She smiles. "Well, I can only imagine all of this is overwhelming. I'm not one to speak ill of anyone. But I think we both know where St. Clair's flaws lie, and well... it can't be easy."
"That was a great way of putting it." I reach for a box with a familiar logo on the side. It's one I've seen in high-end catalogues all my life and never once come face-to-face with. "Have you noticed how many of these cards are addressed to the happy couple or to Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair? I don't think they know my name."
"I think many of them," Bonnie says, "are shocked he married at all."
"That was my reaction when he asked me. 'You? Getting married?'"
She shakes her head. "That was probably his own as well."
I unwrap the Hermès leather wallet, embossed with the designer label and the St. Clair name. The kind of money these things must cost…
"The Winthorpes sent this over," I murmur. The family is legendary in this city.
Bonnie nods. "They were good friends with St. Clair's parents."
I turn the wallet over. Wondering if I should or shouldn't pry, and knowing which instinct will win. Best to give in straight away. "His parents aren't around, I've gathered."
"They passed a long time ago."
I nod. "Well, it's awfully kind of them to send him this, then."
"You," Bonnie corrects. "These are all gifts to both of you. They're hoping, I think, that he'll become someone like his grandfather or his parents were. Social, affable. The St. Clair name used to be well-known in these circles."
I glance at the notecard and the name Winthorpe. "He won't like all this."
"No, I don't think he will."
"Maybe seeing the phallic-shaped vase will cheer him up."
Bonnie chuckles and hands me a baby-blue box to unbox. "Somehow, I doubt that too."
I unwrap the Tiffany box with careful hands, but what's waiting for me inside isn't delicate in the least. It's a saber. I grip the heavy handle and pull the gleaming blade out, brandishing it.
"Someone sent us a gazillion-dollar sword."
Bonnie looks over. "Ah. A champagne saber. The household already has two of those."
"I'm not surprised." I lift it up, still sitting cross-legged in the hallway in my workout clothes. "En garde! Is there no one here to challenge me?"
The front door swings open to reveal Victor. His suit is dark with raindrops, hair tousled and damp. He looks from me to the saber, eyes narrowing.
"We're taking care of our wedding gifts," I say. I lower the saber, but with no fancy sheath at hand, I tuck it safely back in the blue Tiffany box.
"I can see that," he says. "All of this arrived today?"
"Yes. There should be more incoming tomorrow," Bonnie says. She gets up and carries the kitchen chair back, disappearing down the hallway.
Victor steps closer and a wet, Italian leather shoe appears next to my legging-clad knee. "Well," he says. "The assistant you recommended was shit."
I look up at him. He looks enormous from this angle. Twenty feet tall, at least. And both Bonnie and Steven have left me alone and at his mercy.
"Sarah is not shit," I say. "She came highly recommended and has the perfect temperament for the job."
"She didn't pick things up quickly enough."
"No, because she's still learning. I'd been working with Mr. Conway for a year when you took over as CEO, so you didn't have to deal with that. She's had three days."
He frowns down at me. "Well, I told her to pack her things. She isn't likely to come back."
"No, I guess not. Does that mean you're calling the second candidate on my recommended list?"
"Yes. Brian."
"Brad."
"Right." He steps past me and disappears into the kitchen without another word, and so I reach for another present. I've just snapped a picture of it when Victor appears again.
He has a beer in hand and the rained-on suit jacket is gone. In its place is another of his crisp, white shirts. He starts to roll up a sleeve, inch by inch. "She didn't color-code my calendar the way you did."
"Sarah?"
"Miss Fleming, yes."
"Well, and I hate to point this out again, she had only been there for three days."
"I need you to train the next assistant." He takes a swig of his beer, a furrow in his brow. "I've been getting calls of congratulations all day with no one to screen them. I don't know how the hell our marriage got out."
"Well, don't look at me. I didn't call the tabloids."
"I didn't think you did." He leans against the wall and looks from me to the assortments of goods spread out around us.
I clear my throat. "Well, you're just in time to see me open our final gift."
"Because that will make my day better." He bends and grabs a card lying on top of a cashmere blanket. His face harden as he reads. "I haven't spoken to these people in a decade."
"Well, that's nice," I say. "That they'd send something."
"Sure. Not like they're kissing ass or anything."
"There might have been some of that. Your bank sent us flowers."
Victor snorts, taking another sip of his beer. "Have your pick of this crap."
"Are you sure you don't want another champagne saber for your collection?"
"I'm sure." His gaze drops to the gift in my hand. Right, I'm meant to open it. I undo the ribbon and carefully lift the lid, unwrapping layers of silk paper. At its heart is an envelope and scrawled on the front is Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair.
"Who's it from?" Victor asks.