All That Really Matters

by Nicole Deese

  Glo pressed both palms on the counter, bent at the waist, and belted out a laugh I wished I could record as a cure for depression. “Molly, some days my heart is full of eye rolls, too, and I’ve been working with these types of kids longer than you’ve been alive. Just keep showing up. That’s the only difference between a good and not-so-good mentor. Sasha will either let you in, or she won’t. The choice is hers to make.”

  As she rolled the tamales into a tight funnel-like wrap, showing me how to tuck in the edges and stack them into a pot I’d steam them in at home, I thought about her words, about all the time she had invested here and elsewhere. “Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll keep showing up.” Eye rolls and all.

  “Good. Because if you think dealing with some teenage angst is bad, then you obviously haven’t dealt with a disappointed Silas. And I can tell you with great certainty, your absence here would cause quite a stir.”

  This time, my neck flushed for a completely different reason. A reason that had me counting down the minutes until he would arrive at my house in T minus two hours.

  As he texted he was on his way, a part of me expected to see Silas a bit off his game tonight. It had been a long week, and dealing with the consequences of damaged property on a college campus on a Friday afternoon was hardly the best start to a weekend. But when Silas arrived, his disposition looked anything but stressed. He actually looked . . . invigorated.

  “For you,” he said as he handed me a summer bouquet that could have graced the cover of a Martha Stewart Living magazine. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner.”

  I lowered the billowy bunch of wildflowers and smiled over the top of them. “Thank you for being my guest. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Ice water? Tea? Sparkling water, soda?”

  “I’m good at the moment.” Silas strode inside with a confidence I’d come to revere, unapologetic and unhurried. My home wasn’t overly spacious or breathtaking the way Fir Crest Manor was, but it also wasn’t a minimalist’s dream like Silas’s one-story rambler. My fully restored 1955 craftsman-style bungalow, nestled in a quiet neighborhood renowned for its large lot sizes and mature fir trees, was somewhere in between. The recent remodel had kept its vintage appeal, displaying splashes of femininity and texture, pillow-soft nooks and well-lit reading corners. Custom, sophisticated artwork hung purposefully throughout.

  I loved it.

  I’d poured paycheck after paycheck into fixing up each room, paying contractors and designers and even Miles at times—with fresh apple fritters from our favorite bakery, naturally—for every eye-catching improvement. But for as homey as I’d made it look in all the perfectly filtered photos I’d posted, I couldn’t manufacture good company to enjoy it with me.

  And I certainly couldn’t manufacture whatever feeling I was experiencing now as Silas’s gaze shone with the kind of admiration I’d been searching for my whole life long.

  “Somehow, your home is even more Molly-like than I realized possible. It’s beautiful.”

  “Would you like a quick tour? We have approximately”—I glanced at the timer for steaming the tamales—“twenty-two minutes before dinner is ready, though I do still need to make the pico and guacamole.”

  “I’m happy to help with either of those. Whatever you’re cooking in there smells delicious.”

  Good! That meant he still hadn’t a clue what Glo and I had been up to in the kitchen this afternoon.

  I filled a vase with water and set it on the farmhouse dining table, then added the flowers he’d brought, a centerpiece I’d likely move from room to room to get the most enjoyment from them. With an uncontainable giddiness I hadn’t felt since I was an adolescent, I reached out and slipped my hand into Silas’s. Quite the novelty, considering we’d stuck to the parameters of the no-touching agreement for the last week. But there was no such agreement here. “Can I tell you something a little bit outrageous?”

  “A little bit outrageous,” he repeated cheekily. “From you? Always.”

  “So this one time, I was asked to go on this super strict diet for a skincare campaign. It was only a seven-day plan, but the options of the things I couldn’t eat outnumbered the things I could eat nearly twenty to one.”

  “That does sound outrageous.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not the outrageous part yet. The thing is, I’d actually been fairly content with the food on my plan until I saw the giant list of the foods I couldn’t eat printed out in black and white. It about drove me crazy. I started having these forbidden food fantasies over things I’d never once cared for, like dried fruit and Wasa crackers. I mean, really, who has fantasies about Wasa crackers?”

  Silas laughed. “I’m not even sure what a Wasa cracker is. Is that the outrageous part?”

  I huffed an exasperated sigh as Silas’s grin stretched wider. “No, Silas, the outrageous part is still coming. Don’t rush it. Anyway, when I could finally eat those pre-diet foods again on day eight, it was so disappointing. They tasted nothing like the fantasy in my head.” I looked down at our joined hands. “All week long at the manor, whenever I saw you walk by my office or enter a room I was in, all I could think about was how much I wanted to reach out for your hand—and just so you know, I’ve never wanted to hold a hand more in my entire life than in these last several days. But there was also this tiny part of me that worried it might be like my Wasa cracker and dried fruit experiment. That touching you again wouldn’t possibly be able to measure up to the way I’d remembered it.” I blinked up at him. “But it’s even better. And that, Silas, is the little bit outrageous part.”

