by Staci Hart
Looking back, I was shocked she’d given it to me, but I saw it for what it was—a patronizing pat on the head and eventually a bargaining chip she’d use to keep me in line. But she’d let me have it without much of a fight, and it’d only taken two little words.
Public relations.
I painted the picture of the press we would get—Charitable daughter of Evelyn Bower starts nonprofit to feed homeless—and she was sold.
The year I worked on Harvest Center was the first and only glimmer of hope I had for my future at the company I’d been born into. I imagined myself heading up the charity division with all the energy my mother spent throwing herself in the public eye. Daydreamed about how the money allotted for the charity could help people. I started searching for properties for the next center, considered who we’d already trained and how many more we could get on board to help start it up.
Nearly on the year anniversary of the start of the project, she called me into her office and stonewalled me.
Harvest Center had served its purpose, and in the end, our nonprofit hadn’t been profitable enough to expand. The single center would be all there was, and I was to be moved to marketing and advertising instead.
The fight that followed was the first and only of its kind.
My life until that point had been a long string of concessions, a gradual bending of will by her hand. The charity was the center of my happiness at Bower, the culmination of my hard work. It had consumed my life, from months of planning and building to the hundreds of hours I’d spent in the kitchens and gardens there.
It was all I wanted, and she took it from me. And for once, I wasn’t going to stand for it.
Perhaps it was her shock that I’d fought back that drove her to cruelty. It was a shedding of twenty-four years of lies between us, and when the truth spilled out, it was a deluge of loathing. I told her all the ways she’d failed me, all the ways I wished she’d cared. I told her what I thought of her—that she was cruel and selfish and that I would never be like her, no matter how hard she tried.
In turn, she let me know exactly what she thought of me. How weak and soft I was. How my father had ruined me, how she regretted letting him have control. How stupid and naive I was—qualities that would ruin the company. That the real reason for her taking Harvest was to teach me a lesson—there was no place for gentility in this world. And if she had to break me to prove the point, then so be it.
I could very easily mark that moment as the point in my life when the world came into focus. My beliefs and dreams about what my life would be turned into a fairy tale, a silly notion of princesses and castles that was just as naive as my mother had accused me of being. And in that moment, the idealistic little girl died, and a cynical shade took her place.
A week later, she packed me off to England “to cool off.” My aunt—the younger of the two Bower sisters—ran European distribution there, and I was to learn the ins and outs of that and agriculture at our farms in Yorkshire. Two glorious years of freedom, and then she’d crooked her finger and called me back. And I wouldn’t have gone if not for her offer.
Over the course of ten years, she would shift her shares to me annually in a sliding scale, and at the end of that decade, I would only have one less share than her.
My counteroffer—she’d give me Harvest Center to do with what I pleased.
She’d agreed, and like a fool, I’d come running, sure of all the good I could do, the difference I could make. One board member was all that stood between me and outvoting her. It had been too alluring to pass up.
But now that I was back, it just felt like another trap. Particularly when she’d added my residence to her terms. What little freedom I’d stupidly thought I’d have disappeared with the snap of her fingers.
The greater good, I reminded myself. A few years of indentured servitude was nothing compared to a lifetime of opportunity.
As we ambled toward the Village, Mother continued on about some photo shoot she had planned for the two of us for the next magazine issue, some farce where we were to go out to one of our farms in Long Island and pretend to be the best of friends—probably all rainbows and sun hats with a basket of flowers between us. I’d been groomed my whole life for this, and I’d never dreaded it more than right now.
And trust me, I’d dreaded it a lot.
I didn’t want photo shoots and board meetings and, least of all, legal meetings regarding the Bennets. What I wanted was to throw myself into Harvest Center and pretend like I was anywhere but back in my mother’s clutches. What I wanted was the sanctuary of my room where my books and my garden waited for me. I wanted my little joys.
Do what you have to do, Maisie, my aunt Ava would say. And do good where you can. The only way to survive the Bowers is through small sacrifices.
And so I would. I’d tune Mother out. Show up everywhere she required me to be. Keep my mouth shut as often as was in my power. I’d play her game. And in return, I’d get the keys to the kingdom and do some real good.
At least I had my father to keep me company. We were two lone soldiers waging war against a tyrant. And by war, I meant we hid in the woods, stayed quiet, and hoped she kept on marching toward whatever town she was about to sack.
I watched rain streak the window, offering the occasional noncommittal noise or disinterested nod, which was all the encouragement my mother needed to prattle on about the magazine, some photographer she’d fired, butting heads with the board, a shopping excursion, and a new designer handbag she needed to pick up from Saks.
Mercifully, we pulled up in front of our home, and instantly, I exited the confined space. A deep sigh of fresh air brightened things considerably.
