by Grey, R. S.
She’s wrong. Each mocking word she’s said tonight has fallen onto my heart like a drop of burning oil.
My silence doesn’t sit well with her. She sighs and lets her hands fall to her sides in defeat. “Oh fine. I won’t say another word. How about that? I won’t even open my mouth unless you tell me to. Surely I can’t do any harm just by being in the room—”
I take her then, wrapping my hands around her trim waist and hauling her flush against me. I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe, initially, I wanted to knock some sense into her, force her into the realization that her silence would solve nothing. She could hide under the table and I’d still be too aware of her in that room. Now, though, her green eyes are closer than they’ve ever been, and I give in to the wild urge to bend my head toward hers.
Her hand shoots up, not striking my cheek but good and ready to do so.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, letting her hand fall to my chest so she can wrap her fingers around the lapel of my coat.
Our hearts beat together wildly as our lips stay within reach. She’s rigid in my hands, a piece of glass ready to break, and then another second passes and she softens at the exact moment that my sanity snaps back into place.
I let go of her and step back swiftly, rubbing a hand across my forehead.
No amount of apologies would suffice, so I don’t bother.
Instead, I give her the space to push past me and reenter the dining room.
I go through the side hall, down into the kitchen, and out into the chilly night air.
I started off hating Maren on principle, and though there are many reasons to forgive her past transgressions and grant her the benefit of the doubt, beneath it all lies the obstinate determination to go on hating her. I can hardly consider the scenario in which I might have made life harder for a person who’s already dealt with more than her fair share of hardships. It leaves me with a burning ache in my chest, an insurmountable amount of shame.
17
Maren
In the morning, I take my coffee out into the back yard, wrapping my sweater tighter around my shoulders to block the ocean breeze as I approach the edge of the property. It’s a perilous drop from where I stand down to the rocky shores below, but an ornate wrought iron fence holds me back. Still, I don’t lean on it too much. Years of exposure to the elements has given it a patina, and I worry there might be some structural damage as well.
I sip my coffee and glance down below. There’s a break in the drop, midway down, a flat walkway that cuts through the jagged rocks, parallel to Bellevue Avenue. It’s Newport’s famed Cliff Walk, and though I’ve never traversed it myself, I’ve seen quite a few tourists accomplish the feat. On a Saturday morning, with weather as beautiful as it is today, I’m not surprised to see it’s already busy with casual hikers.
They look up and wave to me, and I wave back. I wonder what they think of me standing up here, if they mistake me for one of the Cromwells. I can’t imagine.
I hear approaching footsteps in the damp grass behind me, and I glance back to see Nicholas walking toward me from the house. My stomach squeezes tight and I feel immediate unease. He never returned to dinner last night and a part of me worried he’d gone back to New York, but this morning, when I peered out my bathroom window, his car was still parked outside, causing a dangerous feeling of hope to blossom in my chest. It’s still there even as I try to quash it.
I turn back to stare out at the ocean, and each passing second while I wait for him to reach me is a short millennium.
He stops beside me, and I can no longer hear the roar of the ocean over my own heartbeat.
He’s the first to speak.
“When I was a child, there was no fence here.”
“I can’t imagine.”
Even just thinking about it makes me take a small step back, more in line with him.
“It wasn’t as dangerous as you might think. There were never any injuries. People were smart enough to stay back. The fence is only there now because of the Cliff Walk. My grandfather didn’t want tourists to mistake Rosethorn for public property.”
“Why was the Cliff Walk first built? Why would you all have agreed to let them take a portion of your property?”
“It wasn’t ours to give. It’s the law. No one has ownership of the ocean.”
It’s a beautiful sentiment. I tell him so and he nods, staring out at the sea as the breeze ruffles the dark strands of his hair. He looks so beautifully severe this morning, so much like his portrait. His sharp profile begs to be touched and I almost open my mouth to apologize about last night, but then he speaks and the words die on my tongue.
“I won’t repeat my actions from last night,” he says obstinately.
My heart lurches in my chest.
“It was inappropriate, and I hope I didn’t offend you,” he continues.
Yes, my initial reaction was offense. It’s why my hand shot up to protect myself, but then once realization set in, once my body recognized Nicholas’ strong hold, warmth spread through me like a slow-moving trickle of lava. I would have let him kiss me if he’d tried. I would have begged him to continue, and maybe it’s for the best that we didn’t start at all. How different would this morning’s chat be if he were here telling me he regretted his actions, saying he didn’t mean to get my hopes up or string me along. How mortifying would it have been if he wanted to take back the kiss altogether instead of just the possibility of a kiss?
This is better.
This way, my dignity is spared.
“You’re welcome at Rosethorn as long as you’d like to remain here,” he says before turning back toward the house.
Wetness gathers in the corners of my eyes, and I dab it away with a sharp, forceful inhalation.
* * *
A house as big as Rosethorn seems to magnify every emotion. There’s no escaping them in the cavernous halls and quiet rooms. Loneliness seeps in Saturday afternoon, so dark and all-consuming I can’t shake it. Cornelia and Lydia have plans to eat out for dinner tonight, and Nicholas isn’t home either. I go downstairs and find most of the staff playing poker, laughing around their dining table, and I know better than to interrupt. I go back up to my room and try to call Ariana, but she doesn’t answer. I’m not surprised. She hasn’t taken any of my calls since I arrived here. I worry about her, wondering how she’s faring since we last spoke. I’m tempted to leave her another message, but I don’t bother.
