“I couldn’t help but notice you admiring the surroundings. This collection houses hundreds of rare and expensive plantsfrom all around the world.” She waves her hand with a flourish, proud of her accumulation of nature that belongs anywhere but in a heated Montauk glasshouse. Oh, the stupid things the super-rich spend their billions on. Jets, yachts, and plants!
“These are my Monsteras,” she announces. “Deliciosa Albo Variegata and Thai Constellation, and over here, my obliqua; extremely difficult to cultivate. That was tens of thousands of dollars.” My jaw wants to drop to the heated concrete. Instead, I hinge it closed again with my thumb, pretending to ponder her offensive words.
“I have Hoyas, like callistophylla and camosa, both incredibly rare and collectible. Most people will never see a Shenzhen Nongke Orchid in real life, and I have two. One here and the other at Greenwich. It’s the most expensive orchid ever sold. I won’t allow my family anywhere near them; they are truly special.”
I don’t want her to elaborate on the price. Her barely contained excitement makes me think her earlier gloat was chump change. If only the woman spoke about her family, her children in this light. When she referenced truly special, she spoke about a flower, not her son. Who is this woman, and how has she been misjudged for so long? The world sees her as a deity.
“I am telling you this because I believe you should know the truth. Sometimes people collect things that make them happy. They don’t belong, but they look past that and try to forget where they came from, only wanting to trick themselves into thinking they are happy, when in reality, they are not.”
“If these plants don’t fill your cup, then donate them to a botanic garden or, even better, return them to their natural habitat.”
“Oh silly, silly girl,” she titters, “I wasn’t talking about myprized species, I was talking about Mason. Or more particularly,younot belonging here with him.”
This time my thumb is inadequate. I’ve only registered the shock when she turns toward a mammoth heart-shaped leaf with a tiny patch of crinkled brown at the margin, fading into a soft yellow.
“Do you see this?” she says, picking up the leaf in one hand and shearing it clean off with the secateurs in her other hand.Snip!“Gone. Then all evidence of it will be destroyed as if it were never here.”
I swallow thickly, understanding her meaning. I’m the detritus she wants to snip away from her son. Mason told me he never introduces people to his family, and here I sit, having been inside two conservatories in less than five weeks.
“Mrs. Mercer, thank you for the horticultural lesson, but it’s Christmas. A time of joy and family. Even someone like you must find joy in something other than botany.”
“Someone like me…” she wavers, replacing the shears on the chair and dropping the leaf to the floor. In seconds, a uniformed worker slides in to scoop up the severed leaf and retreat into the foliage like a silent avenger. It’s Christmas Day, her family is a wing away, and she’s cutting leaves to make a fucking point? Fuck her. “If that is all, Malice, I’d much rather spend today in your son’s company than yours. Unlike the garden here, you are an ugly-hearted woman.”
I make a hasty retreat, stopping next to a bushy plant with tiny red berries. It looks festive, unlike its carer. Her ghost of a smile from earlier is replaced by a broad, thin-lipped grin.
“Go ahead,” she encourages, “that is Atropa belladonna. It's beautiful, isn’t it?”
I reach toward the tiny berries only to stop in my tracks when she speaks again. “Most people know it as Deadly Nightshade; one of the most toxic plants on earth.”
Mason and Trystanare in talks with Frazer when I find them minutes later. “Hey, you, you look rattled,” Trys says, pulling me into a hug. I’m still shaking with blazing rage, and that fire looks like the perfect place to hide from the rest of this miserable bunch. Ava and Ramsey are playing on the patterned carpet a safe distance away from our fireside location. Nic pops up from her hands and knees with a beaming smile and strides over to greet me.
“I heard you were summoned to the plant prison,” she says, handing me a glass of champagne. Even now, my fingers quiver when they take hold of the thin stem.
In a beat, Mason is at my side. “What did she say to you? You’re trembling?” Mason guides me to sit on a Chesterfield sofa. I despise these couches. If my dress were more forgiving, I’d gladly sit on the floor with the children.
“Your mother is a cunt,” I hiss into the flute. The chilled bubbles dance over my tongue, providing much-needed relief from the dry throat I couldn’t shake after copious swallowing. “She takes such pride and care with those expensive plants, and look,” I say, pointing a painted nail toward. the shrieking kids, “this is the real joy right here. I wouldn’t trade this for the world, and she’s in there with her poison.”
“I wouldn’t trade this either,” Frazer adds. “Times like this are rare and special. One moment they’re six, and the next minute they’re twenty-six, moved out and you see them twice a year.”
Mason had told me how protective Frazer Klein was as a husband and a dad. Years ago, when he was just finishing college and ready to make his mark in finance, his sister, Kenya, was kidnapped and held for ransom. As children of a senator,they had a protective detail, but sometimes the best plans and protection have chinks in the armor. Luckily, Kenya was found unscathed and returned, but Frazer takes the safety and welfare of his wife and children seriously. It’s hard to reconcile doting parents like Frazer and Nic with emotionless voids like Michael and Alice.
“Hey,” Nic says, her hand tapping the top of my knee, “I’ve been hearing phenomenal things about your charcoal sketching. When can I get a personal portfolio viewing?”
Phenomenal things? From whom? Only a handful of people know I sketch, and one is no longer with us. She can’t be referring to her brother.
“She’s incredible,” he gushes. I blink at him. I’m… what?
“Is it charcoal, or do you work with other media?”
“I use charcoal and graphite for hyperrealism,” I say.
“Her work is amazing; it looks like a photograph,” Trystan adds.
“Here.” Mason tosses his cell. She looks down at the drawing of our fluffy hound, then swipes to the next one, the piece with Liam and Geoffrey.
“You have some serious talent, girl. Why the hell are you working for my brother?” Because he’s paying me crazy money…
Before I can answer, she stops talking and stares at the screen. Her finger and thumb pinch in a zooming motion, and a muffled groan slips past her lips. What the hell is she looking at? She has the screen tilted toward her husband, who has taken up residence on the floor with his squealing kids. “You drew that, Bri?”
