The Woman Who Took Charge

Elsa Whitmore had discovered that being rich was considerably less enjoyable when nobody else was responsible for being rich on your behalf. She had always had money, of course, because the Whitmores had owned land outside Briar County for three generations and Elsa had grown up in a house where nobody discussed the price of groceries unless cattle prices were falling, but during the sixteen years of her marriage she had never written a check larger than the electric bill, never sat across from an accountant while he explained trusts, deductions, investments, estate taxes, property holdings, or why she apparently owned pieces of companies she had never heard of, because Thomas had handled all of that while Elsa handled the ranch house, the horses, the garden, the charity luncheon every spring, and the innumerable small pieces of daily life that made everything around them work. Then Thomas had left. Not died. Elsa sometimes thought dying would have been easier to explain. He had simply announced, shortly after his forty-sixth birthday, that he had fallen in love with a twenty-year-old former cheerleader named Madison who possessed, according to Thomas, “a way of seeing the world without complications.” Elsa had stared at him across the breakfast table. “She’s twenty.” “That’s not the point.” “It feels rather like the point.” “She understands me.” “She was in high school two years ago.” “Elsa.” “What?” “You’re making this ugly.” She had laughed then, because there were moments when laughter was all that remained between dignity and murder. A year later Thomas was gone, Madison was posting photographs from tropical resorts, the ranch had been sold as part of the divorce settlement, and Elsa had moved away from the town where absolutely everyone knew everything. Then Aunt Cordelia died. Cordelia Whitmore, Elsa’s father’s older sister, had been unmarried, terrifyingly clever, spectacularly wealthy, and possessed of the conviction that most men were incompetent until proven otherwise. Apparently Elsa had been her favorite niece. The inheritance included investments, commercial properties, two apartment buildings, several enormous accounts, and a limestone mansion on thirty-seven acres less than forty minutes from the city. When Elsa’s attorney told her the approximate value, Elsa stared at him. “That cannot possibly be right.” “It is.” “You added a zero.” “I did not.” “Then Aunt Cordelia was insane.” “Possibly, but she was also extremely successful.” And so, at thirty-eight years old, Elsa found herself with more money than she had ever imagined possessing and absolutely no confidence that she understood any of it. There were accountants. There were lawyers. There were investment advisors. There were estate managers. There were men in expensive suits who nodded reassuringly while saying things Elsa only partially understood. Every conversation seemed to end with somebody asking her to sign something. Occasionally she wondered whether they were all slowly stealing from her. The terrible thing was that Elsa suspected they knew she wondered. The even more terrible thing was that Elsa suspected they knew she could not prove it. Which was why she went to the city market every Thursday morning. Nobody there knew Elsa Whitmore. At least she hoped they did not. She wore jeans, brown ankle boots, a white blouse, and an old olive jacket she had owned since before Thomas decided twenty-year-olds were uncomplicated, left her handbag in the car, carried cash in her pocket, and spent several hours being an ordinary woman buying tomatoes. It was wonderful. She wandered between stalls one sunny Thursday in September, carrying a paper bag containing peaches and bread, when a woman’s voice rose sharply behind her. “Hey! Beautiful! I need help here.” Elsa stopped. She looked left. Then right. There were at least twenty people nearby. She continued walking. “Blonde woman in the green jacket!” Elsa turned around. A tall brunette stood beside a delivery truck surrounded by wooden crates overflowing with carrots, kale, radishes, peppers, and tomatoes. She was perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three, broad-shouldered without being bulky, strong in the effortless way that came from using one’s body for something other than a gym membership, with dark hair twisted into a messy knot and sleeves rolled above muscular forearms. She pointed directly at Elsa. “Yes, you.” Elsa blinked. “Me?” “Unless somebody else here is wearing your jacket.” “You called me beautiful.” “I was trying to get your attention.” “That usually works?” “So far.” Elsa laughed despite herself. “What do you need?” The woman bent toward a heavy crate. “My delivery guy disappeared because apparently unloading vegetables is emotionally overwhelming. Grab that end.” Elsa stared at the crate. Then at the woman. “You don’t even know me.” “You look useful.” Elsa actually put a hand against her chest. