by Camden Leigh
For my angels in heaven:
Nannie, thanks for introducing me to sun tea, squishy hugs and romance novels
(yes, I may have snuck a few of your books).
Meemaw Yoli, I’m so glad you giggled when you found out what I write
(I’m most positive you said a prayer right after).
Cooper, best writing companion ever. Miss you terribly. Woof!
Contents
Chapter One:Cassidy
Chapter Two:Quinn
Chapter Three:Cassidy
Chapter Four:Cassidy
Chapter Five:Quinn
Chapter Six:Cassidy
Chapter Seven:Quinn
Chapter Eight:Cassidy
Chapter Nine:Quinn
Chapter Ten:Cassidy
Chapter Eleven:Quinn
Chapter Twelve:Cassidy
Chapter Thirteen:Quinn
Chapter Fourteen:Cassidy
Chapter Fifteen:Cassidy
Chapter Sixteen:Quinn
Chapter Seventeen:Cassidy
Chapter Eighteen:Quinn
Chapter Nineteen:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty:Quinn
Chapter Twenty-One:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty-Two:Quinn
Chapter Twenty-Three:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty-Four:Quinn
Chapter Twenty-Five:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty-Six:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty-Seven:Quinn
Chapter Twenty-Eight:Cassidy
Chapter Twenty-Nine:Quinn
Chapter Thirty:Cassidy
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Cassidy
Five years ago, if you’d asked me what I’d be doing today, sitting in a red piece-of-crap car surrounded by the dead, heavy heat of summer on the driveway of a stereotypical plantation— yes, think pristine white siding, wide porches, and an avenue of geriatric trees during an afternoon thunderstorm—would be my last guess. Hell, it wouldn’t even be that. I would’ve guessed running some Fortune 500 company or spearheading the Genius Academy of Whatever at some Ivy League college. Maybe sharing an office with my parents at Harvard, or better, bossing them around for a change.
Their five-year plan for me would have led to just that. But I ran. I threw their plan away and devised a newer, more Cassidy-friendly version. Version 2.0, with no flaws, no room for error, only consistent progress onward and upward. A perfect forty-five-degree angle plotted on a line graph. And at the end of the line, at the end of the five-years, a conclusive point. My achieved success—a job, financial freedom, and planning a wedding of my own.
I glance out the front windshield at the shiny windows, the contrasting black shutters and the ginormous blue-stained double front door with its ornate carvings and the huge brass door knockers centered on each. This is what stands between me and my goal. The final hurdle. And it’s a huge fucking hurdle.
One of the most prestigious families in the Lowcountry owns this house. They’re like, the monarch mafia of Lucas Hill. Which sits just outside of Charleston. I think they own that city too. Did I mention I’m in South Carolina? The South? Like deep, deep, swampy, hot, twanging accent South. Yeah, being from Boston, you can see why this was never in my five-year plan. As far as last hurdles go, this will definitely be the hardest to jump. I’m so out of my element I’m like a gnat trying to survive a nor’easter. My boss being the evil ice queen of said nor’easter.
Lilian, the only person I confide in, said I could spin this internship two ways. I could grab my boss’s balls, tie them in a knot, and keep marching through the crap she puts in my way or let her scare me into submission, be her bitch, and graduate with less than perfect grades. Lilian prefers the second. She wants me to loosen up and live a little. Me? I want to survive. I want to prove I can be perfect without my parents’ help. I want to end this five years of studying, working, and eating nothing but ramen noodles and oyster crackers with a bang. Impossible, some may say, but to me, a challenge I refuse to fail.
My phone cackles. I throw my head back against the headrest. I’d assigned my new boss a ringtone to match her surplus of emotions that so far have ranged from slightly deranged to terrifyingly psycho. The witch’s shriek claws up my spine, sends chills racing across my skin. The kind you get when you scuffle through a haunted house and your friend deserts you to race to the end. The dark and alone kind of I’m-going-to-die fear. And I just might if I don’t answer.