  With a grin brimming with amusement and something I couldn’t quite interpret, Silas walked me toward him, tugging at our joined hands until our noses were only inches apart as he tilted his mouth to mine. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who’s been counting down the hours to tonight.” His minty kiss was light against my lips, hinting at promises and secrets yet to discover. I logged the moment away in my memory for safekeeping. Something to hold on to when we weren’t allowed to hold on to each other. “We should probably take that tour.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded, unwilling to unlace our fingers as I guided him out of the dining room on unstable legs. “Right this way, Duke.”

  Though I hadn’t left a single inch of my twenty-six-hundred-square-foot house out of the tour, Silas had been most intrigued by my work studio. He’d walked the length of it, taking in my camera equipment and the built-in shelves heavy with products—both reviewed and those still to be reviewed. I didn’t miss the way he noted the neglected table in the corner full of mailer boxes I’d yet to go through this week. Perhaps a little too symbolic of my Makeup Matters with Molly life as of late.

  “So this is where the influencing magic happens,” Silas mused as sunlight beamed through the large picture windows overlooking my covered front porch. When I was in active filming mode, those windows remained fully draped to block out unwanted shadows, but their current wide-open status was yet another indication of how behind I was on my summer schedule. A fact Rosalyn reminded me of often. You are currently not meeting the minimum requirements of posting on Makeup Matters with Molly. Mr. Carrington has hired a ghost poster who will be posting as you twice a day. As per your contract, you are expected to have at least one video series each week and two livestreams. If these requirements are not met . . .

  “Yes,” I said, cutting off the spiraling thought trail with a slow spin in the middle of the studio. “This is it.”

  Perhaps Silas detected the disenchantment in my voice, or perhaps he wasn’t nearly as interested in the dusty monitor he’d been staring at, but whatever the case, his face had morphed from curious to concerned. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.” A lie. There was an imposter posting as me because I was failing at a brand I’d started. A brand that bore my given name. “I just haven’t been in here as much as I usually am.”

  Instead of easing the crinkle in his brow, my response had intensified
it. “Molly, if I’ve overtaxed you with responsibilities at the manor, please know you can pull back at any time—”

  “You haven’t overtaxed me. I’ve enjoyed it—being there. With you and the residents and Glo and Clara.” I’d rather be there in all the hustle and bustle and high drama of life than here, in the incessant silence was what I didn’t say out loud but was sure he’d read on my face. That truth seemed to sing from every pore of my body as of late. When I hummed in the shower, when I took spontaneous coffee breaks in the west garden with Glo, when I hung out with the residents in the lobby until their dinner chores began. I arrived home in the evenings tired in a way I hadn’t been tired in years. From real-life interactions and not just from the constant eyestrain of being on and off screens for sixteen hours a day. And somehow, while I was at Fir Crest Manor, the absence of Val and the constant conversation thread we once shared was just a little more manageable than when I was sitting alone in my studio. “I just need to find a new groove is all. And I will. This happens from time to time.”

  Only it had never happened to me. Not since I first started filming in my kitchen pantry. The drive for more followers, more success, more fame and sponsors had always been motivation enough. And it just wasn’t now. Not even a little bit.

  Silas didn’t seem to believe me any more than I believed myself, but thankfully he only recaptured my hand and asked if he could help make the pico de gallo. My career goals might be suffering, but at least tonight my personal goals were soaring, starting with chopping onions next to a sexy, salsa-making Silas and comparing our guacamole techniques. His won by a landslide. The man knew how to twist a lime.

  With much argument from Silas, I made him leave the kitchen and go sit at the table while I served the surprise tamales on a platter. My stomach fluttered with nerves and exhilaration as I arranged them. “Ready? Close your eyes.”

  I could hear him laugh from the dining room as I carried the porcelain platter from the kitchen to where he waited, but he’d obeyed. His eyes were closed. I set the meal down in front of him, Glo’s perfectly tied tamales next to my slightly less than perfectly tied ones. But goodness, their aroma was nothing short of delectable.

  “Okay, so before you open your eyes, you should know this was a joint effort. So I hope it’s right. Okay, you can—no, wait! Hold that thought.” I ran back to the fridge and searched for what I was missing on the table.

  “You’re killing me, Molly.”

  “Just a sec!” I popped the cap off the glass bottle of Coke and set it next to his plate. “All right, now. Now you can open your eyes.”

  Silas did, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was happy or upset. He blinked at the steaming mountain of tamales in front of him. “You made . . . you made me tamales?”

  “With Glo’s help. She taught me. We holed up in the kitchen while you were dealing with Devon and the parking meter. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the story you told me about that little place in Mexico City, the one you visited with your dad. I know I can’t possibly replicate what you had there with him, but I wanted to make something special for you anyway.”

  “You’ve more than achieved that; I promise.” The conviction in his voice caused my breath to hitch and my chest to swell. “Thank you, Molly. This is . . . it’s . . .” His gorgeous brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s just a little bit outrageous.”

  Suddenly, there was no better compliment to receive in all the world.

  28

  Molly

  Somehow nearly three weeks had passed since our dart-throwing date. And I was certain I hadn’t ever smiled more in my life than I had when I was with Silas, which was often, considering I’d basically commandeered the once makeshift office across the hall from him into my all-the-time office.

