Take it to the Grave Bundle 1

by Zoe Carter

  You look fine. Sarah isn’t going to care about your hair. I reached for my backpack and cringed. Okay, a manicure would have been good, too. My nails were ripped, jagged, and it looked like I still had grit and dirt embedded underneath and along the cuticle. Classy. Get over it. I clenched my hand. Hell, I felt so nervous, so out of place, so—unprepared. The cab driver was easy. Flash him a smile, give him a wink and a nod, and he’d lapped it up. Easy. These people, though...these people were savvy. They encountered a lot of fake charm and attention. They could probably spot a phony smile at a hundred paces, so accustomed to the fabricated pleasantries. My stomach tightened, like a biker readying to let loose with a haymaker in a barroom brawl.

  I walked up the path and pressed the button on the intercom. A discreet melody that sounded like Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony echoed delicately within the house.

  Of course, even their doorbell was fancy.

  I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be convincing. They’d see right through me. I’d embarrass Sarah. I’d humiliate me...and these people who were now related to me. There was no skipping out in the middle of the night on folks like this. No, there were family Christmases, holidays—my nephew’s wedding, in time. How could I face these people? How could I keep up with them, how could I be with them, yet still be the me I wanted to be?

  The door swung open, and a distinguished-looking man stood there. He wore a suit despite the oppressive heat of the day.

  “May I help you?” he inquired smoothly.

  I forced a smile. “Warwick?” He was a little older than I’d expected. The man’s expression changed from polite inquiry to horror in the blink of an eye.

  “No, madam, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My name is Patrick. I work for Mr. Taylor-Cox.”

  A butler. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Especially after meeting the gardener.

  “I’m sorry,” I said hurriedly. “My name is Maisey Miller. I’m looking for my sister, Sarah...?”

  “Ah, yes, we’re expecting you. Please, come inside.” The man stepped aside, his hand sweeping out to the side in invitation.

  I hesitated. This was a huge mistake. That sick feeling blossomed in my throat; that barroom brawl roiled in my gut. These reactions were all too familiar. Exactly like that afternoon that always picked the weirdest moments to haunt me, like now.

  I looked up at the concrete, stone and glass facade, and my mind’s eye blurred, replacing it with the hacienda-style house we were about to move into.

  Peter’s home. Well, back then it had looked like a mansion, too. Bigger than any house we’d ever lived in before.

  I’d gazed up at it, clutching the ribbon that moored the floating pink balloon to my tight little fist, feeling tiny and lost in its shadow, gazing at the brown tiles on a roof so far away. The yard was a confusion of palms, hedges and vibrant bursts of color, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine, the sun warm on the top of my head and the grass tickling the sides of my feet as my sandals sank into the verdant, lush ground cover.

  Alice turned to us, her hand clasped in Peter’s, and beamed. “This is our home now, girls.” Her eyes were clear, focused, her movements sure and graceful. It was weird, seeing this woman instead of the husk of a mother we’d lived with since Dad died.

  I felt a faint excitement—this was the nicest, biggest, most luxurious place we’d ever seen—I could see the black pool fence. I craned my neck, catching sight of pale paving stones, a glimmer of blue...and I looked up at the grown-ups. Peter stood between my mother and me. I wanted to reach for Mom’s hand, I wanted her to be my anchor, to hug me and tell me everything was going to be all right, but Peter was like an impenetrable barrier. Unsurpassable. My excitement, my anticipation, became edged with fear, a worry for the unknown, for the new life that Sarah and I were about to embark on, whether we liked it or not.

  Sarah slipped her hand in mine. She had this built-in sensor for my anxiety, and like always, I took comfort in my big sister’s tender touch. She instinctively offered the assurance and protection I had looked for yet never found in my mother.

  Sarah leaned closer, just a little. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, and I nodded. If Sarah said so, it would be so. I tried to relax, tried to dredge up that excitement once again. This was a good present, really. What other girl could boast she’d gotten a brand-new home for her eleventh birthday?

  The ribbon tugged free of my fingers, and my pretty pink balloon floated away.

  I shook myself out of my reverie. Ever since Sarah’s email, I was spending way too much time tripping down memory lane. I lifted my foot, about to step inside the cool, polished interior of the house, when I heard women’s voices coming from around the side of the house. I leaned back to look. That’s when I saw her.

  Sarah

  Sun pours through the windows, catching the white drapes and making them gleam. Everything in this house is white—white floors, white rugs, white furniture. It’s already a challenging place to raise a son, and Elliot can’t crawl yet. My boy will never experience the joys of grape juice or ketchup, that much is clear.

  I find Bridget in the backyard, taking the laundry off the line. It’s old-fashioned, but Warwick loves the way sun-dried sheets smell. She claims she doesn’t mind going to the extra effort for him, though I have my doubts. Her forehead creases when she sees me. “Everything all right, Sarah?”

  Nodding, I attempt to hide the fact my chest is so tight I can barely breathe. I’d received another email that morning. I’m terrified someone else will read it, even though no one but me has the password to that account.

  Everyone should know what you did.