“Hey, Mrs. Covington. Just got—”
“Tut-tut, Ms. Beck. When greeting others, whether you’ve been properly introduced or you don’t know them from a hole in the ground, remain courteous. ‘Hey’ is not courteous.”
What the fuck? I pull the phone back and stare at it. Her chatter starts back up and I quickly put the phone to my ear.
“You should be in town. Are you settled? The linen samples are in the binder with my notes pinned to each. Go over these. Have Eleanor pass judgment on my selections. And yes, I overrode some of hers. The crystal samples in the hatbox are new. She needs to pick out three favorites.”
“Okay. I’m working on everything now.” Damn. Better not be late to anything. And I thought I was doing good. “Unpacking the stuff as we speak.”
I pull the car under the mossy limbs of one of the oaks near the side door like I’d previously been instructed and cut the engine. Heat instantly takes charge and whatever comfort I’d had, disappears. Mainly because of the voice on the other end of the phone.
“A few rules then, Ms. Beck.”
Rules? God. This woman is crazy. I took this job only because I’d won first place in an art show. I got first pick of senior internships, and this was the only paid position available. Maybe I should’ve thought this through. It’s not in my realm. I paint, create . . . this is party planning. Like, making people happy and feeding them shit ideas until they are. Don’t get me wrong; I can do what needs to be done, but I thought I’d left that world behind when I left home.
And this lady is Queen of Rules. She’s already e-mailed me a multipage document with all the allowables and disembowelables. Like seriously, I think she’ll gut me if I screw up. She kind of made that clear when I called to tell her I’d be her intern and she’d scoffed at my suggestion of being a sketch artist instead of an on-site wedding coordinator. I mean, hell, I was trying to save us both some grief, especially after she told me the bride was her daughter and the first wedding in the family. No pressure there.
“Rule one, do not override me. Do not make suggestions, offer unsolicited advice, or engage in any conversations dealing with planning this wedding outside the parameters we discuss. If something hasn’t been brought to your attention, take notes and tell my daughter you’ll get back to her after speaking with me.”
“What happens if she doesn’t like one of your ideas?” I close my eyes and muffle my sigh.
“Have you no manners, Ms. Beck? Don’t you know, if an elder is wrong, to bite your tongue? See fit you do just that from here on out.”
I bite my lip hard. This is just fucked up. To deal with this crap for six weeks? This lady is ruthless. Why does she bother having interns if she doesn’t like working with them? Well, two can play this game. I can give her what she wants. And find a way to get what I want too.
“I totally see what you mean. Consider my lips zipped.” I suck in a breath, then smile. “Since you are the elder and all.”
The line goes silent. Zero, one, I count. Two, three. The numbers override the silence and relax me. Typically, they’re my enemies. Today . . . my friends. Five. Eight. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have added that last part. Thirt—
“Fly on the wall, Ms. Beck. That is your job.”
I don’t respond, not sure if I’m supposed to.
“Rule two,” she continues. “Eleanor is the simplest and easiest to appease of my daughters, but also thick-headed. Keep her mind off insane requests. We’re down to the wire, here. There’s no time to change her dress again or fly in Konik horses from Europe; don’t let her tell you otherwise.”
“Really, she wants horses?”
“Of course she wants horses. What bride doesn’t?”
Not all brides–almost brides, I mean.
She says something to someone in the background, then returns to our conversation. “As I was saying, keep Eleanor from dreaming up more convoluted ideas.”
I don’t see any danger in letting her dream.
She continues, “Besides wedding discussions with the bride or myself, keep your presence to a minimum.”
“I’m not sure I understand. How do I avoid them if I’m staying in their house?” I’d fought this like crazy–not wanting to live with my boss’s family–but apparently the closest hotel is thirty miles away and the traffic isn’t worth the frustration when it’s a hundred plus outside.
“You just do. There are plenty of gardens to enjoy and at one point there was a hammock near the pecan grove. I’m sure you can find other places to be instead of in the house.”
