by Lily Cahill
“I’m sorry, dear, but ever since you went off the market, all the talk’s been about Clayton.”
“Don’t make me gag,” Will grinned.
Meg rolled her eyes playfully at Will then asked again, “So? Who is she?”
He summoned his courage and said, “It was the Murphy girl.”
The image of Cora leapt into his mind.
Those eyes. That kiss.
“You tease!” Meg accused, laughing. Then she saw that Clayton wasn’t joking. The smile on her face faltered. In fact, it felt as if a chill had settled over the entire table.
“It was an accident. I didn’t recognize her.”
“You can’t be serious,” Lowell said.
Clayton was suddenly very glad that the last time he’d seen Cora, she’d been running away.
“He’s been at college, Pop,” Will offered. “She’s, um, well … grown up quite a bit since.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not likely to repeat my mistake.”
His father’s expression seemed to hold still for a moment, wavering, deciding. Then he smirked.
“They’ll have to try harder than sending a Trojan horse if they want to fool a Briggs, won’t they, boy?”
Clayton grimaced inwardly, but tried to smile with the rest of the table as they laughed. What would his father say if he knew Clayton was the one to blame?
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Speaking of young ladies,” his mother interjected brightly. “I’ve been meaning to introduce you to someone. Amber Middleton, Grant and Maisie Middleton’s niece. She’s visiting for the summer and is just the most delightful creature. I thought you might consider her as your date to the Briggs Foundation Gala.”
Anger leapt up in Clayton’s heart. Why was she always trying to meddle?
“Give me a chance to breathe, Mother, before you doom me to another debutante?”
As soon as the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. He could see the hurt in his mother’s eyes. Wasn’t she just trying to help? And they had all been through so much. Couldn’t he extend a little patience, at least tonight?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Clayton said.
“You’re still tired. I shouldn’t have pushed,” his mother said, though it was clear that her agreement was an effort to regain the peace that Clayton had disrupted.
“There might not be much time for young ladies this summer anyway,” his father said. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your next steps at the bank.”
It was an obvious effort to change the subject, and Clayton didn’t fight it. He was glad for the reprieve. And he was glad the business with Cora Murphy was behind him.
Two days later, Clayton was driving home from work in his convertible—a silver Aston Martin DB2/4 convertible that was his college graduation present—taking a detour through the winding hills to kill a little time. It had been only two days since he’d been released from the hospital, but things had been so busy with work that he’d barely had time to think. Now he was expected home, where his mother was throwing a dinner party. The summers between school were always full of dinner parties, and now that he’d graduated there were certain to be even more.
She’d made it very clear that he was to attend, but he really didn’t feel up to making small talk with his parent’s friends tonight. Ever since buckling down at school, his patience for society functions had grown less and less. It felt like the world was changing, growing bigger, and his entire social circle was stuck in a tiny, increasingly more irrelevant universe—a universe full of petty gossip and vapid conversation. It was exhausting. More than that, it was boring. He wanted more excitement in his life, more texture.
His thoughts drifted to Cora. As much as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. She had gotten into his head—planted herself there—as indestructible as that golden trumpet vine in his mother’s garden that he and Will had been tasked with uprooting three summers ago. They’d thought they’d gotten it all but it bloomed anew each summer. The damn thing simply wouldn’t die.
He thought of the tilt of her chin as the boys had taunted her, remembered the fire in her eyes as she’d refused his help. He remembered the hurt too, that awful sadness that settled onto her features. And he had put it there. He felt terrible, but how was he supposed to make it right?
Thinking of her at all was foolish. She was the one woman—maybe the only woman in the world—who was completely out of the question. His family would never allow a Murphy into their midst.
The feud had started long ago, five generations before, back when the Briggs mine first opened. Jed Murphy had been the foreman, hand-picked by the first Lowell Briggs himself—and he’d begun siphoning money almost as soon as he was hired. He cut corners every time there was an opportunity to pad his own pockets: equipment, wages, safety measures. And it was the last that had allowed Lowell’s only daughter Daisy—a child of just nine years old—to wander into a faulty shaft that should have been sealed. She was lost when it caved in, and her death brought all of Jed Murphy’s crimes to light. He drank himself to death before any charges could be filed. If Jed’s wife wasn’t pregnant at the time, they probably would have run her out of town. Instead, they shunned her. The stain had remained on the Murphys ever since.
Clayton thought it was possible the Briggs had been too harsh in their treatment during the following years, but murder was a hard sin to wash off. It was known in town that if you wanted to do business with the Briggs, then you didn’t do business with the Murphys. And everyone wanted to do business with the Briggs.
Everyone in town also had some story to tell about how they’d been cheated or abused by a Murphy. It was as if they were fulfilling a vendetta on all of Independence Falls. They just couldn’t let the fight die.
