Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
A Lamentation of Swans
Two years ago, Ariel Montgomery left her wife and ran away from the beautiful estate of Sea Oats after an enormous argument. Older and wiser now, Ariel has returned to Sea Oats to try to save her marriage—only there is something sinister going on at Sea Oats. As Ariel tries to win her wife’s love back, she begins to suspect her own life is in danger, and has to find out the truth about what is going on at the beautiful mansion by the sea.
A Lamentation of Swans
Brought to you by
eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.
A Lamentation of Swans
© 2017 By Valerie Bronwen. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-829-0
This Electronic Original is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: August 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Melody Pond
By the Author
Slash and Burn
A Lamentation of Swans
This is for LAUREN, who shares my love of Mary Stewart and Victoria Holt
Chapter One
Today I finally faced my past, in order that I might have a future.
A little less than two years ago, I gave up on my marriage and the life I thought my wife and I were building together. I walked out of the home I’d shared with her for just under a year after impetuously getting married and went back to the career I’d foolishly, romantically, given up for my now failed marriage. I was determined to pick up the pieces of my wrecked life, prove to myself and the world that I was somebody, that I did have worth, and somehow rebuild what was left of my self-esteem.
I went back to New York and convinced my old boss to give me my old job back, dedicating myself solely to building my career. I gave up on life and love and friendship, anything personal that wouldn’t advance my career in some way. It was my work that saved my life and my sanity, just as it had before. I channeled all my energy, all my pain, and the unbearable loneliness that passed for my life into my work.
It paid off, too. That single-minded focus helped me become, at twenty-five, the youngest junior partner in the history of Hollis Allman Interior Designs, and now, after my second year back with the firm, I was in line for a full partnership.
Work was everything to me. It never betrayed me, never made me feel lesser, never made me feel like somehow I wasn’t a woman. My days were swatches and blueprints and furniture, lighting and curtains and decorative art. I haunted art galleries looking for up-and-coming artists to sell to my clients. I could walk into an empty house or office or apartment and within a few questions could come up with a design that was so perfect for my clients they couldn’t live without it, and I could even convince them it was their idea, not mine. Difficult sell? Management always sent me. A client who was an enormous commission who couldn’t make up their mind? Send Ariel in, and a decision would be made. I could manage contractors, herd deliverymen, and coax the most stubborn painting crew into getting back on time.
Losing myself in work was the easiest way I could think of to keep my sanity. I couldn’t think about how I’d ruined my marriage by overreacting to everything—by turning the smallest criticism into a fight, by resenting my wife’s job and my own loneliness, every one of the enormous and stupid mistakes I’d made—if my mind was always on my work, if I was so exhausted by the time I got back to my apartment with a take-out meal to gobble down before taking something to help me sleep, then I didn’t have the energy to look back, to reflect on my own stupidity and naïveté and childishness, and what I could have done better, how I could have been a better wife, how I could have saved my marriage instead of wrecking it.
How every time I came to a fork in the road I, without fail, chose the wrong path.
But I kept telling myself, on those rare moments when I curled up with my cat and a bottle of wine, alone in my apartment on yet another Saturday night in the most exciting city in the world, with no friends to call, no dates, no nothing but emptiness, that dwelling on mistakes wouldn’t change anything, and went on convincing myself that everything was all in the past and the best thing for me to do was to keep moving ahead, getting on with my life, becoming one of the top interior designers in New York City, and thus the world.
But what kind of life was it, really? Up at six every morning and in the office by eight, sometimes not getting home until almost ten. I carved out time every week to meet a trainer at the gym, to keep my body fit—those lonely Saturday nights with wine and ice cream and Netflix were dangerous to my waist and my hips—and sometimes I went for spa days, getting massages and mani-pedis and facials. I shopped at expensive stores and had my hair cut and shampooed and styled and colored at the best salons. It was all, as my boss Hollis always reminded me, a part of the package I was selling to our clients.
“The rich, the kind of people we want as clients,” Hollis said, glancing at me approvingly after my first appointment with her stylist, “want to hire people who understand their wants, what they need. No one wants to hire a decorator with no style, who looks like her last job was waiting tables at Hooters.” She smiled. “Every cent you spend on how you look will come back a hundredfold from clients. You have to look expensive.”
