17
THE PAIN IN HIS LEG WOKE HIM. It was a ferocious ache deep in the marrow, running from his ankle all the way up to the base of his knee. Quentin lay perfectly still, the fog of sleep clearing from his brain as he tried to assess the situation and locate what had caused the abrupt worsening of his condition.
He hadn’t put undue stress on his leg yesterday. He’d worn the brace overnight as instructed by the specialists in Berlin. The brace was uncomfortable and made sleep difficult, but it spared him the agony of inadvertently rolling onto his leg at an awkward angle. Chronic osteomyelitis was an insidious disease he’d been battling ever since the first surgery on his leg. He hoped this flare-up wouldn’t further weaken what was left of his shin bone.
He wished for a fraction of Sophie’s faith so that he could pray to a loving God who would magically heal his leg, but he couldn’t accept that God would design a complex, magnificent world and then simply abandon it to the ravages of war, famine, and disease. He was learning to respect Sophie, but he couldn’t respect her God. Her God either didn’t exist or he didn’t care, and it was more logical to conclude he didn’t exist.
It would be better to stay in bed today. He pushed himself upright and closed his eyes against the pain pulsing throughout his body. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. It was hot in here, and he flipped the sheets back, wishing he knew if this was a simple fever or the beginning of a more serious bone infection.
He lit the kerosene lantern for some reading light. In short order, he snagged the reading table he’d designed to slide across his lap and propped a book atop it. Eventually Mr. Gilroy would come to check on him when he didn’t materialize for breakfast. He’d read two chapters on hydraulic engineering when the sounds of laughter from somewhere outside penetrated his concentration. He tried to ignore them, but they weren’t stopping.
Grabbing his cane, he nudged the draperies aside to see outdoors. Sunlight flooded the room, making him wince, but as his eyes adjusted he saw two figures swimming in the river, their arms pumping madly as they moved through the water. They were racing, their vigorous kicks churning up white water behind them as they were cheered by onlookers standing on the shore. The swimmers were nearly tied, but one had a slight edge and began to pull away.
Envy snaked through him. How desperately he wanted to be whole and capable of plunging into a cold river and testing his muscles against the current.
The swimmers passed the pier, apparently designated as the finish line. Both men stopped and pushed to their feet, their lungs heaving as they brushed water from their eyes. They were shirtless, their muscles enlarged from the effort, grins on their faces. One of them was Byron, the young biologist. Quentin’s mouth tightened when he recognized the other swimmer as Marten Graaf, the idiot who’d jilted Sophie. Marten had won the race, and he clasped his hands over his head with a wide, healthy grin.
Both men waded to the shore, where one of the onlookers tossed them towels.
Quentin straightened when he spotted Sophie among the group. What business did she have ogling half-naked men climbing out of the river? Marten didn’t even have the decency to cover his body immediately. Using the towel to rub the water from his hair, he sent Sophie a grin and said something to her.
Whatever he said made her burst out in laughter. The others joined in, and soon Byron and Marten were flicking their towels at each other, playful as schoolboys.
Quentin jerked his cane away, letting the draperies fall back into place and plunge the room back into the dimness lit only by the kerosene lamp.
Envy was a useless emotion. He would give his entire fortune to trade places with either one of those healthy men in the river, but it was pointless to dwell on it. That didn’t mean he intended to wallow here like an invalid and let Sophie’s one-time fiancé have free rein in his house. He banged his cane on the wall and shouted for Mr. Gilroy. Within moments, his butler arrived.
“Go down to the river and get that young idiot Marten Graaf in here,” he growled. “I want to speak with him.”
Marten’s hair was still wet when he arrived at Quentin’s bedroom. He hesitated in the doorway, fidgeting in his ill-fitting suit jacket. This was a man Sophie once loved, a man who broke her heart. He was still boyishly handsome, radiating youthful health and revealing a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. Quentin pointed where he wanted Marten to stand at the foot of his bed.
The only thing Quentin knew for sure about Marten Graaf was that his unexpected arrival last night was not prompted by the delivery of tulip bulbs. He sensed Mr. Gilroy’s hand in this. Or perhaps Marten was interested in Sophie again, and that would be the worst possible scenario. Sophie was better than the fickle man who shuffled to the foot of the bed, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room, noting the swaths of velvet draperies surrounding each window and the ornately carved headboard imported from an eighteenth-century duchy.
