Who Rescued Who

by Victoria Schade

  Two news outlets had emailed responses about her Entomon photo: TechGeek, an insider website with a Twitter feed that regularly toppled giants, and GossipBot, a blog that made the tech world sound as glamorous as Hollywood. She’d reached out to them from a fake email address and had only alluded to the photo bombshell, but both were eager for more information. She continued her cagey courtship dance with them, waiting for just the right timing to take Cecelia down in the most public and damaging way possible.

  Elizabeth leaned against the brick wall and turned her face up to the sun. The warmth on her skin felt so good that she hardly worried that she’d forgotten sunscreen. She wanted to park herself in a yellow chair and continue plotting her comeback, but the redhead made her feel unwelcome.

  She surveyed the people sitting in the courtyard. A tired-looking mother placated her cheerful toddler with a wooden cow toy while she drank her coffee and stared into space. Two gray-haired women leaned toward each other across the table, so in sync with one another that they almost looked like twins. A couple speaking another language studied brochures spread on the table in front of them. An elderly woman sat with her flat-faced brown dog perched on her lap as she picked at a sandwich, offering the dog tiny bites. Elizabeth nearly missed the man sitting alone at a table on the very edge of the courtyard, glued to his laptop.

  Once she spotted him she couldn’t look away. Why was no one else staring at him? Even at a distance she could tell he was the kind of handsome that made people stupid. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, so Elizabeth continued studying him. He had stickers plastered on the back of his laptop, but she couldn’t make out any of the logos to uncover his tribe. His dark wavy-curly hair was on the right side of bedhead. She squinted to make out the details of his face. Stubble. Thick, dark eyebrows. She was focused on the strong contours of his nose when he suddenly looked up and directly at her.

  For a moment his light green eyes held hers. The shock of being caught staring made her look away immediately, but not before something electric flicked through her. He was even more stunning head-on. She looked down and pretended to check her phone, then peered up at him again when enough time had passed to justify a second look.

  What she was feeling was clearly only something that she was feeling. The handsome stranger was immediately reengaged with his computer, typing so intently that Elizabeth could swear she heard the keystrokes from across the courtyard. She stole glances at him, hoping that he might tear himself away from whatever was so fascinating on his screen to observe her back, so that their eyes might meet again.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps he was on a deadline or had a quota to meet. The way he was focused meant he was probably doing actual work; Elizabeth could tell by the little furrow in his brow. He was clocked in, and she respected his dedication to whatever it was, even if it made her invisible.

  Elizabeth walked back to the door when her staring started to verge on stalking. She willed him to watch her, pausing to look at her phone when she was perfectly positioned within his sightlines. She posed prettily with one hand on her hip and tossed her hair, like a bird doing a mating dance. She envisioned channeling the moves Insta-models used, hoping that she looked less stupid than she felt. She snuck another look in his direction.

  Still, nothing.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him one last time as she walked back into the coffee shop to claim her drink, then refocused in case she was heading into another confrontation with the grumpy ginger. He was nowhere to be seen, and the lone to-go cup on the counter said Yankee on it, so she grabbed it and walked out in a huff. It didn’t look cute enough to post. She took a sip and it felt like she’d just mainlined caffeine. The hit made her want to close her eyes in ecstasy, but she kept her face neutral in case the ginger was watching her. He had every right to be cocky; the guy knew how to brew.

  “You’re welcome,” she heard a voice call after her as the door shut.

  Elizabeth knew Rowan would ask about her trip to his friend’s shop, so she had no choice but to stop in. She found it a few doors in on a side street, just off the main square: The Siren, the Stitch and the Wardrobe, which reminded her of reading the book with her mom. The logo on the carved wooden sign depicted a mariner-style mermaid wearing a dress, her tail peeking out from underneath. The window display was tasteful enough, with an Audrey Hepburn–esque shift on a headless dress form, surrounded by faux climbing roses.

