by Laura Dave
“Ned. How you doing tonight?”
Ned’s eyes move in my direction and he gives me a small nod. Then he turns back to Charlie. “He’s expecting you,” he says.
He taps on the car’s hood and then goes back into the guardhouse to open a second gate.
We pull through it, drive onto the circular driveway, and stop by the front door.
Charlie puts the car in park and shuts off the ignition. But he doesn’t move to get out of the car. It seems he wants to say something. He must change his mind though—or think better of it—because, without a word, he opens the driver’s-side door and gets out.
I follow his lead and step out of the car into the cool night, the ground slick from the rain.
I start walking toward the front door, but Charlie points to a side gate.
“This way,” he says.
He holds the gate open for me and I walk through it. I wait as he locks the gate behind himself and we start heading down a pathway that runs along the side of the house, succulents and plants lining the path’s edges.
We walk side by side, Charlie on the path’s outer edge. I look into the house—look through those long, French windows—to see room after room, every one of them lit up.
I wonder if it’s all lit up for my benefit—so I can see how impressive the design is, how every detail has been considered. The long, winding hallway is lined with expensive art, with black-and-white photographs. The grand room has cathedral ceilings and deep wooden couches. And the farmhouse kitchen, which wraps around the back of the house, is accented with a terra-cotta floor and an enormous stone fireplace.
I keep thinking how Nicholas lives here alone. What is it like to live in a house like this alone?
The pathway winds around to a checkered veranda, which displays antique pillars and a breathtaking view of the lake—small boats twinkling in the distance, a canopy of oak trees, the cooling calm of the water itself.
And a moat.
This house, Nicholas Bell’s house, has its own moat. It’s a stark reminder that there is no getting in or out of here without explicit permission.
Charlie points at a row of chaise lounges, sitting down in one himself, the lake glistening in the distance.
I avoid meeting his eyes, staring out at the small boats instead. I know why I needed to come here. But now that I’m actually here, it feels like an error. Like I should have heeded Charlie’s warning, like nothing good is waiting inside.
“Take a seat anywhere,” Charlie says.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“He could be a little while,” Charlie says.
I lean against one of the pillars.
“I’m okay standing,” I say.
“Maybe it’s not you that you should be worrying about…”
I turn at the sound of a male’s voice, startled to find Nicholas standing in the back doorway. He has two dogs by his side, two large chocolate Labradors. Their eyes hold tightly on Nicholas.
“Those pillars aren’t as strong as they look,” he says.
I step away from the pillar. “Sorry about that,” I say.
“No, no. I kid, I just kid with you,” he says.
He waves his hand as he walks toward me, his fingers slightly crooked. This thin man with a struggling goatee—frail-looking with those arthritic fingers, his loose-fitting jeans, his cardigan sweater.
I bite on my lip, trying to hold my surprise in check. This isn’t the way I expected Nicholas to look—soft, gentle. He looks like someone’s loving grandfather. The way he talks so softly—with the slow cadence, the dry humor—he reminds me of my own loving grandfather.
“My wife bought those pillars from a monastery in France and had them shipped here in two pieces. A local artisan put them back together, returning them to their original presentation. They’re plenty sturdy.”
“They’re also beautiful,” I say.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he says. “My wife had a real flair for design. She picked everything that went into this house. Every last thing.”
He looks pained, even speaking of his wife.
“I don’t make it a habit of talking about the workmanship of my home, but I thought you’d appreciate a little history…” he says.
This stops me. Is Nicholas trying to suggest he knows what I do for a living? Could he know? Could there be a leak already? Or maybe I’m the leak. Maybe I said something to Charlie without realizing it. Something that has given us all away.
Either way, Nicholas is in charge now. Ten hours ago, that might not have been the case. But I changed all of that when I arrived in Austin. And now it’s Nicholas’s world. Austin is Nicholas’s world, and I’ve walked us back into it. As if cementing the point, two bodyguards walk outside—Ned and another guy. Both of them are large and unsmiling. Both of them stand right behind Nicholas.
Nicholas doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead he reaches out his hands to take mine. Like we are old friends. What choice do I have? I put my hand out, let him wrap his palms around mine.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you…” he says.
“Hannah,” I say. “You can call me Hannah.”
“Hannah,” he says.
He smiles—genuine and generous. And suddenly I’m more disturbed by that than I am by the idea of him presenting as the opposite. At what point was Owen standing in front of him thinking, Nicholas has to be good? How could he have a smile like that if he wasn’t? How could he have raised the woman who Owen loved?
It’s hard to look at him so I look down, toward the ground, toward the dogs.
Nicholas follows my eyes. Then he bends down, pets his dogs on the back of their heads.
“This is Casper and this is Leon,” he says.
“They’re gorgeous dogs.”
“They certainly are. Thank you. I brought them here from Germany. We are in the middle of their Schutzhund training.”
“Meaning what?” I say.
“The official translation is ‘protection dog.’ They’re supposed to keep their owners safe. I just think they’re good company.” He pauses. “Did you want to pet them?”
