Elementary, My Dear Watkins (15 page)

Danny did as he suggested, pushing the button that would slowly take him through each picture. By the time he was about half finished, he could see some similarities.

“You have a theme here. Glint. Glare. Shiny. Sparkly. You’ve done it on purpose. The essence of Zurich is all about money and wealth, and you’re showing that through the subtleties of reflection and light.”

“Correct. Now take it one step further. What do you suppose my plans are for the pictures I will take in the Congo?”

Danny thought for a moment.

“The opposite, I suppose. No flashes of light, no chrome or stainless steel, everything sort of dull and dirty?”

Mr. Bashiri nodded.

“This is a contrast I began to notice on the first part of the photo shoot, when I was at the refugee camp in Myanmar. Nothing shines there. Nothing sparkles. The Congo will be the same.”

Mr. Bashiri went on to explain, in photographer’s terms, about his use of color and placement and reflection. Danny listened intently, wishing he could take notes, committing the settings and filters and film stock choices to memory as much as possible.

There was so much to learn, and he was grateful that Mr. Bashiri was a willing teacher. Danny just hoped the man wouldn’t get tired of his questions—and that everything on the photo shoot would continue to go as smoothly as it had thus far.

Alexa awoke at 6:15, and couldn’t get back to sleep. She tossed and turned for a while, finally giving up around 7:00. She thought she might as well get up for the day. She showered and dressed and put on makeup, thinking about her schedule as she used the blow-dryer on her short dark hair.

It was a Thursday, which meant her day was packed: piano at 9:00 with Mrs. Gruber then hours of tutoring with Mr. Preston, then physical therapy with Yasmine, then her weekly exam with Dr. Stebbins. Though sometimes the exam seemed repetitive—how many times was she going to have to point her finger and touch her nose—she liked seeing Dr. Stebbins. In a way, his visits kept her feeling more connected to the whole project, like a part of the team and not just a dog who was training to perform tricks for the crowd.

The old lady had given Dr. Stebbins a room out in the carriage house to use as an office, and sometimes Alexa wished that was his main office so he could be there all the time. Every Thursday he would come in around 4:00 in the afternoon and do paperwork for a while, though sometimes she had a feeling he wasn’t so much doing paperwork as he was using the paperwork as an excuse to observe her physical therapy without making her feel uncomfortable. The office was off the main part of the room, with just a glass wall separating it from the therapy area, and his desk was set so that he was facing toward the glass as he worked. Sometimes, she would be on the treadmill or working out with the rubber bands, and she would glance up and see him studying her in that way he had, like a scientist studies a slide in a microscope.

Her exam would follow the therapy, usually at 5:00, but then he’d stick around and do more paperwork for another hour or two. On those nights Alexa usually skipped dinner with the old lady in order to hang out and do the treadmill again just so she could be in the same building with him in case he felt like chatting. He was a nice man, and very smart, and the way he talked to Alexa made her feel smart too.

She turned off the blow-dryer and tossed it in the drawer along with her brush. After heavy spritzing of hair spray and a little more eyeliner, she was done. She studied her own reflection in the mirror for a moment, thinking about that.

“Who would have guessed,” she said out loud to herself, wishing she was talking to her friends, not to mention her mom, “that you could use the words ‘smart’ and ‘Alexa’ in the same sentence!”

Even though she was a medical miracle, even though she was a freak of nature, even though all of her progress had more to do with Dr. Stebbins’ fancy science than with her, sometimes she felt pretty special.

If only she weren’t so alone.

J
o awoke early and reached for her cell phone, conscious of the fact that there was probably a man sitting in a chair outside of her door acting as her bodyguard. Trying not to think about it, she dialed Bradford’s brother, Ty, who was home from the hospital but had just received an update from his mother. He said Bradford had made it through the night, but he was in such intense pain that his doctors had him on heavy doses of morphine. Jo thanked him for the update and hung up the phone, saying a quick prayer for healing.

Climbing out of bed, Jo wasn’t surprised to see that at some point during the night her clothes had been washed, dried, and hung up on the back of her door. She got dressed, strapped on her cast, and tried to fix her hair as best she could, considering that she didn’t have any styling tools with her. In her purse was a lipstick, compact, and mascara, which were better than nothing. She was just applying the final touches of lipstick when she heard male voices in the hall. She opened the door to see two big strong men standing there, shaking hands.

“Miss Tulip?” one of them said quickly, in response. “How do you do? We’re from Executive Protection Services.”

Apparently, she had interrupted them in the middle of a shift change. She walked downstairs with the two men as they explained how her protection would work. Four men would be rotating in approximately six-hour shifts each, and one would never sign off until the next one had signed on. For the most part, she was to ignore them and let them do their job. They had already been apprised of the details of the situation by her grandmother. They asked that she be respectful of and respond immediately to any request they might make of her, as it would be for her protection. Otherwise, she should consider them as part of the background of her life and leave them to their work. Anything she might say or do in their presence was considered confidential unless it endangered others.

It all sounded reasonable to her, and she liked their neat clothes and professional demeanor. They looked like Secret Service agents, which was a relief, as she hadn’t known what to expect and in fact had worried they might look more like bar bouncers or mafia goons.

Breakfast was already well underway by the time Jo made it to the dining room. She could hear the clink of dishes and soft conversation from around the corner, and as she hobbled through the doorway after the bodyguard she steeled herself to face her dad. Much to her relief, however, he wasn’t there. The bodyguard looked around the room and then took a position near the doorway, against the wall.

“There you are, Jo,” her grandmother said from her place at the head of the table. “Come have a seat and get started with breakfast. I’ve spoken to your father already this morning, and he should be here in about an hour.”

