by Geneva Lee
Poppy pauses her itemized list of travel desires. “Are you okay, darling?”
“Headache,” I lie through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t dare try to say more. Opening my mouth feels particularly dangerous as my stomach roils. I walk as calmly as I can into the hall, but the moment I’m out of sight, I run for the bathroom. Throwing on the water tap, so they can’t hear me, I only just make it to the toilet.
There’s no way I’m going to pull this off. Not if morning sickness keeps hitting me out of the blue. I have no idea why they call it morning sickness anyway. It doesn’t care what time of day it is as far as I can tell. If I’m conscious, it shows up whenever it feels like. Usually, my mint tea keeps it under wraps in the afternoon. Today, it set it off. Apparently, it’s evolving—just what I need.
I take a few minutes to clean up. A quick glance in the mirror shows that I’m even paler than usual. That’s saying something. I have no idea why people talk about a pregnancy glow. I look like a ghost. Other than that, there’s not much difference. It’s strange to keep this secret inside of me. I’m the only one who knows. Well, myself, and the nice ladies at the clinic down the street. There’s no one to tell. No one I want to know. Not even my best friend, and I’m not certain why. Except that I know what she’ll say. It’s what my family would say.
I should get rid of it.
It’s going to ruin my life.
I can’t do this alone.
I don’t need them to say it. I already know all those things. I think about it all day every day. But even though it’s crazy, despite everything, this baby is the last piece I have of Sterling. That’s the part I really don’t want to explain. I shouldn’t want even a piece of him. Not after what he did. Not after he left. The trouble is that I’m still in love with him. I think maybe I’ll always be in love with him.
And that makes it impossible for me to not love this baby. I pat my belly, lowering my voice to a whisper, “Do you think you could take it easy on me for a few days?”
I rinse my mouth with some mouthwash I’ve stashed under the sink and decide I can’t avoid my guests any longer.
When I return to the kitchen, Poppy’s dark head is bowed close to Cyrus, and they’re whispering. Panic surges through me. Had they guessed? Was it my herbal tea? Or did they hear me vomiting? Maybe it’s just obvious. I don’t think I have the so-called pregnancy glow, but maybe others can see it. But then she giggles. I don’t think they’d be laughing over me being knocked up. When she lifts her head, a sheepish smile tugs at her lips.
“I was just going to come and check on you,” she says, moving away from Cyrus to come fawn over me. “Do you want to lie down? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say. The sooner I get this visit over with, the better. “I’ve just been staying up too late.”
“It’s summer.” Poppy throws her hands in the air. “You aren’t supposed to be studying or doing coursework. That’s it. You’re going with us to the country this weekend. You need a break.”
“But—” I begin.
She holds up a slender finger. “If ifs and buts were candy and nuts—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I cut her off. “Fine. When are we leaving?”
Her answering smile is so wide, I almost feel excited. “We’ll drive down on Friday morning.”
“Drive? Who’s driving?” I repeat. There’s no way my stomach can handle Poppy behind the wheel.”
“I’ll drive,” Cyrus says firmly. “It’s the safest option.”
“You make me sound like a terrible driver.” She pouts, moving to drop into his lap.
So much for them keeping the PDAs to a minimum. “You are a terrible driver.”
“Enough about me. I want to hear about you. Are there any cute guys in your program?” Her eyes glint like a star twinkling in the night sky.
“I’m taking a break from dating.” Forever, I add silently.
“Don’t let him win,” she advises me.
“I don’t think he cares,” I say flatly, wishing we could stay on the subject of my study abroad program, even if it's fake. I’d still rather make shit up than talk about Sterling.
“Then he’s an idiot for letting you get away,” Poppy says firmly. She elbows Cyrus.
“Agreed. He’s a dick,” he says. I wonder if she prepped him on what to say when the subject came up.
“He’s history,” I say, wondering if it sounds as hollow as it feels to say it. “Are you hungry?”
A change of subject is in order and now that my stomach has settled, I’m reminded of how empty it is.