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in months.” The brunette paused. Her expression softened for perhaps half a second. Then she jerked her chin toward the crate. “Prove me right.” Elsa put down her purchases, crouched, slid her fingers beneath the rough wooden edge, and lifted. The brunette’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.” “What?” “You actually are useful.” “I grew up on a ranch.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Then stop pretending that crate is heavy.” Elsa stared at her. The brunette grinned. Elsa grinned back. Together they carried it toward the stall. Then another. And another. By the fourth crate Elsa had removed her jacket. By the seventh her hair had fallen into her face and there was dirt on one knee of her jeans. By the tenth she was happier than she had been in weeks. “What’s your name?” the woman asked. “Elsa.” “Elsa what?” “Just Elsa.” The brunette gave her a suspicious look. “Are you in witness protection?” “No.” “Running from the law?” “Not recently.” “That answer worries me.” Elsa laughed. “And you?” “Carmen.” “Just Carmen?” Carmen narrowed her eyes. “Now you’re making fun of me.” “A little.” Carmen pointed toward several bunches of carrots. “Stack those.” “Yes, boss.” “Don’t call me boss.” “You’re extremely bossy.” “That’s different.” Two hours later Elsa stood behind the stall while Carmen counted bills into her hand. Elsa looked down. “What’s this?” “Money.” “I know what money looks like.” “Congratulations.” “Why are you giving it to me?” “You worked.” “I was helping.” “And people who work for me get paid.” “Carmen, honestly—” “Take it.” Elsa looked at her. There was something deeply satisfying about the woman’s refusal to entertain argument. Elsa folded the bills and slipped them into her pocket. “Yes, boss.” Carmen pointed a carrot at her. “I said don’t call me that.” Elsa smiled. “See you around.” “Tomorrow.” Elsa stopped. “What?” “You’re coming back tomorrow.” “I am?” “Yes.” “That sounded less like an invitation than an instruction.” “It was.” “And if I have plans?” Carmen looked at Elsa for a long moment. “Do you?” Elsa did not. “No.” “Then nine o’clock.” Elsa returned the following morning. And the morning after that. Within two weeks she knew how Carmen wanted the produce displayed, which customers squeezed peaches without buying them, which restaurant chef arrived every Friday morning expecting special treatment, and precisely how Carmen took her coffee. Black. No sugar. “Life is bitter enough,” Elsa told her one morning. “Coffee should not participate.” Carmen handed her another crate. “Life isn’t bitter.” “You don’t know my life.” “No. But you show up here smiling every morning, so either it’s not as terrible as you think or you’re very good at pretending.” The words landed closer to the truth than Elsa liked. She looked away. Carmen noticed. She always noticed. That evening, as the market closed, Carmen wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Come have a drink with me.” Elsa’s heart skipped with such embarrassing enthusiasm that she immediately pretended to be interested in a cabbage. “A drink?” “Yes.” “Why?” Carmen stared at her. “Because I’ve been flirting with you for nearly three weeks and I’m starting to think rich blondes are quicker than you.” Elsa almost dropped the cabbage. “What makes you think I’m rich?” Carmen frowned. “It was an expression.” “Oh.” “Are you?” “No.” The lie came too quickly. Carmen’s eyes narrowed. Elsa cleared her throat. “I mean—not particularly.” Carmen studied her for another second. Then she shrugged. “Seven-thirty.” The bar was small, warm, and crowded enough that Elsa felt anonymous. She liked that. She liked Carmen sitting beside her even more. Without the market between them, Carmen seemed different, although Elsa could not have said how exactly; perhaps it was simply being able to look at her without pretending to examine vegetables. “You were married,” Carmen said. Elsa turned toward her. “That obvious?” “You still have the pale mark.” Carmen touched the base of Elsa’s ring finger. The tiny contact sent something electric along Elsa’s arm. Elsa swallowed. “Sixteen years.” “What happened?” “He left me for someone younger.” “How much younger?” “Eighteen years.” Carmen’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s not younger. That’s practically a different geological period.” Elsa laughed into her wine. “Thank you.” “For what?” “Not saying I must have done something wrong.” Carmen’s expression changed immediately. “Why would I say that?” “People do.” “People are idiots.” A man approached before Elsa could answer. He was handsome enough, expensively dressed, perhaps forty, carrying the confidence of somebody accustomed to women welcoming his attention. “Excuse me,” he said to Elsa. “Have we met?” “No.” “I’m sure I recognize you.” Elsa felt herself stiffen. That was exactly what she had feared. Carmen noticed. The man leaned closer. “You’re Elsa Whit—” Carmen