That business with the Lowell Briggs Memorial last year hadn’t helped matters. Clayton didn’t think he’d ever seen his father angrier than the day he stood over the tall bronze statue of his ancestor, toppled against the sidewalk and dented beyond repair. The court’s ruling to make Huck pay damages did nothing to soothe his father. Clayton had seen the old seed of hatred bloom anew in his father’s eyes.
So even thinking about Cora Murphy? It was just too dangerous. His father was giving him a second chance. He wasn’t going to take that lightly. He turned the car toward home.
The big house glowed on the hill as Clayton approached it. It was the largest home in Independence Falls by far—a beacon of wealth and prosperity to the entire town below. It wasn’t exactly Clayton’s taste—a turreted Victorian with fussy details and far more rooms than people to live in them—but his great-grandfather had built it fifty years ago. Since then, the house had, if anything, come to represent his family to the town.
He parked, then took one final moment for himself before opening the door, shoring up his nerve for the long night ahead. But it wasn’t his parent’s friends he found mingling and sipping cocktails in the parlor—it was women.
Specifically, all the eligible women in town.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clayton
Clayton scanned the room. It was a setup for sure.
The place was crowded with women. Simply teeming with swishing skirts. Sure, there was a guy or two scattered around. Not including them would have been too obvious, and his mother was too smart for that. But most of them were cousins or brothers who had been married off long ago.
He spotted his friend June, a sweet blond who had been like a little sister to him ever since their days in grammar school. She made her way over in a teal-colored dress with a wide skirt that Clayton could only describe as “frothy.”
“I might as well be at a slumber party with all these girls around. I take it you were ambushed?”
“You take it right. Can I ask when you got an invite to this little shindig?”
Clayton was starting to wonder just when this event had been planned. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard a thing about it
until yesterday when his mother swore she had told him about it weeks ago. Had this all been a reaction to his mentioning Cora at the dinner table? Apparently it had spooked his parents more than he realized.
“This morning. But honestly, I’m not even sure why I was invited,” June said. “Actually, no, that’s not true. I know exactly why I was invited. I’m sure my mother twisted your mother’s arm until she coughed up an invite. No offense, Clay, but I doubt we’d be a good match.”
Clayton laughed as he snatched a shrimp puff from a passing waiter. “None taken.”
“Just don’t tell my mother that. She’d blow her top.” She looked away for a moment, took a deep breath. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m bored to tears. And Mom’s driving me crazy at home, as usual.” She laughed lightly, but Clayton felt like she was concealing something under that laugh. “I was wondering, well … I thought I might like to work. Have something to keep me occupied, you know?”
Her request was more than unusual. None of the women in his set had jobs—they were all aiming toward marriage and a family. And June Powell? She was smart, but the last person he could imagine as a career girl. He wondered if there was something else going on. But she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so he didn’t pry.
“I thought maybe you might have a secretarial position available at the bank?”
“No secretarial work, no,” he said, and her face seemed to fall a bit. For whatever reason, this was important to her. “But we have been looking for a teller.”
“A teller?” Her eyebrows rose, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was out of hope or fear.
“Yes. Come to think of it, you might be perfect. We could really use a friendly face like yours behind the counter. How soon could you start?”
“Any time,” she said, relief flooding her features.
“Good. Come by Monday morning and we’ll get you sorted out.”
“Thanks, Clay,” she said, beaming. “Just, well. Thank you.”
“Clayton,” a voice called from across the room. Violet waved, then glided over to them.
Clayton couldn’t deny that she was a striking beauty. With her long wave of blond hair, classic face, and curvy hourglass figure she could easily rival Marilyn Monroe. The men in his circle often toasted her as the prettiest girl in town—though Clayton wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Her violet eyes seemed dim in comparison a certain pair of blue ones he had seen recently. If he was honest with himself, Violet’s looks had been why he had chased her in his high school years—that and the challenge of winning her over the other boys. But he had no regrets where Violet was concerned. They were both happier as friends.
He was actually surprised she had been invited. Violet wasn’t from a wealthy family like many of the women here, though you wouldn’t know it by the way she held herself. Her father owned the local movie theater, so they weren’t poor either. But it was her beauty, not her wealth, that had gained her admittance into their set. When Clayton considered it, he nearly laughed. There was a day when his parents had objected to his dating her. But perhaps at the prospect of Cora Murphy, Violet suddenly seemed like a very good option.
“What are you two talking about?” she asked with a wry smile. “You look so serious.”
“Turns out Clay’s been a bit … blindsided by this whole event,” June said.
Violet rolled her eyes and laughed. “Your life is so hard, isn’t it? Trapped inside a room full of pretty girls. However will you manage?”
He could always count on Violet for a little perspective. He was glad they had been able to stay friends after breaking up.
“I suppose I am being a bit of a beast,” he said.
They both laughed.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Vi said.
He was almost ready to take everything in stride and try to make the best of the night. But at that exact moment he spotted his mother flitting by, looking all too pleased that he was chatting with them.
