I bite back a less-than-polite response. My smile feels rigid on my face, more grimace than grin, but I maintain it anyway. Blair and Vincent drilled the importance of good manners into me from the time I could hold my head upright.
Mrs. Granger walks in a slow orbit around the atrium, mentally indexing every dirty surface and streaked pane. When her path crosses back to mine, she pauses only long enough to wrinkle her nose at my messy attire. “Will you be wanting coffee once you’ve dressed?”
“More than likely.”
“I’ll put on a pot. One would assume the kitchen is in as thorough a need of scrubbing as the foyer…”
“One can only assume.”
“Then I won’t dally. There’s much to be done. But never fear, Miss Valentine, I will have Cormorant House restored to its former glory in no time at all.”
This house holds no glory, I want to tell her.Only pain.
I don’t bother. I merely smile my rigid smile as, gripping her purse tighter, she pivots on her kitten heels and walks out of the room with the confidence of someone who’s been here a thousand times. Clearly, she doesn’t need — or want — a tour of the house. I stand alone for a moment after her footsteps have faded out of range, as caught in my own thoughts as the dust motes suspended in sunbeams all around me.
Agatha Weatherby Granger is no Flora Reyes, that much is certain. Five minutes in her presence made it clear she’s about as maternal as a feral cat from the Gloucester fish docks. She will not fold me in her arms after a long day, or hum Spanish lullabies under her breath while she goes about her work, or make me my favorite chicken stew when I’m under the weather. She will not take one look at me and know, without words, how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, and exactly how to fix it.
She will not be the mother I never had.
This feels intentional — a calculated move on Blair and Vincent’s part, overcorrecting for what I’m sure they perceive as a mistake. I can almost hear their conversation playing out inside my head.
Josephine was far too attached to our previous help. Make sure to get someone cold as ice this time around, dear. Proper decorum must be maintained at Cormorant House.
Blinking dust out of my eyes — not tears, surely, for I have no real reason to be crying — I turn and head upstairs to get dressed for the day.
* * *
Leaving Mrs. Granger to her tasks without interference, I meander down the lawn toward the ocean, my leather flip-flops smacking lightly against my soles with each step. My pace falters as I round the final bend and the boathouse comes into view. I stop dead in my tracks at the sight. It’s beautiful as ever — an architectural feat of stone hanging out over the water, housing my father’s Hinckley. But I can’t see the beauty in it anymore. All I can see are the ghosts of my past.
Two ten-year-olds sitting side-by-side up in the rafters, legs swinging as they pick out starry constellations in the night sky.
Those three bright ones are Orion’s Belt, Jo. Do you see them?
Two twelve-year-olds learning to tie bowline knots with frayed dock lines.
Pretend your rope is a rabbit, Archer. Through the hole, around the tree, back down the hole. Pull tight!
Two seventeen-year-olds fumbling for buttons and belt buckles in the darkness, limbs shaky with lust.
This might hurt, Jo,the boy warns softly.If it does, just tell me to stop.
I trust you, Archer,the girl whispers back.
God, what a lovestruck fool I was. I handed Archer Reyes everything on a silver platter — not just my body or my virginity, but my brimming, beating heart. And he happily took it all… only to disappear from my life the very next morning with no more than a halfhearted goodbye scrawled in a letter he wasn’t even man enough to give me himself.
Before I left for Switzerland last summer, I tore that letter to shreds and dropped it into the ocean, piece by piece. Watched the waves swallow it whole, disintegrate it into pulp. I couldn’t bear to keep it — I knew if I did, I’d just wind up reading it over and over again, tracing the lopsided letters of his penmanship, seeking hidden meanings amidst his bland rejections.
Unfortunately, destroying the note didn’t make a damn bit of difference in the end. His words are burned forever in my brain, a painful brand I cannot erase. They play across my memory in a relentless stream.
Dear Jo,he wrote, with a stiff formality reserved for obligatory pen pals and awkward acquaintances.I thought it would be easier to put everything down on paper, so there’s no confusion.
My pulse picks up speed, thudding dangerously fast as more words stream through my mind.
As soon as I woke up the next morning, I realized we’d made a terrible mistake.
I’m sure you realized it, too.
I shake my head vigorously, trying in vain to clear it. Trying to stop the words, but they keep coming.