I don’t think it’s a threat, but it also doesn’t feel like an invitation, at least not one I’m interested in accepting.
I look over at Charlie, who is still lying down on his chaise lounge, his elbow covering his eyes. His casual pose seems forced, almost like he is as uncomfortable being at his father’s as I am. But then Nicholas reaches out, puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. And Charlie holds his father’s hand there.
“Hey, Pop.”
“Long night, kid?” Nicholas says.
“You could say that.”
“Let’s get you a drink then,” he says. “You want a scotch?”
“That sounds great,” he says. “That sounds perfect.”
Charlie looks up at his father, sincere and open. And I understand that I misread his anxiety. Whatever he’s feeling badly about, it doesn’t seem to be about his father, whose hand he still holds.
Grady was apparently correct about that much—whoever Nicholas might have been in his professional life, however ugly or dangerous, he’s also the man that puts his hand on his grown son’s shoulder and offers him a nightcap after a hard night at work. That’s who Charlie sees.
It makes me wonder if Grady is right about the rest. Or, I should say, how right Grady is about the rest. That to stay safe—to keep Bailey safe—I should be anywhere but here.
Nicholas nods toward Ned, who walks over to me. I flinch and move backward, putting my hands up.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“He’s just going to make sure you’re not wearing a wire,” Nicholas says.
“You can take my word for it,” I say. “What would I have to gain by wearing a wire?”
Nicholas smiles. “Those are the type of questions I don’t get involved in anymore,” he says. “But if you wouldn’t mind…”
“Raise your arms, please,” Ned says.
<
br /> I look toward Charlie to back me up—to say this is unnecessary. He doesn’t.
I do what Ned asks, telling myself that this is like a pat down at the airport, someone checking me out for the TSA. Nothing to think about. But his hands feel cold, and the entire time he moves them down my sides, I can see his gun on his hip. Ready to be used. And I can see Nicholas watching. The protection dogs by his side, apparently ready to be used too.
I feel my breath catch in my throat, trying not to show it. If one of these men were to see my husband, they would hurt him. They would hurt him so badly that nothing I do now would matter. Grady’s voice runs through my head. Nicholas is a bad man. These men are ruthless.
Ned steps away from me and motions to Nicholas, which I assume means I’m all clear.
I meet Nicholas’s eyes, still feeling the bodyguard’s hands on my body. “Is this how you welcome all your guests?” I say.
“I don’t tend to have many guests these days,” he says.
I nod, straightening out my sweater, wrapping my arms around myself. Then Nicholas turns to Charlie.
“You know what, Charlie? I’d like some time alone with Hannah. Why don’t you enjoy a drink by the pool? And head home.”
“I’m Hannah’s ride,” he says.
“Marcus will take her where she needs to go. We’ll talk tomorrow. Yeah?”
Nicholas gives his son a final pat. Then before Charlie can say anything, as if there is anything to say, Nicholas opens the doors to his house and walks inside.
He pauses in the doorway though. He pauses in the doorway, leaving me with a choice to make. I can leave now and go home with Charlie or I can stay here alone with him.
These are my choices—stay with Nicholas and help my family or leave my family and help myself. It feels like a weird test, as if I need to be tested, as if I haven’t already gotten to the place where helping my family and helping myself have become the same thing.
“Shall we?” Nicholas says.
I can still leave here. I can still leave him. Owen’s face is in my mind. He wouldn’t want me here. Grady’s face. Go. Go. Go. My heart races in my chest so loudly that I’m sure Nicholas can hear it. Even if he can’t, I’m sure he can feel it—the tension coming off me.
There is a moment when you realize you are out of your depth. This is mine.
The dogs stare up at Nicholas. Everyone stares at Nicholas, including me.
Until I move in the only direction I can. Toward him.
“After you,” I say.
Two Years Ago
“Bailey, I love your dress,” I said.
We were in Los Angeles, having dinner at Felix, in Venice. I was working with a client on her house in the Venice Canals and Owen thought it would be a perfect opportunity for Bailey and me to spend some time together. This was probably the eighth time we’d met, but usually she tried to get out of doing more than just having a meal together. Usually, it wasn’t the three of us for a whole weekend. We took her to see Dudamel at The Hollywood Bowl, which she loved. And now we were having dinner at the best Italian restaurant in Los Angeles, which she also loved. The only thing she didn’t love? Doing it all with me there.
“That shade of blue looks so pretty on you,” I said.
She didn’t answer, didn’t even offer a rote head shrug. She ignored me, downing some of her Italian soda.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
And she was up, and gone, before Owen could answer.
Owen watched her go. When she disappeared around the corner, he turned toward me.
“I was going to surprise you,” he said. “But maybe this is a good time to tell you that I’m taking you to Big Sur next weekend.”
I was staying in Los Angeles for the week to finish work on my project in the Canals and then I was planning on flying up to Sausalito on Friday. We had talked about taking a ride down the coast to visit cousins of Owen’s. The cousins, he said, lived in Carmel-by-the-Sea—a small, touristy town on the end of the Peninsula.