  Elizabeth walked in and was once again surprised by the shop’s aesthetic; it seemed well organized and minimalistic, with dresses and coats neatly arranged on bars that seemed to levitate in midair. Amy Winehouse pumped through hidden speakers.

  A voice called out. “You are Bess! So nice to meet you, welcome to the Siren!”

  Rowan’s nickname, again. She had to gently ask him to stop, especially before the party. Elizabeth turned to the sound of the voice and was shocked by the source. Harriet Welbeck was no contemporary to Rowan and Trudy; she was young enough to be their granddaughter. She stood behind the counter with a giant smile on her face, as if she were about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. She looked out of place in the elegant space, with a messy ombre ponytail on the top of her head, dark burgundy ’90s lipstick, and a black ribbon choker around her neck.

  “I guess you were expecting me,” Elizabeth said. It seemed the only secrets in Fargrove resided within the Barnes clan.

  “Your uncle told me to be on high frock-and-chapeau alert, so I already have a few things pulled for you. Trudy guessed your size, correctly by the looks of it.” Harriet walked out from behind the counter and Elizabeth couldn’t miss her swollen belly, perfectly outlined in a tight green plaid dress. “They’re chuffed you’re staying for the party. And I am too. We can sit in the corner and gossip about all the society ladies. You can drink my share of champagne, too.” She rubbed her stomach.

  The thought of being anchored to a stranger throughout the party made Elizabeth queasy. At first glance it seemed like they had absolutely nothing in common. Harriet was way cooler than Elizabeth could ever hope to be, starting at her dark purple Doc Martens. Elizabeth had always wanted a pair of black ones—she knew she didn’t have the style to carry off any other color—but even basic black seemed like too much for her. She peeked at Harriet’s finger, and the diamond-and-sapphire ring proved that she was happily coupled. The belly was the final divide that she knew she couldn’t cross. Elizabeth had no idea how to talk about formula or onesies. She ached to see if the Siren had a feed to see if they shared interests other than industrial-style boots, but it didn’t feel right to check while Harriet stood a few feet away grinning at her.

  Elizabeth felt something brush against her legs and jumped. An asymmetrical mass of black and orange splotches on top of white fur purred loudly and seemed to grin at her as it rolled its head up and down her leg. She took a half step away from it but remembered to reach for her phone. Cats meant clicks, and no one had to know that a single sneeze triggered by a nearby cat at age ten had convinced her that she was allergic. She wiggled her nose to check if any dander had found a way in.

  “Sorry for the fright. That’s Barnabas the shop monster, the most doglike cat you’ll ever meet. A male calico, so he’s a posh moggy. Do you have pets?”

  Elizabeth shook her head as she framed the shot. Barnabas played the part, rolling on his back and draping a paw over one eye.

  “Kids?”

  She shook her head again, and Harriet looked at her quizzically.

  “I work,” Elizabeth said by way of explanation. “My job is intense. Or was intense. I’m on a bit of a sabbatical. It’s a long story,” she said with a tight smile, praying that the overly friendly woman wouldn’t ask for details. It was easier for Elizabeth to not think about it unless she had to.

  “Sabbaticals are healthy now and again, good for you. Before we get to it, may I ask you to leave your cup on the co
unter? We’ve had a few accidental spills over the years and now I’m extra careful with my one-of-a-kinds. Did Reid make your drink?”

  Elizabeth put the cup on the counter. “I don’t know who he was, but I’m pretty sure he hated me.”

  “Giant fellow with red hair?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s Reid. He’s usually a love, but if he heard your accent it explains the attitude. He’s a tad snobby about Americans, and he doesn’t hide it well.”

  “No, he doesn’t. I wish that weren’t the case, because he makes an amazing espresso.”

  “He’ll be at the party as well, so maybe you can change his mind about your kind?”

  “I’ll keep my distance, thanks.” Elizabeth considered asking about the dark-haired stranger in the courtyard. That was who she wanted to see again.

  “Right, let’s get on with it. I have six dresses picked for you, all lovely and perfect for the party.” Harriet led her to the back of the shop and Barnabas followed, throwing come-hither glances over his shoulder at Elizabeth.