Ours was a beautiful home in the Village, an extravagant mansion built sometime in the late 1800s, but not by my ancestors, like the Bennets. No, this old historic home had been purchased by my mother, I suspected simply because the Bennets had something she didn’t.
As big as she talked regarding putting the Bennets in their supposed place, her insecurity spoke louder. The feud was old and tired, the vengeance bred into her so deep by my grandmother, it seemed inescapable. I used to think it was competition that drove her, but now that she was after the Bennets’ throats, I realized it was deeper than that. But I guessed she’d never read about the good old Count of Monte Cristo. If she had, she’d know revenge never paid off. A miserable soul was a miserable soul.
No amount of petty fuckery would change that.
She was still talking as we climbed the steps, the door opening before we reached it by our estate manager, which was just a fancy name for a butler. We had a cook and a maid too—they occupied the servants’ quarters. Because this ridiculous house I called home actually had such things as butlers and servant’s quarters.
“Hello, Mrs. Bower,” James said coolly, warming when he turned to me and frowned on inspection. “Maisie, did you get caught in the rain? I told you to take an umbrella.”
“You did, and you were right.”
“You should have made her take the car, James,” Mother said as she passed, never quite looking at him as she handed over her purse and coat.
“I tried, ma’am. She wouldn’t have it,” he defended, taking her things.
God forbid she hang her own coat. Or open her own door for that matter.
“Well, you should have made her anyway,” she snapped, smoothing her hair as she strode to the writing desk in the hallway. It had a chair, but no one ever sat there. It was as staged as the rest of her but had one practical use—it served as a landing pad for mail and keys. On approaching, she rifled through a stack of envelopes on its surface.
James somehow managed to look both regretful and annoyed.
I patted his arm. “He really did try his best, Mother.”
“Yes, well, we can’t all excel at our jobs, can we?” She didn’t look up from her task.
James and I shared a look, and once he disappeared with our haul, I made to excuse myself. But before
I could escape, my father walked in, and I no longer needed to.
William Argent had always been a handsome man, though his blond hair was now streaked with gray, as was his beard, clipped short and tidy. I had not been blessed with his height, which was towering, but we did have the same dark eyes and quiet smile. In terms of warmth, he was the polar opposite of my mother, and thank goodness for that. Who knew where I’d be if not for him? Likely the duplicate of my mother, just like she wanted.
Fortunately, I had also acquired his disposition.
He walked straight past my mother like she wasn’t there, kissing me on the cheek when he was close enough.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Sufficiently awful,” I answered.
“Do you ever do anything but complain?” The letters in Mother’s hands snicked against the wood as she stacked them, turning to lay her stony gaze on us.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ever do anything but give everyone reason to?”
She rolled her eyes and turned for her office. “Don’t start, William.”
“You’re right—I shouldn’t start. I might never finish.”
Studiously, she ignored him, closing the grand mahogany doors of her office with a solid thump. The sound echoed like we were in the Alps and not a house in Manhattan.
He sighed, his eyes lingering on the office doors. “Hungry? Tillie made chicken salad.”
“With grapes?”
Dad smirked, offering his arm. “Is there any other kind?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, we escaped to the kitchen.
They said that opposites attract, and my parents hit opposite on the nose.
The attraction part was another story.
He’d told me the story in bits and pieces, and once, when I was old enough to see what was happening and protest his ritual mistreatment by my mother, he sat me down and told me the whole thing, which was really just one very simple point.
My mother had gotten pregnant, and her mother had forced them to marry.
Granted, Dad would have done it anyway. But their parents stood behind them disapprovingly as they walked down the aisle, threatening with trust funds rather than shotguns. Mom lost that first baby late term, something she never mentioned and Dad only spoke of in the broadest of strokes. Those were their happiest years, which I had a feeling were still miserable. But as they tried for me, they were as together as they’d ever be. If they hadn’t been, Dad would have left.
When I was born, nothing else mattered. He stayed for me.
Never once did my mother tuck me in. Never did she push me in a swing or read books with me. Not once could I remember her playing with me or offering a compliment.
But my father did.
He braided my hair and sat on the floor, playing Barbies. We played checkers and cribbage, baked cookies and colored. He took me to the park and to ice skate at Rockefeller.
My father was the only reason I was who I was—to my mother’s lament, which was funny. As much as she’d abhorred my grandmother’s control and restraint and lack of warmth, she’d promptly turned around and did the exact same thing to me.
When I’d left for college, Dad would travel, coming home only when I was there. When I’d lived in Yorkshire, he would visit for months at a time. He owned flats all over the world and spent most of his time in Europe. I wondered sometimes if he dated or had girlfriends and secretly hoped he did.
If anyone deserved love, it was him.
But if I knew him at all, I knew he wouldn’t drag anyone into his mess. Wouldn’t ask someone he loved to play second fiddle to my mother.