stood. She did not raise her voice. She did not have to. “She said no.” The man looked at Carmen. “I wasn’t talking to you.” “You are now.” He laughed. “Relax.” “I am relaxed.” Carmen moved half a step closer to Elsa and put one hand lightly on her shoulder. It was not dramatic. It was not possessive. It was simply there. Solid. Protective. Certain. Elsa’s entire body seemed to loosen beneath it. The man looked between them. “Girlfriend?” Carmen glanced at Elsa. Elsa’s heart began pounding. Carmen said, “Does it matter?” The man muttered something and left. Elsa stared at Carmen. “What?” “You scared him.” “He was bothering you.” “Yes.” “So I stopped him.” “You do that?” “Do what?” “Take care of people.” Carmen leaned against the table. “Only the ones I like.” Elsa felt heat rise into her face. “Oh.” Carmen looked down at her. “You’re blushing.” “I am not.” “You absolutely are.” “I blame the wine.” “You’ve had half a glass.” “I’m delicate.” Carmen laughed. “No, you’re not.” And Elsa realized, strangely, wonderfully, that Carmen was right. Outside afterward, rain had begun falling lightly, silver beneath the streetlamps. Elsa stood beneath the bar awning. Carmen stepped closer. “You never answered me.” “About what?” “Whether you’re seeing anyone.” Elsa shook her head. “No.” “Men?” “No.” Carmen watched her. “Women?” Elsa hesitated. “I never thought about women.” “Never?” “Not seriously.” Carmen tilted her head. “And now?” Elsa looked at her mouth. “That seems to be changing.” Carmen smiled. “Good.” Then she kissed her. There was nothing hesitant about it, although Carmen gave Elsa every opportunity to pull away, touching her jaw gently and waiting just a fraction of a second before their lips met. Elsa did not pull away. She wrapped both arms around Carmen. The kiss deepened. When they separated, Elsa remained against her. “Oh.” Carmen smiled against her forehead. “That good?” Elsa laughed softly. “I think I have been wasting a considerable amount of time.” “You’re thirty-eight, not ninety.” “How do you know I’m thirty-eight?” “You told Mrs. Alvarez at the market.” “I did?” “She asked if you had children.” “Oh, God.” “You also told her your shoe size.” Elsa buried her face against Carmen’s shoulder. “I talk when I’m nervous.” “I noticed.” Carmen kissed her hair. “Come home with me.” Elsa looked up. “Yes.” Carmen’s apartment was small enough that Elsa could probably have fit the entire thing inside Aunt Cordelia’s drawing room. Elsa loved it instantly. Nothing matched. There were herbs growing in the kitchen window. A cracked ceramic bowl held keys near the door. Two books were stacked beneath one crooked table leg to keep it level. Carmen made coffee the next morning while Elsa sat barefoot at the kitchen table wearing one of Carmen’s shirts. “You’re staring,” Carmen said. “I like watching you.” “You liked watching me yesterday too.” “That was different.” “How?” “You were wearing fewer clothes.” Carmen nearly spilled the coffee. Elsa smiled innocently. “Oh, now who’s blushing?” Carmen set down the cup and leaned over Elsa. “You’ve become dangerous overnight.” “I feel remarkably confident.” “I may have created a monster.” Carmen kissed Elsa’s forehead. Elsa closed her eyes. That small gesture affected her more deeply than she expected. “Do that again.” “What?” “That.” Carmen kissed her forehead again. Elsa opened her eyes slowly. “Nobody does things like that for me.” Carmen sat opposite her. “What things?” “Just… takes care of me.” “You have family.” “Not nearby.” “Friends?” “Some.” “What about the people you work with?” Elsa laughed. “They work for me.” Carmen paused. Elsa immediately wished she could pull the words back. But Carmen only said, “You never told me what you do.” “I don’t really do anything.” “That sounds suspicious.” “It is complicated.” “Then explain it.” Elsa looked at her coffee. “Later.” Carmen’s eyes sharpened. “Elsa.” “Please.” There was silence. Carmen finally nodded. “All right.” Two days later Carmen insisted on driving Elsa home. “You always disappear at the train station.” “I like trains.” “You hate trains.” “I tolerate trains.” “You complained for twenty minutes because somebody ate tuna beside you.” “That was a criminal act.” Carmen picked up her keys. “I’m driving you.” Elsa’s stomach tightened. “Carmen—” “Address.” “I can manage.” “I didn’t ask whether you could manage.” Elsa looked at her. There was the voice again. The one that made Elsa inexplicably want to surrender every decision she had ever made. She gave Carmen the address. Thirty-seven minutes later Carmen slowed the truck beside a set of wrought-iron gates. She looked at Elsa. Then at the gates. Then at Elsa again. “No.” Elsa’s stomach dropped. The gates opened automatically. Carmen drove through. The mansion appeared at the end of the long tree-lined drive. Pale limestone. Three stories. Columns. Terraces. Fountains. A sweeping staircase at the entrance. Carmen stopped the truck. For several seconds neither woman