Page 47 of State of Ruin

To Sinclair’s displeasure, I declined his offer of having his driver come pick me up and made my way to his place on the PATH with my overnight bag. God only knows what you wear for a weekend at Fairwater. My only consolation is that no one else will be around to see me—and I suspect Sinclair will be happy if I’m wearing as little as possible, most of the time. Anyway, I met him at his apartment at three o’clock and off we drove together in his shiny black Range Rover, over the Queensboro and crawling through Queens as the Friday afternoon traffic built.

I like watching him drive. He’s cranked the heat up in the car and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing those still-tan, muscular forearms I adore so much. He’s a good driver, I think—competent and careful. I like that he’s not flashy. After the expressway comes a strip mall that could belong in Jersey, with a Chase branch and even a Stop & Shop, and I wonder if this Gold Coast thing has been overhyped. But then Sinclair is saying “Not long now,” and the strip mall disappears, replaced with high stone walls, and iron gates with no house names, as far as I can see, and trees lining the street. So many trees, in a glorious blaze of orange and gold and red, like an exclusive fall party.

“Wow,” I say. “Look at the trees! We timed this so well.”

Sinclair shoots me a sidelong glance. “Yeah. I won’t deny it factored into my timing for this invitation. Thought you’d like to see it in its full glory.”

“Jeez. He’s a total mastermind. Who knew?”

He returns his eyes to the street. “You have no fucking clue, sweetheart.”

At last, he puts on his blinker and turns off so we’re facing the biggest, baddest set of iron gates on the entire street. Huge stone pillars and a high stone wall flank them. It looks super forbidding, but I guess that’s the idea.

“And this is Fairwater. Home sweet home.”

After a moment, the gates begin to open slowly, and the car crawls forward, its tires crunching over gravel. I gasp, because if the fall tree party was gorgeous out in the street, it’s insane here. On either side of the driveway stands a long line of bright red trees, strong and glorious, their branches meeting overhead in a way that makes me feel a little like a bride going up the aisle.

Bad thought, Elyse.

“What trees are these?” I ask Sinclair to distract myself. Also, I want to savor every moment of this experience. If he’s inviting me into his family home, I want to drink up every single detail.

“Scarlet oaks. Sensational, aren’t they?” He’s craning his neck for a better view out of the driver’s window, and I love this. I love seeing him excited to be home, even if his voice when he said Home sweet home just now felt a little sarcastic. I guess Fairwater is one of those places that affects you, whether you like it or not. How could it not affect you?

We drive slowly down the long gravel driveway. “So, there are five buildings,” he tells me. “The main house, obviously, and then four smaller dwellings which my ancestor had built for his four children. Mom and Dad literally had four kids for that very reason.”

“Wow,” I say. “So the mastermind genes are strong.”

He barks out a surprised little laugh. “Nailed it in one. I mean, how messy would it be to have a mismatched number of kids and homes?”

“The messiest,” I agree. I feel lightheaded, drunk on this insane access to this man and his home and the past that has shaped him. He was lethal in Manhattan, all sharp suits and devastating dominance, but here? Here, he may just end me. “What would they have done if they’d accidentally had a fifth kid?”

“The Vosses don’t do accidents,” he says with a stern look at me, but then he smiles. “But they’d probably have built a kennel for it. A fancy, shingle style one, though.”

I laugh, feeling drunker by the moment. We come to a little junction with a stone statue in the middle—a figure of a boy. It’s mottled with age and so pretty. On either side is a turnoff.

“That little boy was my grandfather—the firstborn son of my great-great-grandfather, who built this place. And down there are my younger siblings’ homes—Melissa has The Willows and Xander has The Oaks. We’re big on trees around here.” He bypasses the statue carefully. “And then up front is the main house, Seb’s place—The Beeches—and mine is The Lindens.”

“Oh!” I say in delight. “Lindens were my mom’s favorite trees. She said they reminded her of Paris.”

He turns to smile at me. I’ve noticed that he always seems super happy when I tell him things about my family, no matter how small. I don’t know why; it’s not as though the Ward family anecdotes can compete with Voss mega-lore. I mean, actual books have been written about Fairwater by people who’ve never set foot here. How crazy is that?

(Not as crazy as the fact that Elyse Ward of Bayonne, New Jersey, is about to do just that.)

“That sounds like a sign to me,” he says, his eyes twinkling softly as he takes in my face.

My heart does a little thump-dance thing. “Lindens are very beloved in France. Lime blossom tea is a big deal—it’s called tilleul, and it’s like an herbal infusion. Mom used to make us tilleul on a Sunday night to help us sleep before we went back to school.” I’m babbling, but he keeps looking over at me as if he’s hungry for more.

“Go on.” He’s slowed the car right down as if he wants to focus on what I’m saying.

“Well, she got hooked on it in Paris, apparently. She trained there from the age of eighteen to twenty, before she emigrated here. She used to tell us about all the tilleuls in bloom in the parks in Paris when she was a totally broke trainee dancer.”

“It made her happy to share her past with you,” he says softly.

“Yeah. She felt it was important, you know?” I shrug, feeling a little exposed. Mom always seemed happy to share her stories, but I couldn’t help but sense the sadness behind her tales. By eighteen, she was already years too late for the Paris system. She was never going to make it there. Mom was a victim of a system that judged her body way too harshly… and it looks like I’ve gotten myself into the exact same jam with modeling, doesn’t it?

“Sharing these traditions is the most important thing there is,” he says somberly. “Otherwise, they’re lost forever. And what is this country but a million different traditions from a million different cultures?”

“Exactly,” I say more brightly. “Anyway, tilleuls are delicious. My sister and I make one for my niece every Sunday night, but she’s not sold yet. She always wants a lot of honey with it. She thinks it’s too bitter, but she’s only five. She’ll get there.”