Chương 9 - THE SECOND AUCTION
One year after my five-dollar bid, Hawthorne held the charity gala again.
I almost refused to attend.
Then Elaine, the foundation director, said:
“You work here.”
Right.
This time I wore a dress I actually bought for myself.
No repair stitches.
My checking account contained more than six dollars.
I did not photograph it.
Growth.
Walter attended.
Anonymously?
Absolutely not.
The program listed:
WALTER ALDEN – RETIRED FOUNDER, ALDEN CIVIC HOLDINGS
He complained.
“You ruined the experiment.”
“We are never doing that again.”
Nathan agreed.
Rare unity.
The auction included dinners, vacations, art commissions.
No Walter.
He had banned himself.
Then the auctioneer introduced:
One custom illustrated family portrait by Mara Ellis, Creative Director, Hawthorne Children’s Arts.
I wanted to die.
Nathan looked delighted.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Traitor.”
The starting bid was five hundred.
Walter immediately raised his paddle.
“Five dollars.”
The ballroom laughed.
I pointed at him.
“Security.”
Nathan almost fell out of his chair laughing.
The bid eventually reached twelve thousand.
A family from Cambridge won.
Good cause.
No humiliation.
Afterward, I stood near the same coat check where Nathan had interrogated me.
He appeared beside me.
“You knew.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Who I was.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Are rich people always this repetitive?”
“Apparently.”
He handed me my coat.
Then:
“I owe you an apology.”
I blinked.
“For the coat-check interrogation?”
“Yes.”
“One year late.”
“I conduct thorough investigations.”
I laughed.
“Accepted.”
Then his expression changed.
Serious.
“Mara.”
“No.”
His eyes widened.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“Your tone.”
Walter suddenly appeared ten feet away.
I pointed at him.
“Did you plan this?”
Walter raised both hands.
“For once, no.”
Nathan glared.
Walter retreated.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
Nathan took a breath.
“I’m not proposing.”
“Good.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Too enthusiastic.”
“Continue.”
He smiled.
“I want you to move in with me.”
I froze.
Not proposal.
Still enormous.
Nathan continued quickly:
“Not because of money.”
“Good.”
“You keep your apartment if you want.”
“Interesting.”
“No combined finances.”
“Excellent.”
“No—”
“Nathan.”
He stopped.
I looked at him.
“I love you.”
He went completely still.
Apparently I had said it first.
Good.
His eyes softened.
“I love you too.”
“But.”
He sighed.
“Of course.”
“I am not moving into a house where your staff knows where my shoes go better than I do.”
His mouth twitched.
“So?”
“If we do this, we find somewhere new.”
Nathan stared.
“You want me to move?”
“Yes.”
“Out of the Beacon Hill house?”
“That’s Walter’s.”
“He gave it to me.”
“Still feels like Walter’s.”
Nathan thought.
Then:
“Okay.”
That answer mattered.
No argument about value.
No explanation of history.
Just okay.
We rented a townhouse.
Not bought.
Nathan found renting personally offensive.
I loved it.
“Someone else owns our walls.”
“Yes.”
“Horrifying.”
“You’ll survive.”
He did.
Walter visited and said the living room was too small.
I threatened to charge him five dollars.
May you like
He stopped complaining.
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