“That sounds nice,” I say, but I’m still trying to picture our dinners here, at this table, beneath this regal ceiling.
I don’t belong here.
The kitchen is situated beyond the dining room, through a large arched doorway. From what I’ve seen so far, it’s the most modern room in the house, though no less striking than the rest. Stainless steel appliances. Two gas ranges with six burners each and elaborate hoods. White-and-gray speckled quartz counters. Dark wood cabinetry with intricate carvings across the top. Six barstools have been arranged around a sizeable square island—the perfect place to have breakfast when it’s only the two of us. A door against the back wall most likely leads to the side yard, though I can’t quite tell from where I’m standing.
Instead of continuing the tour outside, Michael opens the door to our immediate left, beside a set of stairs much narrower than the one in the foyer.
“I know you can’t enjoy this now,” he says, clicking on the light, “but in a year or so, you’re going to think this is the best feature in the house.”
We descend a steep flight of stairs into a tiled entry that smells like cleaning solution and old wood. Wall-to-wall glass enclosures catch my eye first. Hundreds of wine bottles fill the pigeonholes, each one backlit to showcase its labels.
Michael stands in the center of the space like a king, spreading his arms wide. “Great, right? There’s a self-contained cooling system in here that keeps the temperature at fifty-nine degrees.”
I’ve never known Michael to drink wine. When we go out, he orders whiskey. Every time. He doesn’t even check the wine list. Why would he act as if the wine cellar is the highlight of the house when he doesn’t drink, and I can’t either?
Could this have been—it kills me to think it—Joanna’s vault? Were these her bottles, and her favorite part of Ravenwood?
A shiver creeps up my spine. I fold my arms over my chest to ward off the chill. “It’s amazing.”
“Look up,” he says proudly. “Italian tile, vaulted like a barrel. Cost a fortune, but worth every penny. Come on, there’s more I want to show you.”
As we return to the main level, I realize Michael’s home is immaculate from corner to corner. Not a single piece of clutter. No dishes in the sink needing to be washed. Not a speck of dust on the windowsills framing the sea. It’s pristine.
“Everything you need should be within walking distance.” Michael’s gaze flickers to my belly, but it doesn’t linger there. It never does. “It shouldn’t be a problem that you don’t have a car.”
Living in the city, I never needed one. Parking near my building was a nightmare, and public transit was top notch. Now, though, I’m not sure what the future holds, and it’s frightening. If I want to go farther than the small town of Point Reina, I’m completely dependent upon Michael to get me there. If I really think about it, I’m trapped.
“There’s a small store,” he goes on, as if reading my mind, “and a doctor’s office, bank, you name it, so you won’t need to go far.”
Nodding, listening, I take in everything around me. Something is off, though I can’t pinpoint what it is. It’s not the house—it’s gorgeous and more than I could’ve ever hoped for. But no cars pass on the street beyond the living room windows. No garbage trucks honk at cars parked in their way. No drunks stumble home after a long night partying. It’s peaceful and serene. Everything San Francisco is not, and precisely what my doctor told me I needed. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy to fit into Michael’s world.
Even if I wanted to protest this new living arrangement, there’s no turning back. The lease was up on my tiny apartment in the China Basin district. Everything I own is already on its way over in the moving van. It isn’t much, but it’s all I have.
Now that I think of it, I know exactly what’s missing from Ravenwood.
Joanna’s things.
Where are the candles and fuzzy blankets? The romantic, whimsical artwork, potted flowers, and feminine scents? Joanna must’ve had at least a few of those things, and they’re noticeably missing. Everything in Ravenwood is glossy, cold, and expensive. Simple and starkly beautiful. Missing a woman’s touch.
“Come on, there’s more to see,” Michael urges, heading up the main staircase. At the landing, the hallway veers east and west. Straight ahead, out the giant windows to the south, is the grove. He makes a hard turn toward the east wing, as if he’s climbed the stairs and headed that way a thousand times before, but at the last second, he pivots suddenly on his heel and turns left. “You’ll love the view from the master.”
“What’s that way?” I ask, ghosting my hand over the wrought iron banister.
The east wing is cloaked in shadow. Every door is shut.
Michael doesn’t slow his pace and doesn’t turn around as he answers, “The east wing houses a billiards room, gym, screening room, two bathrooms. If you want to get into any of those rooms, you’ll have to let me know.”
“Why’s that?”
“I keep them locked.”
“All the time?”
At that, he turns, his mouth in a hard line. “You know how much work takes out of me, Colleen. I don’t have as much time for recreation as I used to. It didn’t make sense to have Samara clean the rooms in both wings, if I was only going to be using one side.”
“Samara?”
“My housekeeper.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I say, glancing back at the doors once more. Was Samara the one watching from the window when we first pulled up? No, couldn’t be. It’s Sunday. Surely Michael wouldn’t have staff here on the weekends. But if not her, then who? “It’s only the three larger rooms on that side, then?”
What had he said? Billiards, screening room, and gym.
“There’s an office, and two bathrooms as well. Oh, and a smaller bedroom and second master.” His pace slows, only a beat, as he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “But you shouldn’t have any reason to go in there.”