  Harriet pulled out each dress and described its history and why it worked with the party’s theme. All Elizabeth could see was color, color, color. She gently said no to a pink, a red, a purple and black, a bright blue, and a yellow.

  “Well, that leaves us just one.” She pulled out a sleeveless gray silk 1950s fit-and-flare dress with layers of black, gray, and white tulle over the skirt that gave it a Gothic ballerina flair. “I was thinking you could go as Rowan’s Morning Mist series. I have the perfect hat too.” She handed Elizabeth the dress and disappeared in back.

  Elizabeth held the dress up in front of herself and looked in the mirror. She swished the skirt back and forth, making the tulle float around her, and considered doing a twirl to get the full princess effect. She stopped when she heard Harriet stomping back.

  “Put this on,” Harriet said, handing her a confection of feathers and netting.

  Elizabeth placed the hat on the top of her head.

  “Nope, not quite right.” Harriet laughed good-naturedly at her. She adjusted the hat so that the coiled black feather base rested just above Elizabeth’s left ear. The frothy netting swirled around the top of her head and dipped over one eye. Tiny crystals embedded in the netting glistened like morning dew on grass. She looked like a film noir starlet.

  Harriet clapped her hands. “It’s perfect! With the dress you are the mist! And I must tell you about the hat’s origins. It belonged to Georgina Hargrave, the loveliest lass in Fargrove, as they once called her. That’s her,” she said, pointing to a painting on the wall near the back of the shop.

  It was of an arresting woman with blond hair and perfectly arched eyebrows. She was wearing a simple white off-the-shoulder gown that looked a little like a wedding dress, along with a chin tilt and smug expression suggesting that she knew exactly how stunning she looked. Not movie-star pretty, but handsome. Strong.

  “She had her pick of the men in town and beyond, she was that dazzling, but she never married,” Harriet continued. “She died in her massive old house, alone except for her dozen cats. Now she’s remembered as the crazy cat lady of Fargrove, but I, as the purveyor of her beautiful relics, prefer her former title.” Harriet looked at Elizabeth in the mirror. “The hat could use a party, wouldn’t you say?”

  Elizabeth turned her head from side to side, admiring herself in the timeless hat. “I’ll wear it, I just hope it’s not haunted.”

  “This is from her jolly youth, so it’s curse-free, I promise,” Harriet said, grinning at Elizabeth’s reflection.

  chapter nine

  Elizabeth didn’t care what Trudy had told her, Major was out for blood. The dog leapt at her when she returned from her trip to Fargrove, throwing his head back and making high-pitched noises while clawing at her with his front paws. Elizabeth could see every one of his teeth as he chattered and gnashed.

  “Help? Is anyone around? Rowan? Trudy?” she called as she tried to sidestep Major, hoping that they couldn’t hear the terror in her voice.

  Trudy met her in front of the house looking far more casual than appropriate given that Elizabeth was fighting for her life.

  “Maj, leave her be,” Trudy scolded. The dog immediately stopped his assault but continued making rumbly sounds, turning in sharklike figure eights in front of Elizabeth. “That’s no way to treat your cousin. But you’re going to have to give in to him at some point, Bess. He’ll be relentless until you agree that he’s the most handsome dog you’ve ever seen.”

  Elizabeth wondered if Trudy was right. Was a simple pat on the head enough to secure a truce? She reached toward Major tentatively, and he went for her hand like her fingers were sausages. She jumped away before he could make contact.

  “Oh, dear. You’re nervous.” Trudy was watching Elizabeth intently, frowning. “Bess, Major isn’t vicious. Naughty, yes, but he’s just trying to be your friend.”

  “I don’t think he likes me at all. The barking, the jumping . . .”

  “You don’t know dogs, do you? I’m so sorry I didn’t notice sooner,” Trudy said as she gave Elizabeth’s arm a comforting pat. “I’ll make him mind his manners and take care that he doesn’t frighten you from now on.”

