AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And then he’s gone, being escorted away by one of the over-eager Guest Services gophers. I try not to look too relieved as I return to my place behind the counter. That was close.
I’m not sure what I’ll do if people around here figure out who I am. Even if they were okay with overlooking the whole “illegal” side of things, they’d want an explanation, and I’m not sure I can even explain it to myself, let alone come up with a reasonable excuse for someone else. Besides, I’m not ready to leave yet. I still have too many things to figure out.
That means being extra careful.
Unfortunately, since Mr. Haymore’s in charge of making this week run smoothly and I’m in charge of doing whatever Mr. Haymore needs, I can’t just avoid our new visitors. I have to be by my boss’s side for every event. Starting with the welcome reception on the very first night.
In spite of throwing on an extra layer of makeup and running my straightener through my hair three different times, I still feel exposed when I show up at the atrium. They’ve set up tables and chairs among the indoor gardens, and there’s an open bar on the far side of the room. Servers move through the journalists and photographers with trays of appetizers, and Mr. Haymore is already mingling with the guests. I move along the wall, happy to remain hidden until I’m needed. I don’t need any curious pairs of eyes on me tonight.
I made a copy of the sign-in list this afternoon, and I pull it out and study the names, trying to match them with the faces in front of me. If anyone asks, I can just tell them I’m learning who’s who so I can offer the best, most personal service possible. In reality, though, I need to know who I’m up against.
I’ve already marked Asher as one to watch. I’ve kept my eye on him since he walked in, observing him as he moves around the room. I put check marks next to the names of the representatives from magazines and websites I find particularly suspicious—ones I suspect covered my family’s story closely, as opposed to publications about travel or tourism that are here for a first look at the accommodations. And the whole time, I keep an eye out for anyone who looks at me a fraction too long, or who squints and tilts their head as if they’re trying to figure out where they’ve seen me before.
But my “disguise” must be better than I thought, or else everyone’s too focused on the food and sticking their noses up each other’s butts to give me a second glance. It’s just like I felt next to Carolson. I’m essentially the help. Only here when someone needs me.
In spite of myself, this irks me.
Don’t you know who I am?!? I want to scream. My great-great-grandfather built this place! This is my family’s home, and they’re all invaders. Invaders who have no problem gawking at the gardens out the windows or furiously scribbling down notes as if this place were the friggin’ eighth wonder of the world.
It’s worse when Carolson finally shows up. He rolls in at half past eight, and immediately the crowd falls into a strange frenzy; everything is completely silent except for the clicking of camera shutters and the scratch of pens. Some people start typing into their phones, while one or two fish digital recorders out of their pockets.
Carolson gives his usual smile as he walks to the front of the room.
“No questions tonight,” he says, “but I wanted to come welcome you personally to Huntington Manor.” He spreads his arms. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to share this project of mine with the world.”
He goes on, but I don’t hear the words. I’m remembering what Ward said to me about rich people. About how everything they say or do is to make them seem more important. Every gesture, every word of Carolson’s is perfectly calculated. He’s setting himself up as the gracious, generous host of this event. Taking credit for this “project” as if he’s been here all along, working up a sweat with the contractors and the rest of the staff. Maybe he’s manipulative enough to do it on purpose, or maybe it’s just become a habit of his over the years, expanding as his status grows.
This is my family’s house, I want to say. Not yours! It will never really be yours!
If it had been my father up there, or my brother or me, then we would have had the right to say those things. But not Carolson.
I feel the anger starting to build in my chest, and I push it down. Ever since my breakdown in the theater, I feel like my emotions have been too close to the surface, just waiting to break free again. I need to fight them back. Be strong. I can’t lose it here, where there are a dozen cameras to capture every second of Louisa Cunningham’s mental break.
I need air. Fresh air.
Fortunately, Mr. Haymore’s too busy nodding enthusiastically along with Carolson’s spiel to notice me leaving, and I pray that he doesn’t need me again immediately. If he does… well, I’ll worry about coming up with an excuse when the time comes.
I march back through the house and out one of the side doors, into the moon garden. Every blossom in this section blooms in the moonlight, and at this hour, the beds I pass are filled with beautiful pale flowers. I consider stopping and sitting here for a while, but I’m afraid I’ll only get restless. And anyway, I desperately need a drink.
I’m across the lawn and at the tasting room in less than five minutes. Another thirty seconds and I’m inside.
This time, I don’t have a particular bottle in mind, so I take my time choosing the wine I want. Not because I have any idea which might be better than any other—honestly, I don’t know a merlot from a pinot noir. I consider picking one based solely on the label, but in the end I decide to be a little bolder and choose something based on price. I grab two bottles that appear to be valued at about $900 each.
And then, sustenance procured, I head to the maze. It’s still probably the safest place to sneak some wine in spite of my slightly complicated experience the other night.
It doesn’t even occur to me that Ward might be out there again. But when I get to my favorite spot, I realize that once again I’ve made a gross oversight.
“You,” I say, seeing the familiar auburn-haired figure reclining against the hedge in the moonlight.
He shifts, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “You.”
I can’t tell from his tone whether he’s happy or disappointed to see me. I’m too focused on his injuries, which are all too obvious, even beneath the silvery light of the moon. Those shadows beneath his eyes are definitely bruises, and his left eye is still puffy and slightly swollen. His left arm is in a sling. His nose is back in a slightly more normal shape, which is good, but I’m sure there are plenty of injuries I can’t see beneath his clothes.