“Sure, okay.” Sounds more like prison.
Mrs. Covington heaves a heavy sigh. I’m pretty sure it means she’s ready to end this conversation. Well, I second that.
“My daughter Katherine will also be staying at the house,” she says. “You need not worry about my son’s presence because he’s not”—she sighs heavily— “he’s out of the country. This doesn’t give you permission to snoop around or laze about as if you own the place. And no visitors. Please respect our home and privacy.”
Visitors? Who in their right mind would find swarming gnats, predatory mosquitos, and drowning in this unbreathable air enjoyable? And getting my heart crushed by another guy isn’t in my five-year plan. It isn’t even in my ten-year plan, so bringing home a guy should be the least of her worries.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Stick to my room. Use the kitchen sparingly. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Since the rain has let up, I climb out of the car and ease my suitcase out of the trunk, shutting it gingerly so as to not alert Ms. Crabbypants that I’d lied about being settled. I tuck the key in my pocket and waddle toward the back door, hoping to make it before the clouds let loose another dumping of rain.
“And curb your smart-aleck comments.”
“Yeah, okay.” Arguing with her is too much work anyway. And she lacks a sense of humor, so joking about anything will only pave my way to hell faster.
“Learn your manners. My colleagues expect it and so do I. It’s “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am.” Yeah, yep, and uh-huh aren’t words. Eradicate them from your vocabulary,” she barks. “I really must insist your school teach poise before sending me anymore interns. You could use a semester or two.”
I purse my lips, drop my suitcase on the porch, and stare at my escape vehicle. Could she be any more condescending?
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Covington.” I punch the air to keep my voice steady. “I’ll give two hundred percent to this project. You can count on me not to screw up.”
Her laugh, almost sinister, is covered up by what sounds like a car engine. I glance down the drive but don’t see anyone.
“I should be going. I need to—I’d like to review your notes for this meeting one last time before Eleanor arrives. Should I be expecting her fiancé?”
“No, Dean’s away on business. Remind Eleanor that we require her decision today. Color and cut. Otherwise she’ll have to resort to store-bought crystal.”
Imagine the horror should anyone’s lips touch crystal bought off the shelf. I cover my mouth before my giggle escapes.
“That will be all, then. If I don’t make it, see you promptly at eight tomorrow morning.”
I shove my phone in my purse and take a huge gulp of wet, sticky air. So it begins. For six weeks I’ll be completely subservient to the most horrid boss in all the South. And to top my crap cake, I’m not allowed to make friends. Not that I’ll have time, but still. It’s no wonder this is a paid internship.
But I don’t just need this job, I want this job. Mrs. Jacquelyn Covington is the party planner of the South. It’s unfortunate she’s such a grouch because I could learn a lot from her. She has a way of simplifying the ornate, something I don’t see a lot of back in Boston. There, bigger is better. Grandiose earns the elite’s approval. With Mrs. Covington, the finer details set the tone. Restraint equals sophisticated elegance. I think I read that in a Belle Bride magazine article featuring her. I just wish she’d give me a chance to fail before assuming I already have.
Chapter 2
Quinn
Fifteen years ago the definition of home was playing in the fields while Dad talked crops with his crew, learning to shoot Coke cans off a stump and avoiding my sisters so they wouldn’t dress me like a fucking princess. Ten years ago I would’ve defined home as beating my best score on the latest video game, Sunday dinners with my family and Dad teaching me to chew tobacco behind the barn and laughing when I turned green because the shit was nasty.
Six years ago home became less about family. It was about bonfires, football, avoiding my parents, and getting laid. I was seventeen then. Ready to take on the world. But it took only one year and one funeral to fuck up that vision. Now I define home in one word. Hell.
My sister smacks my chest with her hand. “Five years, Quinn. Five years and you call today?”
“Just drive.” I still my bouncing leg and adjust the seat belt, ducking my head to survey the Eliza Pinckney statue guarding the park in the heart of Lucas Hill.