What an odd thing to say.
“Is it for guests?”
“No.”
“Extra storage?”
“I guess you could say that.” He pauses. “This way.”
But I wonder what he’d been about to say, and what he keeps in those two other rooms in the east wing. They’re not for guests or storage, that much is certain. I can always tell when he’s lying—his voice lifts. It’s slight, but I’ve come to know it well. He lies at work. Not about serious things, of course, but tiny white lies about how long a certain meeting lasted or when he’ll be able to finish paperwork.
I don’t like the fact that he’s lying to me now. Especially about something as ridiculous as what he keeps behind those doors. What could he possibly have to hide?
We pass half a dozen bedrooms decorated in dark, masculine tones, and just as many bathrooms, before reaching the master. These doors are left open, I realize, because these are the rooms I’m allowed to go in freely.
When I reach the entry to the master, I swallow a gasp. Minimally decorated, it has a king-size bed with a nightstand on either side. White lampshades. White duvet, fluffy and inviting, piled with a dozen white pillows. Over the lower quarter of the bed, a sapphire blanket has been perfectly folded, adding a tiny splash of color to the immaculately decorated space.
Is this the bed where they slept together? Did she sleep with her head on that pillow, right next to his, tangled in those white sheets? My stomach sours at the image.
As my attention shifts from the bed to the windows, I approach Michael and follow his line of sight. Beyond the glass is an unobstructed view of the sea. Waves tumble and crest before crashing onto the sand. The weather’s churning kelp in the surf and tossing it around. Wind gusts over mounds of sand and dense shrubbery, bending the gnarly branches of the cypres
ses in the distance. It’ll rain tonight, I’m sure of it.
I must’ve made a shocked sound, because Michael says, “I know, right? It’s a twenty-million-dollar view.”
I can’t fathom that number, and once again, I’m reminded how surreal it is that I’ll be living here, with my former boss, on his beach estate.
He wraps his arms around my belly and rests his chin on my shoulder. He smells clean and fresh, like the air after a good rain. “Everything is going to work out, Coll. It’ll be perfect. You’ll see.”
Leaning against him, I let out a sigh and weave my fingers through his. And then, slowly, I guide his hands in small circles over my belly. “I hope so.”
“You’re good here, aren’t you?” He drops his hands from mine and fishes for the keys in his pocket as he turns away. “I’ve got to get back to the city before ten.”
“Now?” I can’t keep the disappointment from my tone. “It’s Sunday.”
“I have a big meeting with the Lennox Group first thing tomorrow morning, and the team isn’t ready to present the new development yet.”
“Can’t someone else take over? Just for today?”
“Honey, you know this won’t wait. Lennox is important. Besides, you can handle the moving guys. It’s your stuff anyway. I wouldn’t know where anything goes.” He hands me a single key. “Check out the place. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back by seven. Still early enough to spend time together tonight, right?”
“Sure,” I manage, though my voice wobbles. “Sounds great.”
“Hey, are you feeling all right?” He brushes the back of his hand down my cheek. “You went pale just then.”
“Now that you mention it, I am feeling a little queasy. I’m sure it’s simply the excitement of today.”
“Why don’t you lie down?” He motions toward that pristine bed. “The movers won’t be here for a while. A twenty-minute nap might do you good.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“The doctor did tell you to take it easy.”
I let him guide me toward the bed, and as I lie down on top of the covers, I can’t help but wonder if this is his side or—God, I hate to think it—hers. A fresh linen scent wafts from the duvet and pillow, giving nothing away. Fishing my phone out of the back pocket of my capris, I set it on the bedside table, along with the key to his home.
Michael shoots me one of his classic smiles—the kind that usually gets him anything he wants—and when I finally rest on the pillow, he says, “I knew you’d love it here.”
And then, before I can say goodbye, he’s gone, shutting the bedroom door softly behind him.
His words replay in my head as I focus on my breathing and try to relax. I knew you’d love it here.
How could I not? The views of the Monterey cypress trees and the ocean are stunning. The air is pure, and I feel like I can breathe here. And this house—Ravenwood—is perfect. Everything I could’ve dreamed of and more.
But…
There always seems to be a but where Michael is concerned. He wants to be with me, but thinks we shouldn’t let too many people know yet. He must be worried about how it’ll look to his employees, my former co-workers. Sleeping with the boss is hardly professional. If he’s not ready, I respect that. I’d wait forever for him to come around. After all, he’s the perfect guy—kind and witty, handsome and sophisticated, warmhearted and financially stable—and he wants a big family. Lots of kids running around. A few dogs. Summers spent running on the beach below the house.
But when two tiny blue lines showed up on that stick, the first step toward a future he said he’d always dreamed of, he seemed removed from it all. Distant and almost melancholy. We hadn’t planned on getting pregnant—after all, we’d only been dating for a month—and had used a condom every time we were together. One of them must’ve broken; it was the only explanation I could give when I’d missed my period.
It was both the most shocking and the most satisfying moment in my entire life. I know this baby will be the greatest thing to happen to either of us, but I want him to want it, too. I ache for the joy to be ours, not solely mine.