I put on jeans and a light t-shirt then head into town just to have something to do. I’ve never seen the shops on Bellevue so busy. Tourists bustle around on the sidewalk, licking ice cream cones and taking pictures in front of the overgrown hydrangea blossoms. I pass the wine bar Barrett took me to last week and am surprised to find Nicholas and Rhett sitting outside among friends. It’s a group of eight or so, a few of whom I recognize from Tori’s garden party. A petite blonde sits to the left of Nicholas, chatting animatedly. I force myself to look away and keep walking.
My goal is to reach Tori’s gallery, and I make it there just as the sun is starting to set. I peer through the windows to see if she’s busy and find her near the front, standing beside a dark bronze sculpture of a thin, distorted figure. Her patrons study it as Tori talks, and then her eyes glance past them, seeing me out on the sidewalk. She smiles and waves and I do the same before continuing on so I don’t distract her from making a sale.
Though it’s dinner time and every restaurant I pass sends out tempting smells, I continue to walk, enjoying the feeling of being in motion. I don’t stop until I’ve reached Miantonomi Memorial Park. I have no clue how far I am from Rosethorn, but I don’t worry about it. My feet carried me here; they’ll carry me back.
I turn back around to head home, staying on well-lit streets now that night has fallen completely. Somewhere along the way, I become aware of a small shaggy dog following along behind me. It looks like some kind of terrier mix with dirty brown hair sticking up in every direction.
�
��I don’t have any food,” I tell it, turning my pockets out as if to prove my point.
It wags its tail and I groan, turning back around to continue my walk.
It follows, growing cockier as the minutes pass. Eventually, he’s right beside me, trotting along.
“Do you have a home?” I ask, fully expecting an answer.
He barks back, genius dog that he is, and I can’t help but smile.
Even without further invitation, he continues along beside me until we pass another street and step under an especially bright lamp post. I stop and use the light to bend down and search for a collar. He whirls around in excitement, barking and lapping at my hand as I pat his head. I start to part some of the fur at his throat, expecting to find a collar under the matted mess, but he releases a low warning growl right as I spot a dark angry wound, barely scabbed over. No collar in sight.
“Oh, you’re hurt,” I say, moving my hands away so I don’t irritate his cut.
He licks my palm, as if in apology for the growl, and I stand up, patting my thigh for him to come along. He’s very dutiful, never wandering far, even as we pass through the busy streets with tourists flooding out of restaurants. One especially tall man crosses into my path and the dog jumps in front of me, growling low and menacing.
“It’s okay, c’mon.”
He listens, but not before issuing another growl in the stranger’s direction.
When we arrive home, I tell him to wait on the other side of the gate for me and then pass by Neal. I make it halfway to the house before I realize the dog snuck in after me, looking very proud of himself.
He issues another bark and I shush him. “You’re going to get yourself caught. Now, you need to stay outside. I’ll go in to get you something to eat and something to clean that wound with. It looks close to getting infected, I think.”
I tell him to sit when I reach the kitchen door and he stays standing, tipping his head to the side as if confused. I roll my eyes and slip through the door, closing it quickly behind me just in case he gets the idea to come into the house after me. He barks once and I wince, hoping no one heard it.
Patricia is in the kitchen tidying up.
“Oh, Maren. Barrett called while you were out, a few hours ago.”
I nod, not really caring. “Thanks.”
“Are you hungry? Chef made a light dinner. I could heat something up for you?”
Her kindness feels like too much to bear on a day like today.
“No. Thank you, Patricia. I’m just going to get some water and a snack.”
“All right. Good night,” she says, giving me a warm smile before she grabs a load of dirty dish towels to carry off toward the laundry room.
I wait a beat to be sure she’s gone then start to raid the refrigerator, looking for something a dog could eat. Chef keeps everything perfectly organized, so it isn’t hard to hunt down some sliced chicken and cooked sweet potato mash. I search around desperately for a paper plate and find nothing. In the end, I settle for the most worn-looking pot I can find and scoop a little of the chicken and potatoes into it. Then I add some dish soap and water into a mixing bowl and toss a towel over my shoulder on my way back outside.
The dog isn’t there when I open the door and my heart immediately sinks, but then I see him out on the grass rolling out and having a jolly ol’ time.
“Dog,” I hiss under my breath.
He leaps to his feet and trots back over, and I lead us toward a corner of the house with the fewest windows. I put the pot of food down for him and he immediately goes to town on it. While he’s distracted, I pour a little of the soapy water onto his neck. He doesn’t even notice as I work the towel into the matted hair, carrying away dried blood so I can properly clean the wound. He licks at the pot, trying to get every last morsel of food while I continue my work, and when we’re both done, I sit back on my heels, unsure of what to do now.
“You have to go back home,” I tell him. “You have a home, don’t you?”