  But today wasn’t about office work at all—it was about makeovers and pampering and watching movies with my favorite young ladies. Upon delivering a suitcase of full-size hair and makeup products to the girls’ cottage, along with a closet’s worth of selected outfits for them to try on, I was now on the hunt for some wildflowers in the west garden. In addition to the treat tray I’d arranged on the counter, I wanted to find something fresh and pretty to brighten up the cottage.

  But instead, I found something else entirely.

  The garden shed door, which was usually latched in the top right corner by a padlock, was ajar.

  I looked behind me, in case I’d missed seeing some groundskeeper while I was trying to roll my gigantic suitcase over the grass. But, alas, there were no groundskeepers at present, because there was no budget for them. I knew this well, as I’d had to hire a special crew for The Event.

  I approached cautiously.

  “Hello?” I had no idea why I said it as I pushed the shed door open. It wasn’t like I thought someone was living in there and would invite me inside for tea and a chat.

  But as it turned out . . . someone had been living in there. By the looks of it, two somebodies.

  I gasped at the pillows and the blankets and then . . . oh, dear heavens.

  An open box of condoms.

  I suddenly felt woozy and sick to my stomach. Not at all like how I’d imagined a detective on True Crimes would feel after stumbling upon such a scene. For all my years obsessing over Nancy Drew and wishing my life held the same kind of adventure, I certainly did not feel that way now. If I had the option to unsee this, to go back five minutes and five hundred steps ago to where my biggest concern involved making the cottage’s countertop party pretty with flowers and decorations, I’d choose it in a heartbeat. Because whoever was involved here, they had not only broken their commitment to the house but also endangered their place in the program.

  And that was a reality too heavy to carry alone.

  I slipped my phone out of my pocket and called Silas. He’d know what to do.

  He didn’t pick up. Instead, he sent an immediate text.

  The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

  Still with Diego and Alex at the mechanic shop. Everything okay?

  Oh, that’s right. Today was the final exam for their certification program.

  I snapped a picture of the love shack and sent it off to him.

  Molly

  Discovered this just now. In the garden shed.

  Why was it that time never moved slower than when you were waiting on a critical text message to arrive? I turned on my phone flashlight, scanning the darkened interior for more clues. With an ever-sinking heart, I pinched my lips together and searched for something identifiable.

  The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

  Okay. I’ll deal with it when I get back. There’s a protocol we need to follow.

  Molly

  Want me to find Glo? I can be discreet.

  The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

  No, I’ll talk with her when I’m back.

  Molly

  So what should I do in the meantime?

  Perhaps instead of makeovers, we could sit around in a circle and talk about how secrets and lies hurt people and then maybe one of the girls would start to cry and—

  The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

  Nothing.

  Molly

  Wait . . . it seems like you just told me to do nothing about this?

  The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

  I can’t text right now. Diego is up. We’ll talk tonight. Just leave it for now.

  I reread his response several times over, and though I didn’t want them to, his texts bothered me. He and Glo weren’t the only ones who cared about the shenanigans that went on around the manor. Or the residents who lived in it for that matter. I’d practically become a part-time resident myself over the last few months. After all, I was here on the grounds constantly, rubbing elbows with everyone in the house multiple times a day. I had finally started to believe I was done having to prove myself to Silas.

  I guess not.

  The thought stung. It more than stung, actually.

  As I turned to exit the shed, my ga
ze snagged on a lidded container shoved in a shadowed corner. I swallowed down the rising bile in my throat, because surely the answer I dreaded most was inside. I pried off the thick plastic lid and stared at a sea of random electronics: laptops, iPads, cords, earbuds. I reached into the box to shift the contents and then immediately squeezed my eyes closed as realization struck hard. There was nothing random about the findings in this box.

  The glint of a necklace with a gold heart pendant was the first item to confirm my suspicion. And then a pair of name brand red flats. And then a pair of stud sapphire earrings that Wren had recently reported missing. On the fridge. In the Lavender Cottage.

  Which was where most of these items had been listed.

  This container was filled with the spoils of a lost-and-found list I’d read a dozen times over, one I’d begged the girls to copy onto the cute chalkboard I’d hung in the living room a month ago. One I’d even contemplated adding my Gucci sunglasses to several days ago, though I’d convinced myself I’d simply misplaced them in the manor somewhere. But apparently, they’d been misplaced for me, by a housemate—or a pair of housemates, I couldn’t be sure.

  If I had to guess, this box, with all its stolen contents, was likely to be sold to the highest bidder. A crime not even the most gracious program director in the world would be able to overlook. With shaky fingers, I slid my sunglasses atop my head, sealed the lid closed, and latched the shed door behind me, praying my hunch was wrong about who might be behind such an act of deception.

  As I waited for the girls to file in from the main house with Glo, I kept my hands busy in the cottage—fixing and primping and cleaning and displaying—though my mind was far from the Glam Night I’d promised to deliver tonight. How could it not be, when a new piece of evidence was seared into my memory as if with a branding iron?

  Out of the twelve ladies living in the cottage, ten names had been listed on the fridge, each with at least one complaint of a misplaced or missing item jotted in black. And of the two unlisted ladies, one of them was Monica.