Chapter 9
Sarah, Present Day
I looped my arm more tightly through Hunter’s as I walked up the staircase to his parents’ Queen Anne style mansion. The white paint made the Pacific Heights stunner appear like a haunted castle looming above the city. The proud bay windows reflected the May sunshine but, I was certain, the curved glass of the round turret harbored stories long untold. The ocean shimmered in the distance, and the peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge stretched proudly toward the blue sky.
“Hey,” Hunter said, interrupting my reverie. “I got tickets for tomorrow night’s Giants game. The seats are great. The vendor I met with earlier gave them to me. He’s going to stock our T-shirts in his shop. Want to come?”
I gasped. “He’s stocking your shirts? You got a brick-and-mortar shop! Of course I’ll come. We have to celebrate!”
Hunter picked me up and swung me around in a circle. I pressed my nose against his. “You’re the best, you know that?”
Slowly he lowered me so that my toes skimmed the ground. “You’re pretty special yourself.” He grinned at me. “Game starts at seven. Meet me at work? We can head over there together.”
“Shoot,” I said, remembering my appointment to see Ed’s apartment. I hadn’t told Hunter yet about my decision to write the story of Hannelore and Margaret. “I might be a little bit late.”
The heavy door swung open and Gwyneth smiled, ushering us inside. “Hello, dears! I’m so glad you’re here. Come in! Come in!”
Our conversation had been cut off before I’d had a chance to explain my article and how important it was to me. But I’d make my announcement soon enough. Tucking the bottle of merlot under my arm, I followed my husband into the foyer.
Gwyneth pulled Hunter into a tight hug. “I miss you, son. It’s been too long since your last visit.”
“I know, Mom,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”
The parquet floors and grand entryway dating back to the nineteenth century were part of what I loved about my in-laws’ house. Of course “house” wasn’t really the right word. With eleven bedrooms, one staff bedroom, and seven bathrooms, Gwyneth and Walter had over sixteen thousand square feet of living space spread over four levels.
They’d renovated over the years to impeccably restore the original Victorian details, while adding twenty-first-century comforts like a home theater and a spa.
“Hello, Sarah!” Gwyneth said, enveloping me in a hug and her signature Chanel perfume. “Good to see you!”
“Gwyneth, it smells amazing in here,” I said, drinking in the scent of rosemary, butter, lemon, and garlic.
She chuckled, holding me at arm’s length. “Well, I wish I could take credit for it, but Rosa does all the cooking. We’re having roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts with caramelized onions and bacon.”
My stomach rumbled at the description. “That sounds delicious.”
“Oh!” she said, looking down. “You brought wine. Fabulous! I have a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti open, but we can open this too.”
“Rosa,” Gwyneth called toward the kitchen. “Take this bottle of wine, please.”
“Sorry for the wait!” Rosa said, walking in from the kitchen wearing a black dress and white apron, her hair pulled back in a bun. It was a costume fit for Downton Abbey.
“Thanks so much,” I said to Rosa as she took the wine bottle. Hopefully Gwyneth never made her use the second staircase, which I wasn’t allowed to use. Oh, that old servants’ passageway needs to be fixed! Gwyneth would trill, every time I tried to take the narrow spiral stairs. But I couldn’t imagine anything in this magnificent mansion not being up to code.
Classical music played softly from the sound system as we passed the reception parlor, beneath heavy crystal chandeliers.
“Would you like a cocktail?” Gwyneth asked. “Come take a seat in the family room. Relax.”
“Sure,” I said, removing my jacket. “If you have any grapefruit juice, a greyhound, please.”
“And I’ll have a bourbon,” Hunter said. “But just one, because I’m driving.”
The grand family room had soft, plush couches and peach-toned wallpaper. After sinking into the sofa cushions, I nestled against Hunter. His shoulders relaxed beneath the weight of my head. He stroked my hair, and I let out a deep breath.
“I’m not going to be able to meet you at work before the game. I’m working on some research for my thesis, and I have to see an apartment first.”