  “There must be something wrong.” Bridget examines my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I guess I’m in shock. I can’t believe my sister’s actually coming to stay with us. Thanks so much for making up her room.”

  Trust Maisey to put off responding until the last minute. I’d wanted everything to be perfect for her, but I couldn’t do it on my own. Not with the short notice she’d given us.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her. I hope she likes it hot,” Bridget says, pausing to wipe her brow.

  I help her fold another sheet. We have to get them inside fast, before the humidity makes them damp again—and before Warwick or his mother see me helping. The Hamptons have been suffering through a brutal heat wave, and the weather is making everyone irritable, Elliot included. The air is cranked so high in the house it’s like we’re living in the Arctic, but anything less and the mugginess seeps in, leaving lethargy in its wake.

  “Having some new blood around will be good for us,” Bridget continues. “Maybe you’ll be able to keep something down for a change.”

  I drop my end of the sheet. “What are you talking about?”

  “I clean your bathroom, Sarah. It’s impossible to keep secrets from me.”

  I know your secret.

  Suppressing a shudder, I reject the thought. Bridget would never threaten me, but then again, I no longer suspect Truth Seeker is a former client, either. The emails are about something else. Something awful.

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Bending to straighten the contents of the laundry basket, I use the activity as an excuse to avoid her eyes.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re jeopardizing your health, and for what? To lose a few pounds?”

  Her tone is sharper than usual, and my shame flares into anger. “You don’t have any idea how much pressure I’m under. Please stay out of it.” It was silly to think Bridget wouldn’t notice me running to the bathroom after every meal. I hated to do it, but I sidestepped any guilt by promising myself it was only temporary. As long as I didn’t give Eleanor’s lavish family dinners a chance to take hold, I’d be myself again in no time. I’d already lost
five pounds.

  “I only want to help. You shouldn’t let them pressure you.” Bridget’s voice wavers and I hate that I’ve hurt her feelings. “You’re better than the rest of them put together.”

  What would she think if she knew about my past? When I wasn’t Sarah Taylor-Cox of East Hamptons, but Chantilly Lace, one of Manhattan’s most popular escorts? Would she respect me then? Would she still love me like a daughter? I hope I never have to find out.

  Bridget tsks under her breath. “You’re exhausted, poor thing. That child has kept you awake all night again. Why don’t you tell that husband of yours to take over some of the feedings?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s not that I don’t trust Warwick, but...

  “He can’t know about the bottles. Please don’t tell him, Bridget. He thinks I’m nursing.” I hope she will accept my breastfeeding charade as a good enough reason for me to care for Elliot on my own.

  “You’ve tried everything. It’s not your fault Elliot won’t latch on.” For the first time I notice the dark circles under her own eyes. How selfish I’ve been, caring only about myself while she’s awake with me every night, too. “I don’t mind helping you, but it would be best if you tell him the truth. It’s not good for couples to hide things from each other.”

  If you only knew.

  “I’ll tell him, but not while Maisey’s here. Give me a week or two to sort things out.”

  Although she was the one who’d wiped his nose when he was a boy, Bridget has made it clear she doesn’t approve of my husband’s behavior. She’d approve even less if she knew Warwick is the main reason I play this twisted game. My husband has acquired quite a taste for breast milk since our son was born. If it were up to Warwick, Elliot would breastfeed until he was old enough to ask for it.

  The thought makes me want to gag, and I struggle not to picture Warwick’s lips closing around my nipple as he suckles me like an overgrown infant. Nothing is sacred anymore. That man has a talent for making everything sleazy.

  “You’re a wonderful mother, but you’re also a wife. I know you’ve said you don’t want a nanny, but there’s no need for you to do everything by yourself.”

  “I’m not doing it by myself.” I squeeze Bridget’s hand. “I have you. Thank you, Bridget, truly. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  I can’t admit that I’d love to take care of Elliot myself. She wouldn’t understand. She’s used to women who are thrilled to leave their children in someone else’s hands.

  Before she can respond, there’s a commotion out front. A car door slams, and I can hear an unfamiliar woman’s voice. My pulse pounds in my ears and my hands go instantly clammy as I realize who it must be.

  “She’s here. Aren’t you going to go say hello?” Bridget touches my shoulder. “Sarah? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I’m just nervous. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I don’t know what to expect.”

  “This is your house. I’m sure she’s more nervous than you. Come on, let’s go welcome her. I’ll come with you, if it’s all right. I want to see this sister of yours.”

  Following Bridget on shaky legs, I’m so anxious my butterflies have butterflies. This is ridiculous. It’s only Maisey. There’s no reason to be nervous. As we walk around the side of the house, a young woman wearing a backpack turns to stare at us. She looks as panicky as I feel.

  “Sarah?” She takes a step toward me, hesitating. I’m sure I don’t look anything like she remembers.

  I wouldn’t have known her, either. Her skin is tan, and she’s much taller than I would have guessed, her dark hair clipped into a fashionable pixie.

  “Maisey. You’re all grown up.” I go to hug her, but she stiffens. Unsure what to do, I settle for an air kiss on both cheeks, but she doesn’t return the gesture. Instead she looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “It’s lovely to see you. Thanks again for coming.”