Quentin felt no impulse to put him at ease. Still dressed in his nightshirt and propped up with his invalid’s work table across his lap, he was accustomed to receiving visitors from his sickbed and didn’t intend to spare this young whelp just because Marten would be more comfortable somewhere else in the house. Quentin was more comfortable here, so this was where they’d meet.
He used a deceptively calm voice. “My grandfather has been purchasing the Vandermark tulips for the last five decades from the Wittenberg Trading Company in Manhattan. They have never personally delivered the bulbs in the past, so it begs the question, why now?”
Marten’s face flushed a little. “I share a room with a man who works for Wittenberg,” he said. “I volunteered to deliver the tulips as soon as the ship arrived. Wittenberg is grateful for your grandfather’s patronage over the years and was happy to extend the service.”
Quentin held the younger man’s gaze but said nothing in reply. It didn’t take long before Marten began fidgeting again.
“And yet I’ve heard that you capitalize on my family’s misfortunes by telling lurid tales to the tourists.”
His eyes widened. “Sophie told you?”
No, he’d guessed, but he couldn’t blame Sophie for hiding it from him. He had never given her much reason to be forthcoming with him, but he would do better from here on out. Sophie was about to figure into his long-term plans for his family, and he needed her to begin trusting and confiding in him.
“It doesn’t matter how I know, but I am notifying you that this house, the pier, and our land are unavailable for use by a private business.”
“You might own half of New York, but you don’t own the river,” Marten said with admirable bravado. “Steamships are earning an honest living, and you have no right to block our access to the river.”
As if he needed instruction on nautical law from a puppy. “Like any other duly licensed ship, you have the right to make use of the waterway, but you may not land on my waterfront or make use of the Vandermark pier. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear.”
“Why did you jilt Sophie?” He fired the question with no warning, hoping to catch the younger man off guard, and he did.
“Young men do stupid things. Letting go of Sophie has always been my biggest mistake.”
“What a pity that some mistakes are fatal and can never be forgiven.”
A confident gleam lit Marten’s eyes. “Have you talked to Sophie about that? Because Sophie is the most loving, forgiving woman I’ve ever met. She and I are friends again. She knows I regret what happened and forgave me long ago.”
Given the joking between the two of them he’d witnessed on the shore not long ago, Marten was right. Sophie desperately wanted children. A home and a family of her own. Now that she was throwing off the veil of mourning for her beloved Albert, she might well turn to a trusted old friend to achieve that dream.
Quentin wasn’t accustomed to feeling jealousy over a woman. He couldn’t compete with Marten in youth or health or cheerfulness. He couldn’t beat him in a swimming match or any other physical challenge.
But he had something Sophie wanted desperately. He had Dierenpark. The estate was still owned by Nickolaas, but the ironclad Vandermark trust required it to be passed down to the oldest surviving son in the family line. He had complete confidence he would win the bet with Nickolaas, and then Sophie could live in this house for the rest of her life if she consented to marry him and be a mother to Pieter. She would be willing to tolerate a lot in exchange for that.
“Don’t start weaving any fantasies about Sophie,” he warned Marten in a quiet voice. “You’ve delivered the tulip bulbs; now you can be on your way. I won’t have the work of my scientists disrupted by swimming matches or unwanted visitors.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Quentin raised a brow, not used to being countermanded. “I am breathless to hear how you plan on overwhelming the six bodyguards I have on staff to keep intruders away from my door.”
“Mr. Gilroy wants me here.”
“Why?”
Marten shrugged his shoulders. “Seems like the old man and Mr. Gilroy think Sophie is getting too much power over you, and they want me to put an end to that.” Marten dropped his smug attitude and looked him in the eye. “They probably think I’ll be their lackey, but let me be clear. I’m here for Sophie. I know you got her hopes up over that climate observatory, and look how well that worked out for her. You’re up to something, and I don’t like it. I’m not going to stand aside and let any of the jackals in this house take advantage of her or turn her into a pawn in the strange bet going on between you and your grandfather. Sophie’s father agrees with me.” Marten’s smug grin returned. “So if you want to keep Sophie as your cook, I’m part of the deal.”
Marten was whistling as he casually strolled from the room.
