and it will be paid for with my money. As soon as you call the bank and tell them to lift the hold.”
Christopher stares at me, and I feel my stomach drop. I know determination when I see it, and it’s there in spades in his cold, black eyes. He’s not going to budge, but neither am I. We’re at an impasse, the same one we’ve been in since that night in New York City.
Sutton clears his throat. “It’s quite a moral dilemma you’ve got yourself.”
“She finds herself in those often,” Christopher says.
“I was talking to you,” Sutton says in that slow drawl that smooths his sharp words, a flowing stream over sharp rocks. “I knew you were mercenary, but this is cold even for you.”
Christopher gives him a sardonic look. “Is there any reason you’re here or do you just like seeing me at my worst?”
I’m mildly appeased to hear that I’m the reason for his worst days, but he looks remarkably composed if that’s true. Remarkably put together in his tux and shiny shoes. He fits into this room better than Sutton does, better than I do, even if he doesn’t respect the order of things.
“I have a solution to propose,” Sutton says. “Something that might appease everyone in the room. We need someone to smooth things over with the historical society. Neither you nor I have the time or the ability to make nice with them.”
Christopher barks a laugh that makes me flinch. “You’re not suggesting Harper.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I ask, stung more than I should be. Nothing he says should matter to me. It’s a weakness that it does. “That someone thinks I’m good for something more than shopping or spa days?”
Christopher blinks, looking, for maybe the first time in his life, uncertain. “Is that how you think I see you? You’re a talented artist, Harper.”
“And I’m stuck begging for my mother’s life.”
“She’s in remission.”
“How would you know that?”
Sutton leans forward, drawing my attention away from the man I want to throttle. Unlike Christopher he doesn’t look unmoved by my mother’s situation. Instead there’s a notch of concern between his eyes. “So she is in remission?”
“For now.” There’s a sense of relief, however brief, that someone other than me worries about Mom. That particular load, I’ve carried since I was six years old.
“Good.” He relaxes again, as if he cares about what happens to her. And maybe he does. That’s a normal trait, concern for your fellow human beings. “We have a lot poured into this reconstruction. Everything we have, in fact.”
Christopher makes a quelling motion. “This doesn’t concern her.”
“We worked out a thousand different angles with economics and real estate and legal, but we didn’t consider this. Which is probably why our permits have been tied up in city hall for weeks now. We didn’t realize the power the historical society holds—”
“Unofficial power,” Christopher adds darkly.
Sutton nods. “You saw what we missed in less than a minute.”
“Have you really put everything you have into this?” I know that Christopher doesn’t have as much money as the trust fund. Really, who does? His was a white-collar background, for all that his mother married into my family for a few seasons. But I don’t know what he has, specifically. He’s always refused to take even a nominal salary for the work in managing my inheritance. Which is annoying, really. A nice salary and bonuses for the kind of growth the fund has had should be standard. Why hasn’t he let me pay him for it, if he has limited funds?
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Christopher says, which means yes.
“We have enough for construction,” Sutton says, “which isn’t pocket change. But walking away from the library isn’t really an option with what we’ve put into it. It’s our plan A, plan B, and plan C. There’s no alternative.”
“Why didn’t you put some of the trust fund into it? Like as an investment?”
His eyes flash. “That would be unethical.”
“Like letting a sick woman suffer because you’re a pompous asshole?” He could learn a thing or two about concern for your fellow human beings. He doesn’t care about my mother. And he definitely doesn’t care about me. Unethical. Ha!
“She’s not suffering. Her pain is manageable and her prognosis favorable.”
Surprise locks my muscles tight. There’s a healthy dose of suspicion along with it. “Favorable. That’s what her doctor told me last week. Now I want to know how the hell you know anything about her