As it was, he’d come home the same day I did, and I wondered if he could stand to spend even one night in this house with my mother alone. He had his own space, his own room and library on the other end of the house from her.
And in the middle was me.
Dad deposited me in a chair at the kitchen island before making his way to the refrigerator.
“Wanna tell me what really happened?” he asked from inside the fridge.
I sagged in my chair from the weight of it all. “She was horrid. The Bennets want to settle, and she won’t have it. No surprises there.”
“Not a single one. Who was there to represent them?”
My heart threw itself at my sternum. “Marcus.”
His name was forbidden and familiar on my tongue. Thankfully, Dad was busy making me a sandwich and didn’t see me flush.
“Well, at least it wasn’t Mrs. Bennet. Your mother might have set the room on fire.”
I chuckled. “Why don’t you ever call her by her first name?”
He shot a smile at me over his shoulder. “And summon the devil to take me? Her name is expressly forbidden in these walls, and so is her husband’s.”
“Remind me one day to ask you outside of these walls.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve uttered them, I don’t think I could say them for fear of being struck by lightning. Or your mother. I think she’d even manage it from another continent. Maybe have a hired man follow me around with instructions to break my nose on their mention.”
At that, I full-on laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Me neither. But you know…I always was a rebel,” he said with a mischievous smile, turning toward me to lean in, casting a dramatic glance over his shoulder. “Rosemary Bennet,” he whispered.
And we burst into laughter.
“So,” he started, going back to his task, “your mother will fight the fight even if it means dying on the hill?”
“Does she know any other way?”
“No. But if there’s one Bennet who can beat her, it’s Marcus.”
“I didn’t know you knew him,” I said, ignoring the jolt his name seemed to inspire, now that I knew how his lips tasted.
“I don’t, not really. But I’ve followed his career. He made quite a name for himself on Wall Street and moved on. Technically, Longbourne is his. He acquired it all, including the vitriol of your mother.”
“Lucky him.”
The kiss, my heart whispered.
The urge to tell my father what’d happened with Marcus tugged at me. But I glanced down the hall at Mother’s office and found resolve to keep it to myself. This wasn’t a safe place to talk about it.
I didn’t know if such a place existed.
But I wondered what Dad would say if I told him, imagined the relief I’d feel on telling him. He would understand. He would tell me to stay the hell away from Marcus for my self-preservation, but he would understand. I thought he’d even be able to commiserate—our family was well known for biffing our love lives and had been for generations.
Such was our curse.
If I’d ever thought I’d shake it, I’d learned my lesson today.
“Well,” Dad started, turning to me with a plate in hand, “I’m sorry you had to come back into this.”
“It’s only for a little while.”
“Only you would call a decade a little while,” he said on a laugh.
“And only one year of incarceration at the Bower Correctional Facility. Really, Dad. You should go stay at the SoHo apartment. No point in us suffering together.”
“How can I be a human shield if I’m in SoHo?” When I didn’t laugh, he sighed. “I didn’t stay married to her all these years just to abandon you in your hour of need. If you’re here, I’m here, and that’s that.”
I groaned.
“Besides. We have a host of dinners and appearances we have to pretend we’re happily married for. It’s convenient, staying here.” The look I gave him must have been effective because he amended, “Okay, but it could be worse.”
“How?” I scoffed.
“I could have to sleep with her.”
I winced, and he laughed.
“I tell you what, kid—when you’re free, I’m free. When you’re released from all this, I’ll go too, whenever
that may be.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Then I’ll pay my dues and earn us both a pardon. It seems a small price to pay. I’d pay more, all told.”
His smile was warmer than a summer sun. “I don’t doubt that. Not for one second. And if she doesn’t hold up her end of the deal, she’ll have both of us to answer to.”
We laughed, but by the time I tucked into my sandwich, I was left wondering if she would dare change her mind.
But I swallowed that thought with my lunch and hoped that if she honored nothing else, she’d honor this.
The legacy.
5
Hello/Goodbye
MARCUS
The minute I stepped into the coffee shop, I scanned it for Maisie, same as I had every day for the last week.
I came here daily, sometimes twice, armed with a myriad of reasons to justify it. It was convenient, for instance, situated near Longbourne on Bleecker. I had a punch card and was working for a free coffee. It was cold out, and I wanted something to warm me up. My mother would appreciate a cup of tea.
But under all those excuses was the truth—each morning, I passed the threshold looking for her.
It was ludicrous. I found myself thankful I’d thrown her number away because had I still possessed it, I couldn’t have promised I wouldn’t use it. I didn’t know exactly where she lived—not that I could show up at the Bower doorstep even if I did—nor did I know if this particular coffee shop was near her. But this was the only tether between us that didn’t involve a lawsuit. And as such, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from coming here to relive the moment we’d met in the hopes that I would find some lingering magic among the murmuring chatter and heady scent of coffee beans.