If I knew coming home would get me this welcome, I would’ve found another ride. I’d banked on my twin cutting me a break. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Ellie slaps the steering wheel. “Oh my stars, Quinn. Does Mom?”
“I’m here because of her e-mail.” Mom had sent one sentence saying she was selling Dad’s vintage truck by week’s end. It’s been in the family for decades. No fucking way is that happening.
Ellie hangs a right at the only light in town. The familiar water tower looms overhead. “Since when do you respond to e-mails? I left you voice mails and texts.”
“Since never.” I haven’t responded to anyone’s messages, but I read and hear them all. I fiddle with the air vent, needing hurricane force winds to cool my ass down. The southern humidity dripping from my lungs doesn’t compare to Ellie’s well-deserved anger. And she’s just getting started. I glance at her. “Listen, keep my visit under the radar. I don’t want Mom knowing I’m here. Anyone at the house?”
“Just me. Kat left before I got up.”
“Is she doing okay?” I ask.
It hurt to leave Ellie because we were twisted pretzels when we were small. Inseparable. But she was eighteen and self-sufficient when we left for college. Leaving Kat plain-out sucked. She was so small. Wonder what she’s like now.
“No, Quinn. No. She pretends everything’s fine but then disappears into your stupid darkroom and fiddles with your old negatives, crying tears that look orange under those weird lights. None of us are okay.” Ellie’s sigh overpowers the AC. “You’re a moron. Dang it, Quinn, why’d you come back? Why?”
Fuck, she’s about to cry.
“For the truck,” I mumble.
After ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, gravel crunches under the tires, sending my focus out the front window. The oaks must be ten feet taller, the Spanish moss longer, and the driveway shorter. Freshly painted, the plantation house sits even more regal than I remember, with thick square columns lined like soldiers across the wide porch. “When did y’all get rocking chairs?”
Ellie slams on the brakes and punches me.
“Oww. What the hell?” I massage my arm.
“When did we get rocking chairs? A
re you kidding me? First the truck, then chairs?” She cuts the engine and grabs my seat belt strap before I can escape.
Rain taps against the window. I stare beyond her until my eyes burn, forcing me to blink. I glance at the barn in the distance, the amber fields closing in around me and the black stain splitting the infamous Covington magnolia in two.
“When did—”
“No. Don’t.” Ellie holds out her hand. “Just answer me one question. You gave us no explanation. All I want is to know why?”
I shrug. “Busy.”
Her eyes grow larger than crab apples. “Will you stay this time?” she chokes out.
I shake my head and steel my arm for another punch. Instead she grabs my wrist and turns my hand over. She pokes the spiral tattoo on my bicep.
“Probably best, considering you’ve painted your arm like a totem pole.”
Thank fuck she can’t see the rest. “I’m sorry. I really am, but I couldn’t come back.” My gaze flicks to the ominous house I’d collapsed to a two-dimensional memory. One I could rip up and incinerate. “I wish I weren’t here now.”
“You could’ve called,” she says.
Yeah, I should’ve, but it was easier to pretend everything about this fucking place never existed.
“Then I could’ve told you I’m getting married,” she adds.
“Congrats.” I pat her hand and pull the key from the ignition. I’m sure as hell not getting stuck here.
“Please come to the wedding.” She grabs my arm. Her eyes glaze over.
“I—”
“No.” Her nails dig into my arm like a spring-loaded bear trap. “Don’t answer. I hope to see you there.”
She’s setting herself up for disappointment pushing this subject. We both know I’m a no-show.
“Where are Dad’s keys?” I ask.
“You’re leaving now?” She’s out of the car before I’ve cracked the door. “Stay one night, please.”
“The keys, Ellie?” I follow her up the front steps, squinting through the rain.
We shake off on the porch and remove our shoes like we were taught. No mud, no ticks and no person comes into this house unless they’re pristine, punctual and polite. Mom’s three Ps.