She laughed, running one perfectly manicured hand through her perfectly coiffed short red hair, which fell immediately back into place. “But you don’t have to spend a lot of money. Watch for sales—especially sample sales. There are websites that sell designer stuff for next to nothing—shoes, bags, clothes—I’ll have my assistant text you the links.” Her gray eyes flashed behind her fashionable red-framed glasses. She gestured at the dove-gray Chanel suit she was wearing, the matching Jimmy Choos on her feet. “I didn’t spend more than two hundred dollars on this entire ensemble.” She looked at me over the top of her glasses, which always slid down to the tip of her slightly upturned nose. The Jimmy Choos added a couple of inches to her height, but she was still barely five-three. Workouts with a trainer kept her slim figure ridiculously tiny. “And trust me—don’t skimp on your underwear, either. Even if no one sees it.” She held up a hand to stop me from answering. “No, I don’t care about your personal life. What you do on your own time isn’t my concern. But when you wear nice things…it gives you confidence. And that confidence helps get clients.”
She was right, as she so often was.
I had to look like I had my shit together, and so I did—at least when I was at work.
And on those occasional Saturday nights when I gave in to the memories and let them out, after watching some romantic movie and drinking too much wine, even at my most hopeful, I never thought I would ever return to Sea Oats.
And I wouldn’t have, either, had it not been for the cryptic email Peggy Glaven had sent me several days earlier.
I was checking my email on the subway home, taking a rare early evening because I’d finished with three big projects. I was feeling a bit burned out, and Hollis told me to go home and drink some wine.
“You should take some time off,” she advised, pushing her red-framed glasses up her long nose. “You haven’t had a vacation since you came back. Someone else can bid these jobs. I don’t want you flaming out on me. Take two weeks. Go sit on a beach somewhere.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Go.” She waved me out of her office. The subject was closed. I was on vacation for two weeks.
The last thing I wanted was some time away, with nothing to keep me from remembering, from reliving that year at Sea Oats, going over every excruciating and painful moment where I went wrong, how I lost the only person I’d ever loved.
Would ever love.
I sank down onto my seat on the subway uptown and, like everyone else, pulled out my phone.
And there it was, right in my inbox. The subject line read Ariel Important Please Read, and the return email was [email protected].
Peggy.
I closed my eyes and listened to the rattling of the subway as it hurtled uptown. Delete it unread, don’t pull off the scab, why do you want to do this to yourself.
I opened my eyes and touched the email.
Ariel,
I’ve missed you so much since you went away. I saw the piece in the Sunday Times about you, so I know you’re doing well. We’re all so proud of you. Things here at Sea Oats—well, things aren’t good. I do wish you’d come. Will you at least come out for a visit? I’m sure things aren’t nearly as bad as you think they are, even after two years. And we need you here. The family needs to come together now more than ever.
Please come.
Love,
Peggy
It was, I told myself, almost like the universe was giving me a sign.
You need closure, Ariel.
And that was why I found myself on that tourist van driving through the vast gates of Sea Oats, returning after two years, as a visitor rather than as someone who belonged.
Little ever changed at Sea Oats. A fresh coat of paint every so often, the addition of electricity, and repairs of course necessitated slight changes to the original structure, but it was pretty much the same today as it was the day it was built. My keys probably still worked and the remote control for the gate I’d hidden away in the all-purpose drawer in my apartment kitchen undoubtedly would work, if fresh batteries were loaded into it.
But I didn’t want to come through the gate, not after all this time. I didn’t feel like I had the right to use the keys, although on paper I was still married into the family who’d built Sea Oats and to whom it has always belonged. I also knew that it was cowardly to sneak into the grounds the way I was doing, coming as a tourist during the open hours. But I knew if I paid my twenty dollars I couldn’t be turned away, and I also wanted to face my memories on my own terms without being observed, to see if I had the inner strength necessary to face down the Swanns and the past.
It was almost exactly two years ago to the day that I’d packed up my things and fled, humiliated and angry and embarrassed and defeated, wiping away emotional tears. Happily ever after, apparently, lasted less than a year. I thought she would come after me, of course, fool that I was. I was making a dramatic gesture, running away from a fight, running away from cruel words said in the heat of anger. If she loves me she’ll come after me, I thought on the train back into the city, suitcases shoved on the rack above my seat, staring out the window. And I know she loves me.
But she didn’t come.
She just let me go.
I couldn’t believe it.
She’d never loved me.
But that naïve and foolish girl was gone now. I might have buried myself in work and avoided getting close to anyone since I’d left, but my wounds had toughened into scars. My hide was thicker and my tongue sharper, and I’d become more of a fighter.
And I’d learned that frequently negotiation is an easier way to get what you want than fighting.