  She looks so much like Dad. An ache forms in my chest. He would be proud of her—proud of her, and ashamed of me.

  “Thanks for the invite.” We gawk at one another for a minute before she laughs. “This is really awkward, isn’t it?”

  The urge to hug her returns, but I resist. She’s obviously not comfortable receiving affection from me—it’s been too long. Maybe later, when we’ve gotten to know each other again. “Well, ten years is a long time.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been better at keeping in touch. Once you left, the house felt so empty I had to get away for a while, you know?” Maisey lowers her eyes, tracing a pattern on the step with her sneaker. “It’s not just you. I don’t talk to Mom much, either.”

  “Me neither.”

  We exchange a knowing smile, and for a second, she’s the sister I remember again.

  I bring Bridget forward. “This is Bridget.”

  “It’s wonderful to meet you. We’re so glad you could come for the christening,” Bridget says. “If you need anything, anything at all, just ask.”

  I’m delighted to see my sister shake Bridget’s hand without a qualm, displaying none of the snobbery I’ve witnessed from Eleanor’s crowd, who treats servants like untouchables. “She’s more than our maid. Bridget’s part of the family.”

  “Nice to meet you. Thanks for taking such good care of my sister.” Maisey gives me an odd look, like she’s tasted something sour, and I can imagine what she’s thinking. You need servants now? Why can’t you take care of yourself?

  Bridget waves away the kind words, but I can tell she’s pleased. “Sarah tells me you’re with Nurses Without Borders? That must be fascinating work.”

  “It is.” Maisey fidgets, twisting her fingers. “It’s very rewarding.”

  Her words sound forced, as if she’s reading from a brochure. It occurs to me that my little sister is as nervous about this family reunion as I am.

  We endure another uncomfortable silence as we size each other up. I can feel the weight of Bridget’s eyes on me as she waits for me to say something, anything, but my mind is a blank. I can’t think of a single thing to add. She comes to the rescue, as always.

  “You must be hungry after your long flight, Maisey. Why don’t I make you something to eat while you freshen up?”

  While Bridget distracts her, I examine my sister. Who is this lovely, self-assured woman?

  “That would be great. I’m starving. They never give you anything to eat on the plane these days.” Maisey studies me in return, and I wish I could read her mind. Is she wondering how I let myself go? She wrinkles her nose. “What?”

  I realize I’ve been gaping at her like an idiot. “It’s just—you’re so beautiful. You look so much like Dad.”

  “Really?” Her face brightens, and I can tell I’m forgiven for my lack of hospitality.

  “The spitting image.” She has his coloring, his strong jaw, even the small cleft in her chin came from him. I’m envious. To my great disappointment, I’ve always taken after Alice.

  “Thanks. You look great, too.”

  “Don’t feel you have to say that. I’m hideous.” My laugh sounds shrill. “I must have gained a thousand pounds since you last saw me. I’m surprised you believe I’m your sister.”

  I’d strived to seem like I was kidding around, but her expression of horror tells me I missed the mark.

  “What are you talking about? You look exactly the same.”

  “Oh, great. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “No, I mean you’re beautiful.” She furrows her brow, giving me the “you’re insane” look again. “You’ve always been beautiful.”

  I’m about to argue when Bridget whispers to me. “See? You should listen to your sister. She’s a wise woman.” Drawing herself up to her full five feet eleven inches, Bridget silently dares me to contradict her, but I�
�m smart enough to know when I’m beat.

  “Come on, Maisey. I’ll show you your room.”

  My sister is quick to follow me. I suspect she’s relieved to be done with the small talk, at least for the time being. She always hated it when I put myself down. She’d been the same way with Mom.

  Maisey gasps as we step through the door into the house, craning her head on her neck to admire the stained-glass ceiling, which bleeds blue over the walls. “Is that...?”

  “Tiffany? Yes.” The foyer ceiling is my favorite feature of the house, and I’m thrilled she noticed it. It’s the one thing that adds a bit of color.

  “Wow, you’ve sure moved up in the world. I figured your place would be nice, but I had no idea it would be this nice. This is a mansion. I can’t believe you have a butler and a maid.”

  Leading the way along the spiral staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor, I shake my head. “Don’t let this fool you. I haven’t changed. Everything you see here is Warwick’s, really, including Bridget. I just married into it. And if you think this is impressive, wait until you see his parents’ estate next door, where we’re holding the christening party. It makes this place look like a shack.”

  “I can’t imagine anything more impressive than this,” she says, and as she moves past me, swiveling to take it all in, I notice she’s gone pale beneath her tan. “This is a bit overwhelming. I’ve been living out of tents the past few years, remember.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable here. If you need anything—anything at all—just ask.” I open the door to her room, which is across from the one I share with Warwick. For some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable putting her next to the nursery.

  Maisey doesn’t bother to hide her excitement. She exclaims over everything, from the purple bedspread I’d purchased for her stay to the ocean view. She tosses her backpack on the bed, and I don’t miss that it’s held together with duct tape. I’ll have to buy her a new one.