My mind fades more or less out of blankness as the crowd settles and people take their seats. After a moment, Mr. Haymore rises and welcomes everyone. I think Carolson gives a brief greeting as well, but honestly, I don’t really listen to either of them. I just don’t care. Eventually, someone gives the signal, and the waitstaff pours in with the salad course.
The meal goes by in a blur. I’m sure the food is delicious, but I hardly touch it. I’m not hungry. Sometimes someone else at the table will ask me a question, and I answer as briefly and politely as I can. If Mr. Haymore wants special insights about Carolson and Co., he’s going to have to find them on his own.
We make it to the dessert course before Carolson stands again. I only notice because a hush settles over the room, and I force myself to glance up from my lap.
Carolson’s wearing that smile again. He gives a little wave before clearing his throat.
“I hope all of you have been enjoying lunch,” he says. “I must say, I’m delighted by the welcome I’ve received here. And by the progress you all have made with this place since the last time I dropped in. If I’m being honest, there were times I questioned this investment. Times I wondered if it would all come together the way I always pictured it. And I want you to know that you have far exceeded my expectations.”
His little speech receives a round of applause, and I find my gaze floating away from him, out across the room. Whatever my feelings about the man, his employees seem to like his words.
“I’ve only had the chance to see a little of the improvements since my arrival,” he continues, “but Charles has promised me a tour after we’re done here today. As you know, we only have a few days before we open our doors to the world, and we need everything to be perfect. We all have a busy week ahead of us, but I trust that all of you will make a commitment to making Huntington Manor all that it can be.”
That gets another scattering of applause. My eyes continue to drift across the room, taking in the excitement, the pride in everyone’s eyes. Carolson seems to know exactly what to say to inspire his employees.
But then I see him: the only person in the whole room who’s not buying into this. The only one looking at Carolson with something akin to anger—no, disgust. I almost don’t recognize him at first. He looks so different in that white button-down, but that red-brown hair is unmistakable, even across the room. None of the humor I saw in his face yesterday is there. Ward’s back is stiff, and he’s gripping his fork so tightly that it looks like he’s about to drive it right through the table.
“I had a vision, the first time I saw this place,” I hear Carolson say, as if from far away. “A vision of beauty and luxury. And I knew I had to do everything in my power to bring that vision to life. Most people in this world aren’t born blessed. Most people in this world must fight for every penny they have, and even if they fight for every single day of their life, they might never have the chance to live like this. I wanted to give them that chance. I wanted to give them the opportunity to experience life in a place like this, even if it’s only for a week or a night or an hour. And it’s our job to give them that experience. We have a responsibility to this house to bring it back to life, and a responsibility to the people who stay here to make their lives a little brighter, too. Everyone who sets foot in Huntington Manor will be treated like the master of the house.”
It’s a pretty speech, and the applause that follows is furious. People are eating this stuff up—everyone except Ward, whose jaw is tight and who looks like he’s about to leap up and punch something.
Around the room, people have started to rise, showing their support for Carolson with a standing ovation. Ward rises, too, jerking to his feet and throwing his napkin down on the table, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to do it—that he’s actually going to storm across the room and sock Carolson in the face. Instead, he turns and stalks out of the room. A couple of the other people at his table glance questioningly after him, but most of the employees don’t even notice. They’re too focused on the charismatic, well-spoken man in front of them.
Carolson says a few more words, but I don’t hear them. I’m too curious about Ward’s reaction. I consider slipping out and going after him—at this point, I’m not sure I care whether half the room sees me walk out—but I have no idea where he would have gone. So I sit there, full plate in front of me, letting the noise of the room wash over me.
I don’t really notice when Carolson sits down. I don’t notice much of anything until someone taps me on the arm, and I look up to find Mr. Haymore just behind me.
“I’ve been calling you, Ms. Thomas,” he says. His mustache twitches, and I know he’s only suppressing his temper because Carolson’s sitting ten feet behind us.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say numbly. “I was just thinking about what Mr. Carolson said. It was very inspiring.”
It was the right thing to say. Mr. Haymore’s eyes soften slightly, and he gives a nod of approval.
“I need you to run to my office and fetch the schedule for next week. The revised one. With my notes.”
“Of course,” I say, rising.
I feel a little lighter when I leave the room. Enough that I take my time walking down the hall. It’s funny—with all of the employees currently back in the dining room, with none of the usual hustle and bustle of preparation going on around me, I can almost pretend that all of the renovations are just part of a bad dream. That nothing has changed since I was a teenager, and I’m just back for a visit after an extended trip overseas. The garish decorating job is all wrong, of course, but I can ignore that if I close my eyes. I don’t need to see to know my way around here. I stop and take off my heels, letting my toes sink down into the carpet. I never wore shoes as a kid, and the softness of the carpet against my bare soles completes the illusion.
And just like that—eyes closed, feet bare, arms spread wide—I stroll down the hall. Pretending I’m young again. Pretending I never left home in the first place.
For a few minutes, at least. As I near my father’s old study, the hammering starts again, pulling me right back into the present.
I open my eyes. The hammering is coming from down the hall—from the direction of the Welcome Center.
It’s not much of a mystery who it is. And instead of turning into Haymore’s office, I find myself continuing down the hall toward the sound. Sure enough, when I reach the door to the Welcome Center, I find Ward inside, hard at work on the window.