He doesn’t look like it, and if he does have owners, they weren’t taking very good care of him. He really is a scruffy little thing. There’s a little chunk missing from the tip of his right ear, and when I reach out to feel his side, his ribs stick out, further proving my suspicions.
“Okay. Fine. You can stay here, but you can’t come inside. I know I’d get in trouble.”
He scratches at his back for a second then turns in a circle a few times and snuggles up in front of my knees.
I pat his head reassuringly. “I doubt I’m supposed to keep you here, but well…I’m a stray too, you know. Maybe we were supposed to find each other.”
I sit there for a little while, soothing him, and then I finally stand to dump the rest of the soapy water into the grass and refill it with fresh water. After that, I go in search of one of the huge towels Frank uses to dry the cars after he washes them. Once I’m back outside, I fold it in half, and then I fold it again and plop it on the ground beside his water bowl.
His head pops up and he looks at me curiously.
“You have to sleep out here, okay?” I point to the makeshift towel bed. “You can’t come inside.”
He makes no complaints as he curls up on the towel and rests his head on his paws.
I think we might actually get away with the arrangement until I’m awoken in the morning by shrieks coming from downstairs. I leap out of bed and run down the steps, cringing as Chef’s French-accented English rings out of the kitchen.
“Why is there a dirty chien in my kitchen!?”
Oh god.
I arrive to find a complete disaster. Patricia and Chef have the dog cornered in the kitchen. Patricia holds out a broom in defense; meanwhile, Chef has a whisk and a frying pan.
The dog cowers with his tail between his legs.
“Don’t hurt him!” I shout, rushing past them to leap in front of him.
“Don’t go near him!” Patricia warns. “He’s vicious—he tried to bite my hand!”
“He’s not vicious,” I argue, petting his head to calm him down. “He’s scared. Look at you two!”
They glance at each other, only now realizing they look like a pair of cartoon villains. Patricia slowly lowers her broom. Chef sets his frying pan on the nearby counter.
“How did that dog get in here?” Cornelia asks.
I turn to see her and Nicholas standing in the doorway. Cornelia’s tying her robe closed over her silk pajamas, but Nicholas came down shirtless in a pair of black pajama pants. His dark hair is a ruffled mess, and I am momentarily dumbstruck by the sight of him.
“It rushed in when I opened the door,” Patricia explains. “I couldn’t stop it. It must have been sitting there, waiting on the other side.”
“How did it get on the property?” Chef asks.
“There are a few gaps in the perimeter fence,” Nicholas replies. “We’ve had animals sneak through in the past.”
It seems they’re all likely to buy his explanation of events and I know I could stay silent, but it’d still be a lie of omission, so I sigh and force myself to look back down at the dog.
“He came in with me last night.”
“Into the house?!” Chef asks, horrified.
“No, just onto the property.”
“Why?” Patricia asks.
“Because he was in bad shape. He has a cut on his neck and was really hungry…he found me during my walk home and I didn’t want to leave him all alone.”
“Maren,” Cornelia scolds.
“What was I supposed to do?” I say defensively. “Just leave him to fend for himself?”
“Precisely,” Chef says. “It’s what mutts do.”
I glare up at him. Why don’t you go a couple of days without food and see how much you like it?
“Maren, that dog cannot stay,” Cornelia says with a tinge of remorse in her tone. “Though I don’t think it would hurt if we gave him a proper bath—outside.”
Thirty minutes later, the dog is splashing around in
a huge metal tub filled with water and soap. Cornelia attacks his left side, I get his right, and together, we scrub as much as we can for as long as he lets us. He barks and leaps, sloshing water over the side so that my t-shirt and shorts are soaked through.
“He’s not brown at all.” Cornelia laughs in amazement. “He’s white!”
She’s right. He had so much dirt and grime caked on, we couldn’t tell.
“He’ll look much more dignified once we’ve got him cleaned off,” she continues. “Like a proper gentleman.”
As if he understands her, he gives her hand a few hearty licks.
“All right, okay. Don’t get carried away now.” She grins, giving him a formal pat on his head. “Just because I said you’re handsome doesn’t mean anything will change. You still aren’t allowed in the house, you hear? Outside only.”
“What? He can stay?!”
“Outside,” she says, leveling me with a warning glare. “If I see him in the kitchen again, I’ll banish him for good. I don’t want to be awoken by Chef’s girlish screams for a second time.”
Her threat doesn’t pack much of a punch when she says it in a baby voice while rubbing behind his ears.
“Still…he’s not at all my kind of dog,” she adds as we dry him off. “My family grew up with purebred standard poodles.”
“Well I think he’s perfect. Small and rambunctious.”
“What are you going to call him?” Nicholas asks.
I glance up to find him walking toward us in workout shorts and an old Yale t-shirt. He has three towels folded in his arms; hopefully one of them is for me. I have soap smeared across my face and soggy clothes sticking to my skin.
“Louis,” Cornelia replies confidently, not even considering for a moment that I might want some input. “It’s a name fit for a king. Now hand me one of those towels.”
Nicholas hands us each one and then helps us dry Louis. He gets two good swipes with the towel before the dog takes off like a rocket across the yard, shaking out his fur as he runs.