  The childhood memory flooded back. The dog was black and shaggy, and even though it had probably weighed no more than thirty pounds and was still a puppy, she recalled it as a drooling, snarling beast that towered over her. It had run from the neighboring yard into theirs and tackled her, pinning her down beneath dirty paws and licking her face with a glee that she misinterpreted as menace. She screamed for help, and her father came out of the house and scolded her for being afraid. “It’s just a puppy,” he’d said. “You’re bigger and smarter. Push it off you.” He’d stood beside her as she struggled to throw the wiggling dog away, not offering any help as she wrestled with it. Once she was finally free he’d grabbed the dog by the collar. “Never be afraid of something you have the power to control,” he’d said over his shoulder as he led it back across the yard.

  She was seven.

  Elizabeth hated feeling like the helpless little girl in need of protection. “No, it’s okay. I’m not scared,” she protested weakly.

  “Never you mind. Now come inside, the tea is ready.” Trudy whistled quietly and Major fell in step beside her without a backward glance at Elizabeth.

  Rowan was sitting at the cozy kitchen table with three robin’s-egg-blue teacups in front of him. They looked perfect on the rustic table and Elizabeth wondered if it would be rude to snap a quick photo of them. Artfully photographed hot beverages were always on-brand.

  “Well!” he said brightly. “And how was Harriet? Looks like you found something for our little party.” He gestured at her bag from the Siren.

  “She knows her merchandise,” Elizabeth replied. “The dress isn’t my usual style, but it should work. It’s—”

  “Don’t tell us!” Trudy interrupted, waving her hands at Elizabeth. “We’ll have an unveiling the night of the party.” She sat down across from Rowan and arranged her burnt-orange shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.

  “Sit,” Rowan said, pulling out a chair for her. “It’s time for us to have the chat.”

  Elizabeth felt a mix of curiosity and dread over what they were about to reveal. Who was to blame for the Barnes civil war? It had to be her father. She was sure he’d said or done something to cause the lifelong rift. She wrapped her hands around the warm teacup and waited for Rowan to begin.

  He took his time, stirring and blowing on his tea. His mannerisms were just like her father’s: triple-tapping the spoon on the edge of the cup, the first tentative sip that bordered on a slurp. Elizabeth wondered if the rituals went back a generation, picked up from their father. He was her blood, and even though she barely knew Rowan, there was a familiarity that made it easy for her to feel comfortable around him.
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  “Bess, this isn’t easy for me to talk about, because it paints me in a rather unflattering light.” He ran his thumb along his cup’s handle and paused, as if summoning the courage to begin. He cleared his throat and the words came out quickly.

  “Your father and I loved one another, but we also hated one another, as brothers do. Clive and I competed at everything. Sport, school, friends—no matter what it was, we were vying with one another, each trying to best the other. Even when it came to family. Every child likes to think that he’s his parents’ favorite, yes?” Rowan took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He continued in a soft voice. “This pains me to say, Bess. I know our parents favored me. We all knew it. Clive called me ‘Golden Boy,’ and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. He tried so hard to prove his worth to them, but it was clear that no matter what he did, he’d always come in second place.”

  “It happens with boys close in age,” Trudy added. “But your father wasn’t outwardly bitter about it. He accepted it and continued to try to best Rowan at every turn.”

  “And now for the part of the story that reflects the ugly core of me, the part I’m embarrassed to admit.” Rowan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he kept his eyes downcast. “I enjoyed the competition. I liked seeing him lose. I wanted to be better than him, and for him to know it. I’m not proud of that side of me. Do you think I’m a terrible person, Bess?”

  She shook her head. How could petty boyhood squabbles change her impression of him? So far he’d been nothing but kind. Plus she knew firsthand how cold and distant her father could be.

  Rowan paused and looked off into the distance for so long that Elizabeth thought the story was over. The only sound in the room was the grandfather clock ticking off every uncomfortable minute. Trudy gave his arm a gentle squeeze, which broke through his trance.