“Famished.” Cyrus winks behind Poppy’s shoulder. “What sounds good? Let’s go out.”
“My body doesn’t know if it’s breakfast time or lunch or dinner,” Poppy says.
“Lunch time,” I decide for her, feeling a sudden urge for curry at the place around the corner. Suddenly, I’m starving. I dump my tea in the sink and grab my purse. “I know where to go.”
Poppy studies me for a minute like I’m a stranger before she nods. “Lead the way.”
I’m too hungry to wonder what she’s looking for, but I can’t help but worry that my best friend knows me too well to keep my secret for long. But I’m not ready to share my secret yet. For now, the baby’s safe.
And hungry.
Landry Court stretches across two hundred acres of Hampshire. It’s the sort of estate where Hollywood films period pieces. I’d seen pictures of it from Poppy’s summers abroad for years. It’s different to be here. The house is down a private lane. Overhead, centuries-old elm trees create a canopy of dappled green light, shading the drive up to the open, wrought-iron gates. When we’re past them, I can’t help feeling like we’re driving into an Austen novel as the estate comes into full view. The house looms from a hill, its stately brick veneer belonging to another place and time. We pass manicured hedges as we wind our way to the front drive where an elegant woman with deep, amber skin and white hair waits. Despite the summer heat, she’s wearing a long silk kaftan, which ripples around her as she moves gracefully toward the car.
Poppy meets her halfway and it's impossible to miss the resemblance. They have the same poise even as they embrace.
“Come meet my grandmum,” Poppy calls to me when I climb out of the backseat.
Her grandmum inspects me for a moment, and I tug nervously at my loose, linen sundress. I probably look like a mess after being in the car for nearly two hours after getting stuck in London traffic on our way out of town.
“This is Adair,” Poppy tells her.
“The friend you’re always speaking of on your visits.” Her accent is heavier than Poppy’s and mixed with more than a tinge of Hindi. She wraps me in a warm hug. “It’s lovely to meet you, Adair.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, too, Mrs…”
“Aja,” she corrects me. “Everyone calls me Aja.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” I say sincerely.
“It means goat,” she informs me, a familiar sparkle in her eyes. She really looks just like her granddaughter.
“Oh.” I can’t think of anything to say. “It’s still pretty.”
“It’s fitting,” she murmurs. “I’m very stubborn.”
“Like you,” Poppy says meaningfully, laughter in her voice.
“I think that’s a compliment.” I’m not entirely sure though.
“It is,” Aja informs me. “A woman should be stubborn. I’m always telling my priya to be more obstinate.” She wraps an arm around Poppy’s slender shoulders.
“My parents really appreciated it when I was a child.” Poppy leans against her and jealousy stabs me. Aja might be her grandmother, but it’s clear they’re close.
“But Poppy is a lovely lamb not a goat,” Aja says.
“Yes, she is,” I agree.
A man appears from a side door and bows slightly to us before turning to Cyrus who’s circled around to the trunk. “Are your bags in the boot?”
> “Yes,” Poppy says, easily translating the British slang when Cyrus stares at him in confusion.
“Allow me,” the man says, brushing past him.
Cyrus leaves him to the bags and joins us. He walks right up to Aja confidently.
“Aja, this is my boyfriend.” Poppy steps away allowing him to move closer.
But Aja doesn’t hug him, instead she extends her arm. He takes it, looking torn between shaking it and kissing it. In the end, he opts for a squeeze, looking uncomfortable. Aja continues to watch him, and I wonder if he’s passing her inspection.
“The Eaton family?” she asks finally.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, releasing her hand.
She doesn’t correct him or tell him to call her Aja. Next to her Poppy bites her lip.
“They own the Eaton hotels,” she volunteers as though this will warm her grandmother more, but Aja’s demeanor remains chilly.
“Yes, of course. I knew it was familiar.” She turns and beckons us to follow her into the grand foyer.