“There aren’t actually cousins in Carmel-by-the-Sea?” I said.
“Someone’s cousins, probably,” he said.
I laughed.
“That’s a benefit of me,” he said. “I don’t really have any cousins anywhere. I don’t come with family at all, except Bailey.”
“And she’s a boon,” I said.
He smiled at me. “You really feel that way, don’t you?”
“Of course.” I paused. “Not that the feeling is mutual.”
“It will be.”
He took a sip of his drink and moved it across the table toward me.
“Have you ever tried a bourbon Good Luck Charm?” he said. “I only drink it on special occasions. It’s a mix of bourbon and lemon and spearmint. And it works. It brings luck.”
“What do you need luck for?”
“I’m going to ask you something that you’re going to say is too soon to ask you,” he said. “Is that okay?”
“Is that the question?” I said.
“The question’s coming,” he said. “But not like this, not when my kid’s in the bathroom, so you can start breathing again…”
He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t taken a breath at all, worrying he was actually going to pop the question. I was terrified if he did that I wouldn’t be able to say yes. And I wouldn’t be able to say no.
“Maybe I’ll ask you in Big Sur. We’re staying on top of these cliffs, surrounded by oak trees, prettiest trees you’ve ever seen in your life. And you get to sleep beneath them, you sleep in yurts, which look up at all those trees, which look out on the ocean. One of them has our name on it.”
“I’ve never slept in a yurt,” I said.
“Well, you won’t be able to say that next week.”
He took his drink back, took a long sip.
“And I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but you should probably know, I can’t wait to be your husband,” he said. “Just for the record.”
“Well, I’m not going on the record,” I said. “But I feel the same.”
This is when Bailey came back to the table. She sat down and dug into her pasta, a delicious southern Italian rendition of Cacio e Pepe. It was a decadent mix of cheese and spicy pepper and salty olive oil.
Owen leaned in and took a huge bite, right off her plate.
“Dad!” She laughed.
“Sharing is caring,” he said, his mouth full. “Wanna hear something cool?”
“Sure,” she said. And she smiled at him.
“Hannah got us all tickets to see the revival of Barefoot in the Park tomorrow night at the Geffen,” he said. “Neil Simon is one of her favorites too. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“We’re seeing Hannah again tomorrow?” she said. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Bailey…” Owen shook his head.
Then he gave me an apologetic look: I’m sorry she’s being like this.
I shrugged: It’s really okay, however she wants to be.
I meant it. It was okay with me. She was a teenager who hadn’t had a mother for most of her life. All she had was her father. I didn’t expect her to be good with the prospect of sharing him with someone else. I didn’t think anyone else should expect that of her either.
She looked down, embarrassed. “Sorry I just… have a lot of homework to do,” she said.
“No, please, it’s fine,” I said. “I have a ton of work to do too. Why don’t you two go to the play? Just you and your dad. And maybe we’ll meet up back at the hotel, if you end up getting your work done?”
She looked at me, waiting for the catch. There was none. I wanted her to understand that. Regardless of what I was going to do right in terms of her, and what I was going to do wrong (and based on how things were starting, I knew I was going to do a lot that she considered wrong), there was never going to be a catch. That was a promise I could make her. As far as I was concerned, she didn’t have to be nice. She didn’t have t
o pretend. She only had to be herself.
“Honestly, Bailey. No pressure either way…” I said.
Owen reached over and took my hand. “I’d really like us to all go together,” he said.
“Next time,” I said. “We’ll do it next time.”
Bailey looked up. And I saw it there before she could hide it. I saw it in her eyes, like a secret she didn’t mean to let me in on—her gratitude that I had understood her. I saw how much she needed someone to understand her, someone besides her father. How she thought it for just a second—that just maybe that someone might turn out to be me.
“Yeah,” she said. “Next time.”
And, for the first time, she smiled at me.
You Have to Do Some Things on Your Own
We walk down the long hallway lined with those art photographs, passing by one of the California Coast. The gorgeous coast near Big Sur. The photograph is at least seven feet long, a bird’s-eye view of that almost impossible stretch of road carved into the divide of steep mountain, rock, and ocean. I’m so focused on it, taking some comfort in the familiar landscape, that I almost miss it when we pass the dining room. I almost miss the dining room table inside. My dining room table—the one that was featured in Architectural Digest. The table that helped launch my career.
It’s my most reproduced piece. A big box store even started replicating the table after the AD feature came out.
It stops me. Nicholas said his wife carefully picked every piece of furniture in this house. What if she came across the feature in Architectural Digest? What if that was what led her to the table? It was possible. The feature was still on their website. Enough clicks in recent years could have led her to her lost granddaughter, if she had been searching closely enough, if she had only known what to be searching for.
Enough moves, after all, led me here, to this house I don’t want to be in—a piece of my past finding me here, as if I need another reminder that everything that matters in my life is at the mercy of what happens now.
Nicholas pulls open a thick, oak door and holds it for me.
I avoid looking back at Ned, who is a couple of feet behind us. I avoid looking at the drooling dogs, who stroll by his side.