spoke. Finally Carmen said, very quietly, “What the hell is this?” Elsa twisted her fingers together. “My house.” “Your house.” “Yes.” “This is not a house.” “I know.” “This is a museum with plumbing.” “It belonged to my aunt.” Carmen turned toward her. “You told me you weren’t rich.” “I said not particularly.” Carmen stared at her. Elsa winced. “That sounds worse now.” “How much money do you have?” “I don’t know.” Carmen laughed once. There was no humor in it. “You don’t know.” “Not exactly.” “Millions?” Elsa looked away. Carmen’s expression hardened. “More?” “Yes.” Carmen got out of the truck. Elsa followed immediately. “Carmen.” “You lied to me.” “I was scared.” “You let me pay you.” “I liked being paid.” “I paid you sixteen dollars an hour.” “I know.” “You probably make sixteen dollars breathing.” “That isn’t fair.” Carmen spun toward her. “No? You came into my market pretending to be somebody you weren’t.” “I was being myself.” “You hid everything.” “I hid my money!” “That’s a pretty large thing to hide.” “Because the second people know about it, everything changes!” Carmen stopped. Elsa’s voice cracked. “My husband wanted control of it. Men I dated afterward wanted access to it. Lawyers look at me and see fees. Accountants look at me and see accounts. Investment people look at me and see commissions, and I wanted one person—one person—to look at me and see Elsa.” Carmen said nothing. Elsa stepped closer. “You did.” “You should have trusted me.” “I know.” “Why didn’t you?” “Because I wanted it so badly that I was terrified I’d lose it.” Carmen looked toward the mansion. A woman in a housekeeper’s uniform had appeared at the doorway. Behind her stood an older man Elsa knew as Mr. Pembroke, who had served Aunt Cordelia for twenty-seven years. They were staring. Carmen noticed. “Your servants are watching us.” “They do that.” “You have servants.” “Employees.” “Elsa.” “I know.” Carmen started walking toward the truck. Elsa grabbed her hand. “Don’t.” Carmen stopped. “Please.” “I need to think.” “You can think here.” “I don’t belong here.” “You belong wherever I want you.” Carmen looked at her sharply. Elsa shook her head. “That sounded terrible. I mean—I want you here. Please stay.” “Why?” Elsa took a breath. “Because I slept better in your tiny apartment than I have slept in this mansion since I inherited it.” Carmen’s anger wavered. Elsa continued. “Because when that man approached me at the bar, you stood beside me and suddenly I didn’t feel like I had to solve everything myself.” “El—” “Because you tell me what you think even when I don’t like it, and you tell me what to do without wondering whether I’ll write you a check, and when you kissed my forehead yesterday morning I almost cried because nobody has done something that simple for me in years.” Carmen looked down at their joined hands. Elsa squeezed hers. “And because I think I’m falling in love with you.” That did it. Carmen looked up. “You think?” “I am trying not to frighten you.” “You have a mansion and apparently more money than God. Frightening me seems unavoidable.” Elsa laughed through sudden tears. Carmen sighed. Then she wiped one tear from Elsa’s cheek. “I’m still angry.” “You may be angry inside.” “I may leave tomorrow.” “Then leave tomorrow.” “And we’re going to discuss this.” “For as many hours as you want.” Carmen looked toward the front doors. “You seriously have a butler?” “Mr. Pembroke prefers estate manager.” “Of course he does.” Elsa smiled. “Will you come inside?” Carmen exhaled slowly. “Yes.” Mr. Pembroke disliked Carmen immediately. Elsa could tell because Mr. Pembroke became extraordinarily polite. “Ms. Reyes,” he said at dinner the following evening, “if there is anything you require, naturally the staff will provide it.” Carmen put down her fork. “That sounded like you’re asking me not to touch anything.” “Not at all.” “You looked at me when I moved the salt.” “I assure you—” “Pembroke,” Elsa said. He stopped. “She can touch the salt.” “Yes, ma’am.” Carmen grinned. The housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, was worse. She caught Elsa alone two days later. “Miss Whitmore, forgive me, but Ms. Reyes has been examining the household accounts.” “I know.” “She questioned three vendor contracts.” “She told me.” “She telephoned the landscaping company herself.” “I know.” “She canceled the east-lawn irrigation replacement.” Elsa smiled. “Yes.” Mrs. Finch lowered her voice. “Your aunt always handled those matters herself.” “I am not my aunt.” “No, ma’am.” “And Carmen discovered the irrigation system does not need replacing.” Mrs. Finch blinked. “She did?” “The contractor wanted twelve thousand dollars. Carmen had another company inspect it. A valve needs replacing. Four hundred and seventy dollars.” Mrs. Finch’s mouth opened. Elsa leaned closer. “I think I am being robbed, Mrs. Finch.” The older woman straightened. “Not by anyone in this house.” “I know.” And Elsa did know. It was everyone outside