Inside the traditional English style gives way to an eclectic, but warm interior. The walls are papered with a lush floral print flocked with raised velvet in brilliant jewel-tones. Dozens of paintings hang in gilded frames along the corridor. The hall continues with a diamond patterned marble floor until it reaches a sweeping staircase. Everywhere I look there is something beautiful and expensive, but somehow despite the opulence, I feel completely welcome. It’s the opposite of the mansions where we’d grown up in Valmont.
“I have you each set up in a guest cottage. I assumed you might want your privacy.”
“Each of us?” Cyrus says. “That’s—” he cuts off when Poppy shoots him a warning look. “Very gracious of you.”
“I’ve had some refreshments laid out, but perhaps, you’d like a moment to rest after your trip?” Her keen eyes turn to me, and I wish I could shrink and disappear into the flocked wallpaper of the foyer.
“That would be lovely,” Poppy says. “Then we can stay up late with you.”
“Yes, us girls can visit,” she says airily. “I’ll have Max bring trays to your rooms.”
“Thank you,” Cyrus says, but Aja merely shrugs and goes to speak with a maid.
“I’m sorry. I should have warned you that she’s very old-fashioned,” Poppy says in a lowered voice. “I thought she might see me as an adult, but…”
“It’s okay,” he says, waving off her apology. “It’s only a few days and then we’ll be off on our own in Italy.”
“About that? I’ve been reconsidering Cannes,” she says.
“I think I will lie down,” I say loudly before I get caught playing the third wheel again.
Aja appears next to me. “Let me show you your cottage. Poppy can take her boyfriend to his.”
Cyrus looks relieved to get away from her dissecting gaze. Aja guides me through a dining room and out a pair of French doors.
“We’ve modernized,” Aja tells me as we walk toward a small, white cottage past a hedgerow. “It took me forever to convince my husband and then it took forever to actually get anything done. The English are never in a hurry to change something. He passed away before it was finished.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, knowing exactly what it feels like to lose someone with business unfinished.
“Don’t be. I miss him, but I finally have a modern kitchen,” she says with a wink. She opens the cottage door and moves to the side, allowing me to enter. “After all these years, I feel certain I know you. I thought you would find this one the most comfortable.”
The cottage, like the house itself, is a surprise. Most guest houses in Valmont are decorated to suit any one who might use the space. This one feels like it serves a distinct purpose. Built into each wall, bookshelves cluttered with hundreds of books greet me. Comfortable old chairs and beautiful Tiffany-glass lamps are shoved into every corner.
“My husband had a writer friend who would descend upon us to write his latest masterpiece every year or so. Some of the books are his, some my Thomas placed here for him. We started calling it The Bookery.”
“It’s amazing,” I say honestly, unable to tear my eyes from the spines on the shelf.
“I knew you would approve,” Aja says. “My priya’s other friend maybe not so much.”
“Cyrus?” I say absently.
“I think he’s quite put out to stay in a separate bed from my granddaughter,” she guesses.
“Oh, I don’t know. We’re very traditional in Tennessee, too.”
“So I hear.” Aja smiles, but her eyes skim over me and linger at my waistline for just long enough that I stop breathing. “But one can never be too careful with a boy like that. Unless I’m wrong about Mr. Eaton?”
She waits and I’m not sure what to say.
“I’ve known Cyrus since we were kids,” I say lamely.
“I don’t think you need to say any more.” She pats my arm. “I’m sure he’s fine, but there’s something of the wolf in him. Not a good match for my lamb.”
“A wolf?” I repeat. I can’t pretend that I’ve always thought kindly of him, but calling him a wolf feels like an overestimation.
“In his eyes,” she says, tilting her head. “You can’t see it?”
“No,” I admit, shaking my head. “I’ve never really thought of him as having a killer instinct.”
“It’s not the killer instinct, as you say. Some wolves are quite loyal, but only to their kind. He sees my Poppy as a lamb.” Her hand flutters. “It doesn’t matter. Perhaps, it’s my name. I find myself seeing the animal in everyone.”
“Poppy is right about me. I’m a goat,” I say with a laugh.