I wasn’t that stupid wide-eyed girl who’d come here as a bride with her eyes and heart wide open, madly in love and easily hurt.
And still…I wasn’t any more sure now than I was then what waited for me at Sea Oats, but at least I was better prepared.
Or so I thought.
Everything seemed the same, like it was only yesterday that I’d walked out on my marriage. There’s a timeless quality about Sea Oats that nothing can quite shake. Sea Oats still belongs to another period, when servants were cheap and the wealthy spared no expense in building their homes—homes that were symbols of their wealth and power. Home to the Swann family, built just after the Civil War with money earned from California gold mines and railroads in the Midwest and shipping and, of course, Swann’s. Now it was an enormous old white elephant that cost a fortune to maintain, to heat, to clean. The house was still beautiful, though, a Victorian mansion with clean lines and towers and porches and balconies and ornate railings. It was originally intended to be one of two summer homes so the family could escape the heat and grime of Manhattan in the summertime—the other being the cottage in Newport. But most of New York society summered in Newport, so Sea Oats, on the Atlantic side of Long Island, was for peace and quiet and escape. The mansion on Fifth Avenue was long gone, sold and turned into a chain hotel before the Second World War. The place in Newport was now a museum, owned and operated by the state.
The Swanns have only Sea Oats left, and since I left they’ve started opening it daily in the afternoons for tours of one hour at twenty dollars a head, with coffee and pastries concluding the tour in the kitchen. I’d been stunned, when I checked into the picturesque inn in the village of Penobscot, to see the tour brochure on the desk in my room. Impulsively I’d decided to take the next one, not bothering to unpack, and dashed across the street to the little tourist information storefront. I hadn’t recognized the woman working there, nor did I know our tour guide, which was kind of a relief. I hadn’t spent much time in Penobscot itself when I lived at Sea Oats, and I’m not sure what I would have done had either of the women recognized me.
The sight of the towering oaks lining the driveway, the vast expanse of green lawn, the fountains bubbling in the sunshine sent a slight chill down my spine. I was here, back where I thought—had sworn—I would never return. My stomach fluttered and I felt a wave of nausea from nerves. It wasn’t too late. I could slip into the house, hide with the tour, and slip right back out again with no one the wiser. I was wearing a rain slicker, with a large hood that fell over my forehead and hid my face in shadows. With the hood up, no one would get a clear look at my face.
I steeled myself and pushed those thoughts away.
It had been almost two years. I had made it this far. I wasn’t going to turn back now. I didn’t know what my plan was—I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Just coming out here, renting a room in town…I hadn’t really thought beyond that. The tour had been a godsend, seemed like a gift too good to pass up. I didn’t have to do anything. I could just take the tour, get a feel for the place, see what emotions and memories it dredged up, curl up in my room back at the inn with a bottle of wine, and figure out what to do then.
Maybe I would just get back on a train in the morning and go back into the city.
I’ve learned that it’s always best to have options.
There were clouds out to sea, and there was a slight chill to the early spring air. Rain was on its way, which gave me the excuse I needed to keep the hood of my jacket up, even though the interior of the tour van was overheated.
No one had to know I’d come back until and unless I wanted them to know.
There, just beyond the side of the house, was the big pond. And the hedge maze, that damned hedge maze. That was part of the tour, of course, a trip into the famous hedge maze of Sea Oats. That was what everyone on the tour wanted to see, at least from what I’d gathered listening to them talk while we waited to board the van. They didn’t care about the house, or the grounds. The maze had been in Architectural Digest and Better Homes & Gardens and had been featured, more than once, in every major newspaper’s Sunday issues. One of the selling points of the tour I’d paid for was it included a chance to go inside the maze—Everyone Gets a Chance to Walk the Famous Maze!!!
People wandering onto the grounds to see it had always been an issue—maybe the tours were a way of keeping trespassers off the grounds, rather than a required income stream. There were twenty of us on the tour van, that was four hundred dollars. Five tours a day, Monday through Saturday, would be a nice chunk of change—if every tour was sold out.
I hadn’t heard that Swann’s was in trouble, but I didn’t pay attention to business news.
And as for that damned hedge maze, I could go the rest of my life without ever seeing it again. I’d always hated it.
I planned on ducking out of the tour before then.
The van swung out to the right, following the tree-lined drive as it expanded out into a circle.
The sunlight glinted on the surface of the pond, but its depths were as dark and mysterious as ever.
A Lamentation of Swans Page 1