“An apartment?” He asked, turning to face me. “Your novel is set in the 1800s, right?” He smiled. “You’re not trying to divorce me and get your own place, are you? Because I’d be heartbroken if that was your secret plan . . . I don’t like secrets.”
“Never,” I said, feeling the familiar heat of anxiety creeping up my neck.
Gwyneth returned with our cocktails, and we clinked glasses.
“To my favorite dinner guests,” she said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I replied, warming. Though Gwyneth’s formal dinner rituals were nothing like the microwaved meals in front of the television I’d grown up with, I appreciated the comforts provided by Gwyneth and Walter. Their home was a beautiful place where I was always welcome, and they’d given me so much.
When we finished our cocktails, Rosa took our glasses and we made our way into the formal dining room.
As I sat down at the impeccably set dining table, I clung to the futile wish that we were at my parents’ home for dinner. I would have loved for Hunter to meet my mom. All I could think about was her smile, her laugh, and the way she liked to sing along with the radio when she cooked her tuna casserole. I would have given anything to hug her, to talk to her about everything going on in my life.
“Hello, son,” Walter said, startling me as he walked into the room. Hunter immediately set down his glass and stood up.
“Dad,” Hunter said, clapping him on the back as they embraced. “I see life has been treating you well.”
I half stood up, hoping Walter would also offer me a hug, but he simply nodded, before taking a seat at the head of the table. “Hello, Sarah.”
My cheeks flushed. “Hello, Walter.”
I sat back down, like I hadn’t just made an effort to greet him. I looked at Walter, who, like Hunter, stood six-foot-three, his skin tanned from hours on the golf course. The way his eyes narrowed, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong. Walter wasn’t exactly chummy with me, but tonight he seemed openly unfriendly.
“Son,” Walter said, leaning toward Hunter. “How’s business?”
“Good,” Hunter answered. “Busy.”
Walter shook his head. “You let me know when you drop this little side hobby of yours and come back to finance. The firm’s waiting.”
Hunter laughed nervously, but I stiffened.
“I’m proud of what Hunter is doing,” I said, staring Walter in the eye.
Hunter looked at me, slightly alarmed at my daring to confront his father, but gave me a sheepish smile. I smiled back at him.
“Oh good,” Gwyneth said, clapping her hands to break the tension. “We’re all here. Rosa! Please bring the first course.”
I placed my napkin in my lap, eyeing the assortment of forks and spoons. When my parents were alive, my mom would talk about her workday, imitating each coworker until my dad and I couldn’t stop laughing. My talent for writing came from my mother, a natural-born storyteller. As I thought about how she always supported me in following my dreams, my eyes started to sting. Both she and my dad encouraged me from a young age to embrace my creativity, watching every silly play I put on for them and clapping like they’d been to see a Broadway performance.
Rosa set a steaming plate in front of me, the roasted garlic wafting into the air.
“Thank you,” I said. “This looks delicious.”
She smiled, warmly. “You’re welcome.”
Setting dinner plates in front of Hunter, Gwyneth,
and Walter, Rosa asked if we all had enough wine, and then disappeared into the kitchen. I wished Rosa could sit with us at the table, mostly because she’d be more fun to talk to than Walter.
Gwyneth raised her glass. “Bon appétit. To health, life, and a growing family.”
My glass felt shaky in my hand.
“Mother,” Hunter said. “It’s not growing yet.”
Gwyneth winked. “Perhaps not yet, but I want to see grandchildren before I’m old. I’m sure Sarah understands that.”
I stabbed a Brussels sprout with my fork. My stomach churned. I thought of the woman I’d seen last week at the park. I’d watched as she snuggled her baby close, kissing the little one’s chubby cheeks. In that moment, my desire for a child was so strong I had to turn away, fighting back tears.
Gwyneth wagged her finger at me. “Well, don’t wait too long. You know what they say about women over thirty.”
I braced myself for the familiar lecture, literally, by placing my other hand on the table. Now that Hunter had hinted about having kids, it made me feel claustrophobic.
Taking a long sip of her wine, Gwyneth got ready to regurgitate whatever article she’d read recently in one of her women’s magazines.