“Yes,” she says hesitantly. “There’s something else, though.”
“What?” I ask breathlessly, remembering how she studied me earlier.
“I’m not sure yet,” she admits. “I suppose we’ll have to spend more time together.” She turns away. “All of the linens have been changed. You look like you could use a nap.”
I try to smile brightly, hoping to counter whatever signs of exhaustion I’m showing. “Thank you again, Aja. I’ll see you this evening.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The smile falls from my face as the door closes behind her. I like Aja. I love Landry Hall and the Bookery, but I can’t shake the sense that Aja sees right through me to the secrets I’m keeping. The question is can I keep the most important one hidden from her unsettling eyes?
“Do you think she knew?” Sterling asks, breaking into the story.
“I don’t know. Maybe I was paranoid. Poppy and Cyrus didn’t seem to have a clue, but Aja?” I shake my head. “Yes, I think she did.”
“What happened next?” he asks. “When did you tell Poppy?”
I take a deep breath, preparing to shock him. “That’s just it. I didn’t.”
“We should go riding tomorrow,” Poppy suggests after dinner. We’ve gathered in a large salon off the dining room. There’s none of the uncomfortable period furniture I expected to find behind the Austenesque facade of Landry Hall. Instead, deep-cushioned sofas cluster around a stone hearth.
“You’ve had too much wine,” I tell her. The rest of them are on their second bottle. I’m hoping no one notices that I’m only pretending to sip my first glass.
Poppy cocks an eyebrow. “You love riding, and this estate is beautiful.”
“Cyrus doesn’t ride,” I point out, grasping for an excuse.
“I can ride,” he says. “Unless you’re going to show off.”
“Adair can’t help showing off on a horse,” Poppy says with a giggle.
“What does that mean?” I ask with a frown.
“Only that you didn’t even notice that time I got caught in the tree,” she says.
“I’m not the one that didn’t duck,” I remind her, but I can’t help laughing at the memory. I’d taken Poppy at her word that she was a seasoned rider. In fairness, she was—just not as much as I was.
I’d left her behind, dangling from an oak tree.
“You only noticed I was missing when my horse rode by with an empty saddle.” She pours herself more wine as we all laugh. She holds out the bottle, looking surprised when I hold up a full glass.
“I’m so tired. I’ll fall asleep on you,” I warn her. The excuse passes inspection, but when I glance over I find Aja watching me.
“Perhaps, riding should wait,” she says after a moment, “for another visit.”
My stomach flips over. I tell myself that she’s only trying to decide what animal she sees in my eyes, but I can't lie to myself. Aja isn’t just studying me, she’s dissecting me. Whatever she sees is behind her suggestion and my disinterest is only fueling her speculation.
“You’re right. We should go riding,” I blurt out, eager to dispel whatever suspicion she has about me.
“As long as you go easy on me,” Cyrus says.
“Of course,” I say quickly, grateful that he’s here suddenly. Poppy’s been riding long enough to keep up with me. But if Cyrus is along, we’ll have a reason to be more cautious. I’d asked the midwife about riding. She’d told me it was okay in the first trimester if I took extra care after I’d assured her that I knew what I was doing on a horse. I’m in my second trimester now, but barely showing. I haven’t even felt the baby move yet. Going slowly, everything will be fine.
“I would join you, but my hip hasn’t allowed me to ride for years,” Aja says sadly.
“Oh, maybe we shouldn’t…”
Aja shakes her head. “It’s good for the horses. I can pack a picnic, if you’d like.”
“I don’t think we’ll be gone that long,” I say before the others can agree. “We have to break Cyrus in slowly.”
The conversation devolves into each of us telling embarrassing stories from our youth. The kind of stories only old friends can have.
When we finally head to bed, I’m bone-tired and my friends are drunk. We reach the back of the house and Poppy frowns.
“Aja put me in that one.” She points to a cottage on the opposite side of the property from where The Bookery is. “And Cyrus by you, so, I guess this is a good night to you both.”