Quentin waited until the door closed before flinging back the covers and reaching for his clothes. Today wasn’t a day he could afford to linger in bed. He had arrived at a decision about Sophie and had never been the sort to loiter once he made up his mind.
Sophie was growing concerned for Nickolaas Vandermark, as he hadn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon when he’d retreated to his bedroom after failing to destroy that mysterious document. There had been an impromptu race in the river this morning, and she feared the raucous outbursts from the spectators might have disturbed those sleeping late, but there was still no sign of either Nickolaas or Quentin at breakfast. It wasn’t unusual for Quentin to want to be alone, but it was almost ten o’clock and she worried about Nickolaas. His reaction to that document made her certain he knew what it was, and it didn’t bode well.
Walking quietly in the upstairs hallway, she approached the master bedroom, its doorway surrounded by painted white pilasters and topped with a hand-carved pediment. She knocked gently on the closed bedroom door.
“Mr. Vandermark?” she asked. She didn’t want to disturb his privacy, but she had the delivery of Marten’s tulip bulbs as an excuse to approach him.
Because, frankly, she was anxious. Quentin’s statement about melancholia running in the Vandermark family was worrisome, and Nickolaas seemed unusually upset by that old document. If she could coax him into talking about why it bothered him, perhaps she could help ease his despair.
To her relief, she heard shuffling behind the door. The knob turned and the door cracked a narrow sliver to show Nickolaas’s eye peering at her through the crack.
“I’ve brought tulip bulbs. I gather you asked for them.”
He looked confused. “It’s too early to plant tulips. And why would I plant tulips on a piece of land I intend to demolish?”
She tried not to wince at his persistent threat to destroy Dierenpark. “Marten said they come from the tulip farm of your Vandermark cousins in Holland. That you put in a special order for them every year.”
The door flung open. Dressed in pajamas, with bare feet and his robe hanging open, the normally meticulous Nickolaas looked bedraggled and unshaven, but a bit of life sparked in his eyes. “Excellent! I am rarely in New York to accept the order personally, so I forgot how early they arrive. Let me see them,” he said, holding out his hand impatiently.
She turned over the satchel, and he peered inside, scanning the contents with greedy eyes as he counted the bulbs. “Excellent, excellent,” he murmured. “Who brought them?”
“Marten Graaf. He works in Manhattan and must have some connections.”
“Tell him I want two hundred more.” He closed the door in her face.
She knocked again. “Mr. Vandermark? Perhaps you’d like to come tell him yourself.” She had to get him out of this bedroom. He hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and she was no closer to understanding why that document rattled him so.
The door jerked open again, but instead of talking about bulbs, he looked at her with accusing eyes. “Mr. Gilroy tells me Professor Winston left for Harvard this morning with my document, and you did nothing to stop him.”
She blinked. “I could hardly stop him. Everyone agreed we needed to know more about that bit of text. I’m almost certain it’s part of a Bible, but the language is so odd . . . unlike anything anyone has ever seen before.”
“Not really, but all it took was a glance to know the language is very strange.”
“Mr. Gilroy is in the library. I have reason to believe there may be more documents in the same language scattered around the house. I thought they had all been found and destroyed, but apparently not.”
She caught her breath, almost certain these documents were what Karl Vandermark had hired translators to interpret.
“I want you to go help him,” Nickolaas continued. “You know this house as well as anyone, and I want you to poke through every hiding place or cubby hole. If anything else is found written in that language, I want it brought to me. There’s no need to involve Quentin in this.”
Sophie couldn’t help him. It would be a crime to destroy historic documents before they even knew what they were. Besides, Quentin had hired her to cook and mentor Pieter. She didn’t have time to go on a wild chase for documents that may not even exist.
“Why do you care about those documents? You know something about them and aren’t telling us. Why?”
“Because it’s none of your business,” he said in a nasty voice.
Above all, love one another. She didn’t understand the torments that drove this man, but they were real, and they were painful to him. Such a man deserved compassion, no matter how rude or blunt.
“I wish you would join us downstairs,” she said. “We are having a grand celebration this evening. I’m going to spend the day making the world’s best oyster chowder. I’m generally not boastful about my cooking, but on this recipe I feel confident. It would be a shame to spend the day alone up here when we’d rather have your company.”