“Sarah,” she said, clicking her tongue. “The risk of something going wrong increases. Those children have terrible defects.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Down syndrome. Autism. Retardation. Can you imagine?”
No, I couldn’t imagine. I’d already made something far, far worse happen. My palms began to sweat. Gwyneth looked at me for an answer, but I took a bite of mashed potatoes and chewed. So long as my mouth was full, I wouldn’t say something rude that I’d regret later. Couldn’t my mother-in-law see how red my cheeks were? This dinner was making me feel like a caged animal at the zoo—a freak species, an impostor. I felt the panic rising like a wave in my chest.
“We’re going to wait a few more years,” Hunter said, setting down his fork with a clack, as if to end the conversation with an exclamation mark.
Gwyneth pursed her lips. “I know, I know. You’re both young, focused on your careers. But why risk a dangerous pregnancy? Too many women get caught up in their work and forget the importance of family.”
“Mom,” Hunter said. “Stop. Please?”
Gwyneth held up her hands. “Okay, I relent!”
“So.” I set down my wineglass, my cheeks burning. “I’m looking forward to your event with the pieces from the National Gallery of Ireland. It’s wonderful what your family has done for the arts.”
Gwyneth perked up. “Mayor Ed Lee is going to give a speech. And I’ve found a fantastic designer to transform the space for our fete. It’s going to look even more beautiful than the exhibit at the National Gallery in Dublin, a bit Edwardian Baroque.”
Walter cleared his throat. “My wife has quite a penchant for the arts. I’m glad she has something to keep her occupied while she spends my money.”
I pressed my lips together. Gwyneth had probably set aside her own dreams so that Walter could focus on his business. Surely she’d made sacrifices.
“Your great-grandfather founded the academy,” I said, staring at Walter Havensworth. “He must’ve valued the arts.”
When Walter’s eyes met mine, they were as cold as ice. He spoke without smiling. “I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in our family history.”
I sliced into my chicken. “I understand Lucas Havensworth originally started Havensworth Art Academy as a nonprofit, open to any student with an interest in fine arts. Does it still operate that way?”
Walter studied my face, his mouth a stern line. Though his hair had gone completely white and he’d grown a potbelly, he looked formidably strong.
“No,” he said. “It’s a for-profit institution.”
“Do you offer any scholarships of academic merit?”
Walter stabbed a Brussels sprout, popped it in his mouth, and chewed. He often liked to make me wait for his responses, as if my questions were inane, the chatter of an obnoxious little bird.
He turned to his wife. “Gwyn, pour me another glass of red, will you?”
She nodded. “I’ll just pop into the kitchen.”
We sat in uncomfortable silence.
“Hunter,” Walter said, looking at my husband. “We have an IPO bake-off on Friday. I was hoping you could help me with the pitch.”
“Um, sure,” Hunter said. “Do you have the market overviews and bank introductions sorted out?”
“We’ve lined up a few tombstone slides to show recent M&A deals, IPOs, and debt offerings that I’ve advised on. Plus the league table slides that show how we rank in equity issuances.”
Heat boiled under my skin. Not only had Walter not answered my question, but also he was sucking Hunter back into the banking world, when Hunter had fought so hard to leave the profession.
What the hell? Just leave him alone! I wanted to scream. Have-Clothing wasn’t profitable yet, but they were breaking even. Hunter loved his work—believed in it.
“Sarah,” Gwyneth said, locking her eyes on mine as she returned with Walter’s wineglass. She appeared as eager as I was to cut the banking talk short. “Tell me how your novel is coming along?”
Suddenly the room fell silent and everyone turned to stare at me.
“Well,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears. “Actually, I’ve stopped writing it.”
Hunter’s eyes grew to the size of our dinner plates. “What?”
I rubbed my chin nervously. “It wasn’t coming naturally—the characters felt stiff and wooden. Nothing about the plot felt right. But something amazing happened when I was researching the 1870s.” I looked into my husband’s hazel eyes, terrified he’d see me as a fraud. “I discovered an article on two dressmakers who disappeared in 1876, a German girl and an Irish girl. I was so captivated by their story, I asked my graduate advisor if I could change the topic of my thesis.”