And now, while he works, I’m going to have to occupy myself, alone in this giant house he shared with the wife who left him.
* * *
Even before I open my eyes, the smell of crisp bacon and freshly brewed coffee hits me, urging me to get out of bed. Bacon and coffee? Michael must’ve decided to stay home after all.
As I slide out from beneath the covers, a smile on my face and one hand brushing my stomach, a draft sweeps through the room, chilling me. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling drapes are drawn, but sunlight slashes through the crack at the center, cutting the floor in half.
How long have I slept? Couldn’t have been more than an hour. Reaching for my phone on the bedside table, I check the time: ten-thirty. I’ve slept almost two hours in this bed that’s not mine, in this home where I’m a complete stranger.
I must’ve been more tired than I thought.
Running my fingers through my hair, I notice boxes stacked near the closet. Strange, but I didn’t hear the movers arrive. I should’ve stirred at the beeping of a truck reversing down the long drive, the slamming sound of the front door, or Michael’s footsteps. Something. I don’t normally sleep that soundly, especially in a place that isn’t mine. Head aching, I shuffle toward the closet.
If Michael kept to one side when Joanna lived here, it isn’t the case now. His things spread across both sides, and it’s impossible for me to tell where she could have fit. Where did Joanna hang her clothes? On the right, or the left?
There must be traces of her somewhere in this house. I wish I knew more, but Michael and Joanna’s life together is as much of a mystery as what separated them.
All I know is this: One day, Michael and Joanna were living their picture-perfect life. Gorgeous home. Travels through the Mediterranean, Africa, and Eastern Europe. After trying and failing to get pregnant for years, they were finally going to be parents. She was five months along and the baby was healthy. Then, out of the blue, she was gone. Office rumor has it she left him for someone else. Some think she lost the baby and her grief drove her away from him.
I’m currently twenty weeks along. At the same point in the pregnancy Joanna was when she left him. Odd, but I hadn’t realized that until now.
Michael won’t tell me what really happened between them, and the last thing I want is to make him think I’m prying into his past. It must bother him to know there could be a child out there that he’ll have nothing to do with. I’m sure he tried to get Joanna back, or at least confirm her whereabouts, but came up empty-handed.
I can’t wait to see him. Thank him for staying home, when he could’ve ditched me for his stuffy Lennox Group team. Snatching my phone and the lone key off the nightstand, I head into the hall. Barefoot at the top of the stairs, I stop. My eyes go to the doors in the east wing.
What’s the reason he keeps those doors locked? It didn’t make sense to have Samara clean the rooms in both wings. I’m not buying it. He could easily keep the doors closed. Why locked? Why the secrecy? I wonder if my key will work….
It’d be easy to check. It’d only take a few seconds. He’s so busy making breakfast, he wouldn’t even know. On the tiptoe trek over, I glance over the rail, down to the span below. Music wafts from somewhere. I recognize Hozier’s “Work Song” immediately. Funny, I’ve never known Michael to enjoy listening to music. On the weekends, when we’re together in the mornings, he prefers to watch the news.
Checking over my shoulder, I try to shove my key into the lock of the nearest door, but it won’t fit. Not even close. Out of sheer curiosity, I press my ear against the door.
Silence.
From somewhere below, Hozier wails.
Moving to the next door, and th
e next, I test the key in each lock and finally round the corner. The hall is long, mirroring the layout of the west wing. At the end, where I’d find the master suite on the opposite side, an oversize set of double doors calls me closer.
The second master bedroom.
You shouldn’t have any reason to go in there.
Still aware of the music drifting from the kitchen, I tiptoe over the plush carpet, eyeing the tapestries—beautifully woven images of the sea in soft blue and gray hues—as I approach the other master. Grasping the handle, I begin to turn it.
“Miss Roper?”
I spin, screeching in terror as the stranger’s dark eyes widen in horror.
“Jesus, don’t scream,” he pleads, covering his ears. “I’m Dean Lewis, the Harrises’ chef. I heard you wandering around up here, and thought I could direct you to the kitchen.”
“Michael?” I call out.
“Shh.” He squints in pain. “Mr. Harris isn’t here. He left for work hours ago.”
“Michael didn’t mention a chef,” I stutter, hands up in pathetic defense. Surely Michael would’ve told me if someone else was going to be here, and this man isn’t wearing an apron, or anything to identify him. My heart is pounding. “Don’t come any closer.”
He sighs, canting his head to one side. “I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Roper. Didn’t you get a text from Mr. Harris?”
I hadn’t noticed a message alert.
Heart in my throat, I try to make mental notes in case I need to describe the intruder to the police. He’s a few inches taller than Michael—six foot two, maybe. Black hair cut short on the sides, longer on top. No facial hair, but he’s got an ugly scar on the right side of his neck. Probably from another home invasion gone wrong. White shirt. Blue linen pants. No shoes.
He folds his arms over his chest. “He should’ve told you how things are normally run around here,” he says primly. “There’s a routine we keep to, and this isn’t it.”
I’m listening, gripping the door handle at my back. If I could get into this suite, I could slam the door behind me and call the police.
In Her Shadow Page 2