He narrowed his eyes, but she kept pushing.
“You once told me how you admired your Vandermark cousins in Holland because they shared meals together. How can we have a proper meal without the family patriarch?”
The reference to his joyful cousins caused the first real hint of softening on his face, so she continued that train of thought.
“Pieter is going to have his first taste of oysters this evening. He can’t stop talking about it, and I know he will want both you and Quentin to be there.”
“I’ll be there,” Nickolaas conceded, then he spoiled the effect by slamming the door in her face.
“What are these?” Pieter asked, holding up a handful of leeks, their bright green tips flaring out almost like a bouquet of flowers.
“They’re leeks,” Sophie replied as she mounded the ingredients for this evening’s feast on the cutting table. “They are a type of onion but have a softer taste.”
“I don’t like onions,” Pieter said.
“They’ll be diced up so small you won’t even notice them. And they’ll give a wonderful flavor to the chowder, just you wait and see. This will be the best oyster chowder ever served on the eastern seaboard.”
Her chowder was a hearty dish made with smoked bacon and thickened with cream and russet potatoes. It would be seasoned with minced leeks, cracked pepper, and an array of fresh herbs. Everything would be fresh and wholesome, and the feast would last until long after the sun went down.
Since finding that astounding bit of text yesterday, the professors felt like they were on the verge of discovering something wonderful. It ignited their curiosity and sent a bolt of energy through the researchers, who were now convinced there was a mysterious history here just waiting to be discovered. And what better way to celebrate than with food? Pieter was bursting with excitement over his first taste of oysters, convinced he was now old enough to sample the delicacy without getting squeamish.
“Marten said it would be better to have the celebration down by the river,” Pieter said. “He said that the only proper way to celebrate an oyster harvest is while gathered on a beach. My father can’t get down to the river, and he’s spoiling it for everyone.”
Sophie kept her face calm, although it was spiteful for Marten to share that hurtful detail with Pieter. Marten was terribly threatened by Quentin, who apparently had read him the riot act this morning, although he refused to say what it was about. It was easy to imagine how intimidating Quentin could be, and she didn’t want to embarrass Marten by demanding the details.
“We’ll eat on the back terrace overlooking the river,” she said. “That way, we’ll be able to see the fireflies when they come out at twilight. It will be like they are lighting our celebration.”
“Okay!” Pieter agreed. It was amazing to see this boy blossom into a curious and normal boy, no longer frightened of the dark or every strange sound. The biologists had taken him under their wing and showed him how they collected water samples, placed dots of water on glass slides, and studied them under the microscopes set up in the dining room. They even provided him with reference books and let him try to identify some of the cell samples collected from the river.
She was dicing potatoes when Mr. Gilroy interrupted her. “Mr. Vandermark wishes to see you. Mr. Quentin Vandermark,” he clarified.
Sophie kept dicing. “He’ll have to wait. Pieter and I have two sacks of potatoes to dice and three sides of bacon to cook.”
Mr. Gilroy was smooth, and before she knew it, he removed the knife from her hands and was drawing the board of potatoes toward him. “I am happy to dice the potatoes,” he said. “Quentin is waiting for you near the Spanish cannon.”
It was alarming how Mr. Gilroy could manipulate the situation with such ease. She propped her hands on her hips, determined this man would not once again get the better of her. “Dicing potatoes? I thought you were under orders to search the house for mysterious texts.”
A bit of humor lit Mr. Gilroy’s face as he began cutting up a potato with expert hands. “The challenge of serving two masters,” he said.
“Can I come, too?” Pieter asked. It was rare for Pieter to seek out a chance to visit with his father, and she couldn’t deny him.
It was surprisingly cool outside, and Sophie looked down to Pieter. “It feels like that Canadian front they forecasted has arrived, don’t you think?”
Pieter looked at the gentle breeze ruffling the sycamore leaves and then up at her. “The wind is coming from the north,” he confirmed with a solemn nod.
“It’s steep here, hold my hand as we go down to the ledge.”
“I’m not a baby,” Pieter mumbled, but he still accepted her hand as they walked toward the outcropping. It was nice to feel needed. All week she had loved cooking for these people and being a part, in however small a way, of the research teams. Maybe she would never run her own climate observatory, but there was still a role for her in supporting the work of others. After all, these men couldn’t continue their work if they weren’t fed.
