I smiled, clinking my glass of cranberry juice against hers. My cardiologist had been firm: no alcohol for me. My blood pressure was a fickle beast, and I took my health very seriously. “To our future, darling.”
Rachel looked stunning that night. She wore an elegant black dress I had given her for her last birthday, her brown hair, identical to mine at her age, swept up in an elaborate bun. Beside her, Derek, her husband of five years, smiled with that polished, charming attitude that had always made me deeply uncomfortable, though I could never quite articulate why.
“I’m so happy you finally decided to sell, Helen,” Derek said, also raising his glass. “Now you can enjoy life. Travel, rest. You’ve worked far too much.”
I nodded, though something in his tone bothered me. It was as if he were more relieved than happy for me, as if the sale represented something entirely different to him than it did to me. “I have plans,” I replied simply. “The Robert Foundation is just the beginning.”
I saw a flicker of something—irritation? worry?—cross Rachel’s face. It was so fast I couldn’t be certain. “A foundation?” she asked, her voice suddenly tense.