the house who worried her. Carmen worried about them too. Within three weeks Carmen had fired one investment advisor. Within five she had replaced one accountant. Within six she had discovered that a property-management company had been charging Elsa twice for maintenance on an apartment building. Elsa sat beside her in the study one afternoon while Carmen spread statements across the massive desk. “You enjoy this,” Elsa said. Carmen looked horrified. “I absolutely do not.” “You look happy.” “I’m angry.” “That appears remarkably similar on you.” Carmen held up a document. “This man charged you eighty-seven hundred dollars for something called administrative coordination.” “What is administrative coordination?” “I called him.” “And?” “He could not tell me.” Elsa rested her chin on Carmen’s shoulder. “What did you do?” “Told him we weren’t paying it.” Elsa smiled. Carmen looked sideways at her. “What?” “I love you.” Carmen froze. Elsa blinked. It was the first time she had said it without qualification. Carmen slowly put down the paper. “Say that again.” “I love you.” Carmen turned in her chair. “You’re sure?” “Yes.” “Because I’m about to fire another one of your lawyers.” Elsa kissed her. “That may be why.” Carmen laughed against her mouth. Six months after they met, Elsa no longer went to the market incognito. She still went every Thursday. Sometimes she worked. Sometimes she bought peaches. Sometimes she simply sat on a crate drinking coffee while Carmen ran the stall and shouted instructions at everyone within hearing distance. People eventually discovered who Elsa was. Nobody cared nearly as much as she had feared. At the mansion, things changed too. Mrs. Finch stopped watching Carmen suspiciously after Carmen negotiated a substantial raise for the household staff. Mr. Pembroke became almost embarrassingly loyal after Carmen discovered that one of the estate attorneys had been trying to reduce his retirement benefits. And Elsa learned something she had never known how to explain before. She did not want somebody to control her. She wanted somebody she trusted enough that she did not have to control everything herself. There was a difference. A tremendous one. One evening Elsa entered the study and found Carmen behind the desk surrounded by files. “No.” Carmen looked up. “No what?” “You promised to stop at six.” “It is six.” “It is six forty-three.” “That clock is fast.” “It is digital.” Carmen frowned at it. Elsa walked behind the chair and wrapped her arms around Carmen’s shoulders. “Come upstairs.” “I need fifteen minutes.” “You said that forty-five minutes ago.” “I’m protecting your fortune.” “Our fortune.” Carmen looked up. Elsa smiled. “Our home. Our life. Our ridiculous mansion. Our impossible vegetable market. Our lawyers. Our accountants.” “Your lawyers.” “Our lawyers until you finish firing them.” Carmen laughed. Elsa kissed the top of her head. Then she glanced at the papers. “Anything terrible?” “Nothing I can’t handle.” Elsa felt the familiar warmth settle through her. Once those words would have frightened her. Now they felt like home. She touched Carmen’s cheek. “I like hearing you say that.” “I know.” “You’re bossy.” “I know.” “You interfere.” “I know.” “You terrify accountants.” “That one is intentional.” Elsa climbed carefully onto the edge of the desk. Carmen raised an eyebrow. “And you take care of me.” Carmen’s expression softened. “Yes.” Elsa leaned down. “And I take care of you.” Carmen slid one arm around her waist. “Yes.” “That’s the arrangement.” “That’s the arrangement.” Elsa kissed her slowly. Outside the study windows the enormous estate stretched toward the darkening horizon, acres of land and money and responsibility that had once made Elsa feel impossibly small. Now she barely noticed it. Because when she finally pulled away, Carmen was smiling up at her, one hand still at Elsa’s waist and the other resting confidently across a stack of financial documents. “Bed,” Elsa said. Carmen glanced at the papers. “Ten minutes.” Elsa narrowed her eyes. “Five.” “Eight.” “Six.” Carmen smiled. “Deal.” Elsa kissed her once more. Then she walked toward the door. Behind her, Carmen called, “Elsa?” She turned. “Yes?” “I love you.” Elsa smiled. For years she had believed security meant having enough money that nobody could hurt her. She had been wrong. Security was knowing there was one person in the world who would stand beside her when somebody approached, challenge anyone who tried to take advantage of her, tell her when she was being foolish, hold her when she was frightened, and kiss her forehead in the morning as though caring for Elsa was not a burden at all. And for the first time since Thomas left, Elsa did not feel abandoned. For the first time since inheriting everything, she did not feel overwhelmed. And for perhaps the first time in her life, being taken care of did not mean giving something up. It meant having someone with whom she could finally share the weight.