A glance at the river showed the biologists busily harvesting oysters into baskets. She hoped she could settle the business with Quentin quickly, for the amount of work still to be done before tonight’s feast was staggering. The bacon needed to be cooked, cooled, and diced. She wanted to prepare herbed butter, and shucking oysters required a lot of time, as well.
As the overhang came into view, she saw Quentin formally dressed in a suit jacket with a satin tie, sitting on the bench and fiddling with his cane. She wasn’t used to seeing him dressed so formally. It made him look . . . very nice, actually.
“Here we are,” she said brightly as she walked the final few steps.
Quentin looked surprised to see Pieter. He pushed himself to his feet and fumbled with his cane. “I . . . um . . . I didn’t expect you to bring Pieter.”
“I’ve been helping make oyster chowder,” the boy said proudly. “Next we’re going to shuck the oysters, and Miss Sophie says I can help. I’m not afraid of oysters, even though they’re slimy.”
Humor lightened Quentin’s eyes. “You sure? Last time I showed you an oyster on the half shell you looked ready to run and hide under your bed.”
“But I’m older now. And Miss Sophie says they won’t look so awful once they’re in the chowder,” Pieter said in a voice that still carried a whiff of trepidation. “I’m going to try them tonight. I think I’m old enough now.”
She met Quentin’s gaze, an amused message flying silently between them. Most people were squeamish about their first taste of oysters, but it would be fun to introduce the boy to the culinary delight. It was going to be a fabulous evening. Everyone here had formed an immediate bond in the quest to uncover the history of the estate. She instinctively wanted to share the moment with Quentin and Pieter, especially given the way Quentin had been so decent to her lately. And the way he was looking at her so strangely . . . like he was anticipating something.
“Pieter, I need to speak with Miss Sophie privately,” he said.
“Does that mean you want me to go away?” Pieter asked in a confused voice.
To her surprise, Quentin suddenly seemed tongue-tied. His gaze darted around, and a flush stained his cheeks. “It means you need to run along for a few minutes while I discuss grown-up business with Miss Sophie.”
She couldn’t imagine what was making Quentin so uneasy, but Pieter was used to obeying orders and went scampering up the ledge to the house.
“He’s come a long way in the past six weeks,” Quentin said, still fiddling with his cane and staring somewhere over her shoulder. “Most of that is due to you. You’ve been very good for the boy.”
Compliments from Quentin were as rare as rubies in the sand. “Thank you,” she said with a surprised smile.
“I found a Bible in his bedroom.”
Her shoulders sagged. So . . . that was why he’d summoned her. He’d discovered she’d failed to slam the door on Pieter’s curiosity about faith and was going to interfere.
“He asked if there was a Bible in the house, and I showed him where it was,” she admitted.
Oddly, Quentin didn’t seem angry. He tugged on his collar and seemed merely a little embarrassed.
“I’m willing to admit I’ve been wrong about that,” he said. “I studied Christianity at college and understand the basic doctrines. The principles aren’t bad, and if they bring Pieter comfort, I don’t mind him exploring until he is an adult and ready to make his own decisions.”
She smiled softly. “What made you change your mind?”
“You.”
He couldn’t have surprised her more if he sprouted wings and dove off the cliff. For a man so aggressively hostile to religion, this capitulation was stunning. But he still seemed ill at ease. His jaw was clenched and he couldn’t meet her gaze, but with jerky motions he gestured for her to sit on the bench.
“You are very good at reading Pieter and his needs,” Quentin said as he joined her on the bench. “Before you came, I didn’t realize how much he has missed a woman’s softness in his life. He lowers his guard around you and becomes curious about the world around him. He is less prone to anxiety over pointless things. I owe all this to you.”
“Thank you,” she said again, wondering what was prompting this bewildering conversation. He rubbed his hands along the rough fabric of his trousers and cleared his throat. He seemed so nervous that she began to fear his next sentence. Was he taking Pieter and leaving them? His anxiety was contagious, and her stomach clenched and heart began to pound.
“Whatever is bothering you, just say it,” she prompted. Anything to break this awful tension.
He took a heavy breath then turned to face her. “Miss van Riijn, I am in need of a wife, and Pieter is in need of a mother. I believe you would fill both roles quite well. Will you marry me?”