“You’ll excuse me, ladies. I need to speak to my mother.”
He followed her as she made her way toward the kitchen, but stopped her in the long hall which was currently—and thankfully—empty.
“What’s going on here?” Clayton said.
“What do you mean?” she asked with perfectly innocent expression.
“There isn’t an eligible bachelor for miles,” he said.
She straightened his lapels and grinned. “I see one very eligible bachelor standing right in front of me.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me. It’s a mother’s prerogative to set up her son.”
“I don’t need to be set up.”
“You’re graduated now, Clayton. And you never once brought a girl home to visit. I don’t think you realize how small the pond gets after college.”
“I’ve never had any trouble before.” Clayton could feel his anger building. Did his own mother think he was so helpless where women were concerned that he needed her intervention?
“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “But the good ones won’t wait around forever and you don’t deserve the leftover scraps. There’s bound to be someone in this room you could be happy with.”
But as Clayton thought about it, he realized she was wrong.
“There’s not. I can’t think of a single one.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You don’t even know everyone here.”
“And I don’t care to,” he said. He knew he was just being contrary now, but he honestly couldn’t imagine starting a relationship like this. It just felt so forced.
“Do you want to marry, Clayton?” she asked.
“Of course I do.”
“And you mean to make a life for yourself here?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you imagine meeting someone? You’re home now. This is how it’s done. Every woman left in Independence Falls is under this roof.”
Not every woman. Again, the image of Cora invaded his mind. Her full, velvet lips. The sound of her sigh as he kissed her.
Stop it.
This had nothing to do with Cora Murphy. This was about having a choice.
“I know it’s not the way you imagined it,” Florence said. “But does that have to mean it can’t lead to love?”
He frowned. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had to face facts.
“Just give it a try. For me and your father. That’s all I’m asking.”
There it was. The real truth of the situation. It wasn’t just his mother who wanted this. It was his father too.
And he wanted to please them. He did. He wanted nothing more than to be the man they hoped he could be. So why did all of this feel so unnatural?
Clayton stepped out into the garden for air. He’d agreed with his mother to make more of an effort tonight, but he needed a moment to let the embers of his temper cool.
The garden was as formal as the house, full of vine-covered trellises and ornate stone benches. There were hundreds of roses, the very best blooms cultivated by the local Sokolov family—Russian immigrants who had gained a reputation in town for their flowers as much as their suspected ties to Communism. There was even a marble statue of a Grecian goddess whose gown billowed in the wind. A filigree patterned fountain stood in the middle of it all, spouting water from the mouths of cherubs. The whole thing was his mother’s design—pretty, but claustrophobic. He felt boxed in by the hedges, bound tight by the climbing vines.
He knew his parents meant well, but honestly. If a man was to be trusted with anything, it was the woman he chose to love. The thought that they were worried he’d fail—even at something as natural as love—was maddening. Yet hadn’t he almost done just that with the Murphy girl? Maybe they were right.
He stopped in front of one of his mother’s prized rosebushes and tore a bloom off in frustration, crushing it in his palm.
A strange feeling passed through
him, something akin to the vibration a bee must feel at its own buzz, or the first tremble of an earthquake at his feet.
He looked down into his palm and saw something odd. Something very odd. What he saw was so strange it made him forget the argument with his mother.
The flower began to wilt, right there in his palm—as though it was aging rapidly.
A shiver passed through his body. What was going on?
For a moment, it looked like a hundred tiny fireflies were flying out of the bud as it drained of life and turned to a husk. Fireflies or fire itself—tiny blue sparks floating, swirling together, migrating to form into one thing.
A ball of light, the size of a golf ball.
Blue light.
Buzzing and alive.
And floating above his palm.
Clayton stared into it, too terrified to move. It was pulsing, glowing, with a hard electric edge. Not quite transparent, but he could see the shape of things through it—warped and moving as though through a heat haze.
What had just happened?
Was he going mad?
Clayton heard a gale of laughter inside and startled. He threw the ball, hard, onto a patch of grass twenty feet away. There was a zap as it hit the ground and then dissipated, disappearing into the darkness.
He whirled behind him to see if anyone was coming, but he heard nothing, so turned his attention back to the yard. What on earth was that? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
But no. Clayton squinted into the darkness and thought he saw that the sphere had left a mark, dark and round in the grass.
He dashed over to where it had landed. The ground wasn’t just marked, it was barren. Where there was once lush grass only dust remained. Dirt. A bare patch of dirt stared back at him.
He reached down to touch the spot and felt only dust. No heat, like a fire would have left. Merely nothing at all.
As he pulled away, his hands were shaking. Adrenaline coursed through his body almost as fast as the questions.
What had he done? Because he knew he had done it. He could feel it. That ball, that energy. It had been him who’d made it happen. There was something wrong with him.