I checked my watch. It was exactly 7:00 in the evening. Punctuality was not a virtue in this house. It was a requirement for survival.
The maid let me in with a sympathetic nod, taking my coat. The air inside was chilled to a precise 68°, smelling of lemon polish and old money. I walked into the dining room.
There was no food on the table. The long mahogany surface, polished to a mirror shine, was bare except for a crystal pitcher of water, three glasses, and a thick leather-bound folder sitting directly at my father’s place setting.
My mother, Diane Caldwell, was standing by the window, swirling a glass of Chardonnay. She did not turn when I entered. She was wearing a silk dress that likely cost more than my car. Her posture rigid, her hair coiffed into a helmet of blonde perfection.
My father was seated at the head of the table, his fingers steepled together. He looked like a statue of a Roman senator—if Roman senators wore Italian bespoke suits.Sit down, Emory,” my father said.
His voice was smooth, devoid of warmth. I pulled out the heavy chair to his right.
“Where is dinner?” I asked, though the sinking feeling in my gut told me the answer.
“We can eat after we handle business,” my mother said, finally turning around.
Her eyes swept over my outfit—a simple blazer and slacks—and I saw the familiar flicker of disapproval.
“We have a situation with the Meridian Group. A temporary cash flow issue.”
I looked at my father.
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