She gasped. If she wasn’t so appalled, she would laugh, but there was nothing funny about this moment. She’d had three fiancés, and at each proposal she’d believed herself in love, but love was the last emotion she felt for Quentin Vandermark.
He awaited her answer like a condemned man awaited an executioner.
“I can’t imagine we would be a good match,” she stammered.
He stiffened even further, his spine straightening and his chin lifting. “We’re an excellent match,” he countered. “You have a genuine affection for Pieter, and your devotion to Dierenpark in unquestionable. If you marry me, you can live at Dierenpark for the rest of your life.”
Not a word about love. Not that she expected it from a man as stern as Quentin Vandermark, but she’d never imagined marrying a man without a true and genuine affection. Until recently, Quentin had seemed to actively dislike her.
“That’s what you need then, a mother for Pieter?”
“Precisely. As I said earlier, my health is precarious and I need to secure his future. I believe you can provide him with a foundation of integrity and moral judgment. And you could be mistress of Dierenpark for the rest of your life.”
His proximity was uncomfortable. She stepped away from the bench, gazing out over the river.
She would be good for Pieter. The quick affection that had bloomed between her and Pieter felt almost like being a real mother.
And love hadn’t worked out so well for her in the past, had it? All her life she’d longed to feel needed, and Pieter needed her. There would be a lot of advantages to marrying into this family.
She dragged air into her lungs and surveyed the vista before her. She had loved Dierenpark as far back as her memory reached. Marriage to Quentin would mean she could savor the beauty of this breathtaking spot for as long as she lived. It could all belong to her.
It was a perfect day, the sky a blinding blue. The colors seemed magnified, the sound of the insects droning in the nearby flowers strangely loud. The scent of honeysuckle was so strong it seemed cloying, the sunlight so bright it hurt her eyes. She shaded her eyes as she took in the view, dwelling on the idea that it could all belong to her as soon as she spoke the word. All she had to do was marry Quentin, and then Dierenpark would be hers forever. She felt hot and dizzy and overwhelmed.
A movement caught her attention. Quentin rose to his feet, the tip of his cane clicking on the stone as he drew closer.
She would have to be his wife. She couldn’t even meet his gaze, and she was contemplating the longest, most intimate connection with a man who half-frightened, half-thrilled her.
It would be a terrible choice. The noise of insects and glare of the sun seemed to fade as she came to her senses.
She turned so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we would suit.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Is it that fool Marten?”
“No!”
“Then why is he here? And don’t tell me it was to deliver tulip bulbs, because that’s hogwash and you know it.”
She turned to face him. “This has nothing to do with Marten. You and I would be unequally yoked.”
He blinked, his confusion apparent.
“My faith is what makes me who I am,” she said in a shaky voice. “Religion is important to me, and I couldn’t be married to a man who did not share that fundamental belief. You would grow to resent my devotion—”
“I said you could teach Pieter the Bible,” he said tightly.
“It’s not enough. You would eventually resent the way I lean on my faith. Even now, I can see you getting annoyed, as though if you glower enough it will shake me from this position. And I don’t want to be the only spiritual leader in a family. I would want my husband to help, to back me, and I will resent it if you can’t do that.”
“Sophie,” he said in a slow and tight voice, as though speaking to a child. “I need you to set aside your whimsical fantasies and think logically for a moment. You want this house. I want a mother for my son. There is a perfect solution if you can be rational enough to take the obvious step.”
The temptation that had held her briefly spellbound on the overhang vanished. Quentin was darkness and cynicism. If she tied herself to him, he would dim her spirit and drag her down with him. She wasn’t strong enough to save him. Only he could do that, and he had no interest in it.
“I’m sorry—”
He cut her off. “What is it that you want? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you, just name your price.”
She stepped back. “Money can’t buy what I want.” All her life, she’d longed for the simple gift of a husband who could be a partner, to help lead her family toward a wholesome and meaningful life. Quentin was not that man.
“I have three buckets of oysters that need shucking,” she said quietly. “I won’t change my mind, and I implore you not to continue this conversation. It will only be an embarrassment to us both.”
She was moving before even finishing the sentence, desperate to put as much distance between herself and this mortifying conversation as possible.