Gwyneth coughed, her face reddening. “Oh dear! Please excuse me.” She patted her chest. “That sip of wine went down the wrong way.”
“So if you’re not writing your novel,” Hunter asked, his eyes narrowing, “what’s the focus of this story? Is it fiction, nonfiction?”
“Narrative nonfiction,” I said, looking quickly from Hunter to Gwyneth, then Walter. “I felt inspired by Svetlana Alexievich, who won the Nobel Prize in literature. This is going to be a long piece on what happened to these two women, illuminating the struggles of working-class immigrants during the late nineteenth century.”
“Do you know what happened to them?” Hunter asked.
I bit my lip. “Not yet. But my research is leading me there.” I smiled at him. “You know I won’t stop until I find out.”
He chuckled. “That much is true. But you’ve given yourself quite a challenge, trying to solve a 140-year-old mystery.”
“And your graduate advisor,” Gwyneth asked, her eyebrows drawing together. “She approved this topic? Do you intend to publish it?”
I nodded. “She did, and yes, I do. I have connections from my old job at the magazine, not to mention my wonderful advisors at USF. I’m going to submit to Slate, The Atlantic, maybe even Vanity Fair and The New Yorker.”
“That’s rather ambitious, don’t you think?” Walter said, his dark eyes studying me with hawklike intensity.
Heat rose under my skin. “Perhaps. But I want to reach a national audience. If I’m rejected, I’ll publish in one of our local magazines instead. I have contacts at the San Francisco Chronicle. They’d love a piece like this.”
For a moment, everyone sat there in silence while my words hung in the air. My heart began to pound, a burst of adrenaline threatening to send me spiraling into a panic attack. Why was everyone so interested in my thesis all of a sudden?
I slid my chair back and stood up, sweat beading on my upper lip. “Excuse me.”
Hunter’s eyes locked on mine, and I squeezed his shoulder before I turned to walk down the hall. I let out a deep brea
th as I heard conversation resume without me.
Reaching into my purse, my fingers clasped the hard plastic tube of my Klonopin bottle. I’d pop a pill, head back to dinner, and in about ten minutes I wouldn’t give a damn what Walter and Gwyneth were talking about.
I had a sharp pang of longing for my parents. If Mom and Dad were alive, I would have done housework after dinner, cleaning up like a normal person, instead of letting a maid do it. I’d have told them how I was really feeling—my self-loathing, not this polite management of emotion that Hunter practiced with his parents. Why couldn’t he stand up to his dad? Sometimes Mom and I yelled like banshees at each other. We weren’t always nice, but at least we were honest.
As I traveled down the hallway toward the bathroom, I glanced in at Walter’s study. The cherry-paneled room was dark and smelled faintly of cigar smoke. I knew he kept the Cubans in a humidor, and expensive forty-year-old Scotches in the glass cabinets lining the wall. Hunter liked to stay late, sipping Glenfarclas with his dad.
Something on Walter’s desk caught my eye. I blinked. There atop a file folder on Walter’s mahogany desk sat a pewter skeleton key. Its coloring looked nearly identical to the antique lock on the wardrobe in Havensworth Art Academy, which Gwyneth had pretended to know nothing about. Could it be the key?
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, I stepped inside the study. I picked up the key, which felt cool and solid in my hand. Before I had time to think, I stuffed it into my pocket. Footsteps sounded down the hallway, heavy and slow. I froze. “Where are you going?” Gwyneth’s voice called.
“To get a cigar,” Walter muttered.
No! I darted into the hallway and then ran toward the bathroom. I stopped in front of the bathroom door, breathing heavily. Placing my hand on the handle, I turned it, ready to slip inside, as if I’d been there all along.
“Ahem.”
Turning around, I gasped. Walter stood before me in the dim light, his broad shoulders filling the space between us.
“So,” he said. “Are you sure it’s a good idea, writing about these missing women?”
“Excuse me?”
Walter’s eyes studied my face, calculating and cold. “Maybe it’s best if you find another topic.”
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