left?" Janice's eyebrows crease. "Already? Well, that's a new record."

I ignore her. "Have you compiled the data I asked you for? If I'm going to turn this wasteland into a farm, I need to know everything I need and everything I'll be up against."

"I'm on it, sir."

"Good." I proceed to the next flight of stairs.

I still don't know what Harry was thinking when he left me this property on his deathbed. Farms aren't really my thing. I suppose he had no choice, though, since he had no heirs. I'm the closest thing to a family he had, and I suppose he wanted to keep this property in the family.

It's not so bad. Maybe with a few dozen people and the right equipment, this piece of land can be profitable in a few months. Then I can go back to my office in Manhattan. Not that I'm needed there. I've done more than enough these past few years to make sure the company sails smoothly for at least three decades.

I reach the top floor and stop. I know the master bedroom is the one at the end of the right wing. I haven't explored the left wing yet, though. I might as well check.

I open the doors as I walk past them and peek inside. Just as I thought, they're all bedrooms. One of them, however, the third on the right, isn't just a bedroom.

The canopied bed with the pink lace, the ivory dresser in the corner, the green walls painted with flowers of various colors tell me this used to be a girl's bedroom.

And the collection of fans and teapots on the shelf tell me it used to be Meredith's.

A knot forms in my throat as I step inside. So this was Meredith's room.

As I look around the room, I can almost imagine her here as a little girl. I can see her lying on the floor with a book in her hands, sleeping among the pillows, standing by the window, sitting in front of the dresser or running her fingers over the black and white keys of the baby grand piano. She looks just like Marianne but gentler, graceful and elegant even at a young age.

I walk towards the shelf and brush my fingers against a jade teapot. They gather dust.

Who knows how long this room has been unoccupied? Not even the maids seem to have been here yet. I'm the first.

Was this what Harry intended? Did he want me to find this room?

Whatever his reasons, I'm glad I found it, and I'm glad it's the same as when Meredith left it. I intend to keep it that way. I've rid our house of all of Meredith's old stuff because it was a constant reminder of what I lost, of what I threw away. For some reason, though, I don't feel that same pain here. Maybe because this room is a reminder of a time when Meredith was young and happy, long before I took everything away from her.

Here, I can remember how she lived.

I give one last look around the room. Then I walk out. As I grab the knob, it rattles in my hand and I realize it's broken. I make a note to replace it and then lock the room after the maids have cleaned up all the dust and cobwebs, though I'll warn them sternly not to move anything. That way, only I can enter this room.

It will be my secret. Mine and Meredith's.

I close the door.