Jo hesitated, surprised to see two extra people at the table: Aunt Winnie, who was seated at the far end of the table, and a young woman in her early teens sitting directly to Eleanor’s right, sipping black coffee and picking at a plate of mostly uneaten pancakes. The teenager was cute and petite, though kind of urban-looking, with short black hair, multiple ear piercings, and eyeliner so dark and heavy that it almost made her look like an adorable, wide-eyed raccoon. Jo couldn’t imagine who she was, what she was doing there, or why she seemed so comfortably at home.

“Jo, honey,” her Aunt Winnie said, rising to give her a hug, “long time no see. I was so pleased to hear you were visiting. Who’s your friend?”

Winnie looked expectantly at the muscular bodyguard and then back at Jo.

“I, uh…” Jo stammered. Obviously, Eleanor had not made Winnie aware of the situation. “He’s not—”

“Just ignore him,” Eleanor interrupted. “He’s Jo’s new personal assistant.”

Winnie seemed to struggle with that notion for a moment, and then she leaned in and gave Jo a kiss on the cheek.

“Va va va voom,” she whispered as she did so. “Some assistant!”

Her face flushing bright red, Jo took a seat at the table. Obviously, her grandmother didn’t want Winnie to know about what was going on. In a way, Jo could understand. Winnie had a nervous condition, and something like this might throw her into a bout of anxiety-driven angst.

“You look great,” Jo said to her aunt, meaning it. The woman was dressed sloppily, with no makeup and her blondish-white hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, but her face was radiant and calm. Perhaps she had found a medication that was helping. “Are you staying here?”

Winnie nodded happily.

“It’s planting season. I always stay for the month of May, to help Muck outside. We’ve been preparing the beds and doing the pruning and the fertilizing. Soon we’ll start hardening the seedlings, and then we’ll plant.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is. I love living in Manhattan, but this time of year I’ve simply got to come out to the country, where I can garden to my heart’s content.”

Consuela emerged from the kitchen door with a basket of muffins, which she set on the table.

“Good morning, Jo,” she said, looking chipper despite the fact that she’d been up late preparing the guest room for Jo and washing her clothes. “Would you like eggs or pancakes or both?”

“Eggs are fine.”

“How would you like them cooked?”

“Um, scrambled, please. With whole wheat toast, if you have it. And coffee.”

“You got it,” Consuela said, returning to the kitchen.

After she was gone, Eleanor proceeded to introduce Jo to the young woman at the table.

“Jo, this is Alexa, a houseguest of mine. Alexa, this is my granddaughter Jo.”

“Hi,” Alexa said, her voice surprisingly timid and sweet for having such a tough-looking exterior. “Nice to meetcha. Where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania. How about you?”

“Jersey.”

“Oh, which part? New Jersey’s a lovely state.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Not the part I’m from,” she said, describing an area near Newark, just over the river from New York City. Jo had flown in and out of the Newark airport many times in her life, and she had to agree that the general region was not the best Jersey had to offer, by any means.

“Are you here with Winnie?” Jo asked, glancing at the end of the table to see her aunt taking her last bites of breakfast and then wiping her mouth with her napkin.

“Nope,” Alexa replied, “but we’ve been getting to know each other. She’s been teaching me about horticulture. Right, Pixie?”

“Pixie?” Jo and Eleanor asked simultaneously.

Alexa and Winnie both smiled.

“That’s my nickname for her,” Alexa said, “’cause she’s always eating Pixie Stix—you know, those little straws with the flavored sugar powder inside?”

“Oh I haven’t had those in years,” Jo said, smiling. “Probably not since I was your age, Alexa.”

“I keep them in a jar in the guest house, Jo, if you’d like some,” Winnie said.

“Should you really have that much sugar, Winnie?” Eleanor asked. “That can’t be healthy.”

“It’s either that or go back to cigarettes, Mother. Take your pick.”

Jo winked at Alexa, who looked as though she felt bad for bringing it up.

“Alexa will be helping me with the hardening of the seedlings,” Winnie continued, returning to the original subject. “But speaking of seedlings, I’ve got to get out to the greenhouse. I’ll see you folks later.”

Winnie dropped her napkin on top of her dirty plate, pulled out her chair, and headed for the kitchen, which had an exit to the outside.

“She really does look good,” Jo said softly to her grandmother after she heard the back door close.

“May has always been Winnie’s best month,” Eleanor replied. “Something about all that gardening seems to keep her quite occupied and content.”

“Is there something wrong with her?” Alexa asked. “She seems cool to me.”

“Usually she’s very…high-strung,” Eleanor replied in answer to Alexa’s question, “though I know that seems hard to believe right now. She’s like a different person this time of year. The more she can keep her hands in the dirt, the happier she is—which is odd, considering that the rest of the year she can’t tolerate dirt of any kind.”

Jo cleared her throat, hoping to change the subject.

“So tell me more about you,” Jo said to Alexa. “If you’re not here with Winnie…”

“Alexa is my guest,” Eleanor said. “She’s been staying here for a few months.”

A few
months?
How come Jo didn’t know anything about this? And what was she doing here?

“I’m sorry if I seem surprised. I just hadn’t heard.”

Jo wondered if perhaps the girl was here in some sort of foster care situation—but the thought of that was almost laughable, considering that her grandmother was the last person on earth who might take in some needy child out of love or compassion. Maybe Alexa was one of those “Fresh Air Fund” kids? Again, not really a credible thought, considering Eleanor’s personality and temperament. Perhaps Alexa was the daughter or granddaughter of one of the staff.

“How did you two meet?” Jo asked.

Mrs. Bosworth glanced at Alexa and then back at Jo.

“Alexa is a patient of Dr. Stebbins, my neurologist. She’s staying here to help with her stroke recovery.”