withered like a half-sheared, weather-beaten branch. She wore a scarf around her head—Hermès, no doubt—though wisps of white hair slipped under its edges. She still wore matching Chanel coordinates, but the tweed pantsuit hung off a frail body that seemed mostly skin and bones. When she breathed, something rattled in her lungs from across the room, like a brewing storm.
“Sit down, Eric,” she ordered, gesturing toward the couch with a thin fingernail still polished a tasteful, girlish pink.
“Grandmother.” He greeted her with a stiff nod, but obeyed. Old habits die hard. “It’s…a pleasure to see you again.”
It was not. But Eric’s manners were too well-entrenched to say anything else. He might not have forgiven her for what she did, but he was too well-bred to be rude. Fuck.
Grandmother balanced her hands on the oxygen tank in front of her, then appraised her grandson openly. Eric willed himself not to look away or fidget with his clothes. You’re a man, Eric. Remember that. Because he was not the scrawny twenty-two-year-old she last saw. Since telling his family where they could stick it, he had gone to the best law school in the world, worked his ass off at a top-twenty firm, and then started his own shop with one of his best friends. Eric was proud of what he had accomplished without his family’s money or connections. He didn’t need this frail woman’s approval anymore. He didn’t need any of them and hadn’t for a long time.
“You’ve grown up.” Grandmother waved at Garrett to bring in the tea. “You’ve done well with your little law firm, I understand. Although I see it hasn’t taught you to stop dressing like a pauper.”
Eric crossed one foot over his knee, ignoring her jibe at his T-shirt and jeans. He generally preferred more tailored looks, to tell the truth. A whole rack of designer suits hung in his closet at home. Armani. Boss. Tom Ford. Burberry. He liked a nicely cut lapel, a well-chosen pocket square. He had a tailor in Boston on speed dial. The worn denim and concert T-shirt were for her—He knew they would piss her off.
“I have done well,” he agreed. There was no point in being modest. Since he, Skylar Crosby, and Kieran Beckford started Copley Associates two years ago, the firm had gone from three attorneys to ten, and they were looking to hire two more. They’d already developed a reputation for being ruthless and savvy in a city chock-full of lawyers.
Grandmother nodded. “Yes, yes. Although I’m sure it’s helped to have the Sterling and de Vries names behind it, hasn’t it? Nothing like new money to get things started. Isn’t it Sterling’s wife, that little no-name from Brooklyn who nearly ruined Ellen Chambers’s family, who’s your partner? Pity. His first wife came from such good family.”
Her eyes gleamed in that way they always did when she talked about other members of her “station.” Always conniving, always judging. She wasn’t stupid. She likely knew all the details of Eric’s business arrangement with Skylar and her husband, Brandon Sterling, a former investment magnate and now-inventor. Brandon divested from his companies six years ago to play in his lab, but the guy still had one of the biggest stock portfolios on the eastern seaboard, and his new company’s legal needs initially kept Copley afloat. In Grandmother’s estimation, Sterling was a fish worth watching.
Or, Eric wondered vaguely, was Brandon a whale? Would that make his grandmother Captain Ahab?
Instead of answering, Eric remained quiet. He knew that game, and he wasn’t there to play it. It would be easier, though, if he actually knew why he was there at all.
Garrett wheeled in the tea tray and fixed them cups while they eyed each other over the porcelain. By the time he parked it on one side of the room, even Grandmother was ready to be done with the silence.
“Leave us, Garrett.” It was not until the old man was gone that she turned again to Eric, taking a deep breath through her oxygen mask before speaking. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I requested your presence.”
“‘Request’ is a bit generous, but sure. I’m curious.”
He had received a phone call two days ago from her personal assistant, who simply said Eric was expected for tea. To deal with an emergency. That was it. He could have ignored it, just like he ignored all of the embossed invitations for Christmas dinner or sporadic phone calls to join the family at the Hamptons. They had an arrangement.