Chapter 5 - The Master of the House
By Friday afternoon, the news of Nathan Whitmore’s sudden corporate absence had created a small tremor through the Midtown real estate markets. Three separate investment groups had called his personal line, their analysts frantic over the rumor that the twenty-two-million-dollar Manhattan closing had been derailed due to an undisclosed "family crisis."
Nathan ignored them all. He spent the morning in his casual clothes—a soft gray cashmere sweater and jeans—sitting at the kitchen island with his sons, watching them paint a massive cardboard box they had retrieved from the garage.
The kitchen door swung open, and Ruth Keller walked in, her arms full of fresh linens from the laundry room. When she saw Nathan sitting there, a paintbrush in his hand and a smear of yellow acrylic on his forearm, she stopped dead in her tracks, her face turning a deep, embarrassed red.
“Mr. Whitmore...” she murmured, her eyes dropping toward the floor. “I... I have the weekly cleaning schedules for the east wing. If you’d prefer me to work while the boys are out—”
“Ruth,” Nathan said, putting his brush down onto a sheet of newspaper and standing up. He gestured for her to follow him into the adjacent pantry, away from the twins’ ears.
The older woman looked as if she were preparing for an execution, her shoulders hunched, her fingers gripping the fabric of the clean sheets as if they were a shield. “Sir, if you’re going to dismiss me, I understand. I should have never given Claire that medication. It was an irresponsible thing to do, but I was just so frightened for her—”
“I’m not dismissing you, Ruth,” Nathan said gently, his voice quiet but steady. “You’ve been with this family for twelve years. You knew my wife, and you’ve kept this house standing when I wasn't here to do it myself.”
Ruth looked up, her old eyes wide with surprise.
“But things are changing here,” Nathan continued, leaning his arm against the wooden shelf of the pantry. “Claire is coming back tomorrow morning. She isn't a housekeeper anymore. She’s going to be the boys’ companion, and her family is under our protection now. I want her quarters in the carriage house completely cleared and redecorated. Order whatever furniture she wants from the design district in Manhattan. Send the invoices to my private account.”
A slow, emotional tear gathered at the corner of Ruth’s eye, her mouth trembling as she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Whitmore. Thank you. She... she really is a saint, sir. When Evelyn was sick, she used to tell me that the boys would need someone soft if she didn't make it through the winter. I think... I think Evelyn would be very happy today.”
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The mention of his wife’s name didn't bring the sharp, suffocating flash of grief it usually did. It felt different now—like a cool wind passing through a room that had been sealed for too long.
“Go finish the rooms, Ruth,” Nathan said with a small, genuine smile. “And make sure the kitchen has everything ready for tomorrow. Lucas says she promised them pancakes, and I intend to make sure she doesn't have to lift a finger to make them.”
