Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  When Collins sees me, he smiles and heads over to greet me. We shake hands and pat each other’s backs—nothing overly sentimental, but I know it’s his way of letting me know he’s happy to see me.

  “You look well,” he says, inspecting me from every angle. “Though that hair could use a good trim.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry, I plan on getting it cut before tonight. Has my grandmother started to allow St. Michael’s here on the weekends as well?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the music.

  Collins beams. “No. That’s—”

  “Nicky! We didn’t expect you until this evening.”

  I glance over in time to see my grandmother coming in through the back door of the kitchen, the one that leads straight out to the gardens so Chef has easy access to fresh vegetables. She’s wearing a loose kaftan and a large sunhat with yellow ribbons dangling down off each side, and her basket is filled with freshly cut roses. She drops them on the prep table nearest me and comes close, kissing both of my cheeks before stepping back and giving me an approving once-over.

  “That hair needs a trim.”

  Collins clears his throat, and I roll my eyes.

  “Yes, I’m aware. Have no fear, I’ll make it to the barber before tonight.”

  “Stay for tea?” she asks, already motioning for it to be made up.

  “They’re expecting me at the yacht club.”

  She frowns. “But you’ve only just arrived.”

  “I haven’t sailed in months. Don’t make me choose between you and Carina.”

  “So does that mean we’ll miss you at lunch as well?”

  “Don’t pout. I’ve made it in time for your ball. You should be grateful.”

  “Grateful! To see my own grandson?”

  She looks to Collins for help, but he pretends to inspect the menu in his hand.

  “Hurry off then,” she says, swatting me with one of her gardening gloves. “Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll return. I expect you to be on time tonight. No carousing with Rhett at the club.”

  I smirk before leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek in farewell. “No promises.”

  She throws up her hands in despair, but we both know I’ll be there, with my hair cut and dressed to the nines, just as she’s asked. I’ve always had a soft spot for my grandmother, and she takes advantage of it every chance she gets.

  * * *

  The marina at the yacht club is filled with sailboats coming out of shipyard storage for the summer. I called yesterday morning and let the staff know of my arrival, so I’m not surprised to see Carina’s red and blue striped hull glistening in the sunlight out on the water. I’ve brought extra gear with me—a jacket and hat—knowing once I’m out on the water, the wind will pick up even more. Though we’re creeping into May, the summer heat hasn’t completely taken over. The sun is shining overhead, though, and that’s enough to tempt me out onto the water.

  Rhett is waiting for me on the dock. He spots me as I walk down the hill toward him, waving his hand up and over his head in a goofy gesture. As if I can’t spot his ridiculous orange jacket from a mile away. He’s worn it since college.

  “You’re late!” he shouts.

  “I had to stop and grab a sandwich at Harvest Market.”

  “Chef kick you out of the kitchen?” He laughs.

  “They’re in full swing for tonight. Apparently, they couldn’t spare a thing.”

  He rubs his hands together, creating friction. “Good—that’ll mean more for me later. You know I haven’t eaten for two days leading up to tonight? I’ve missed the food at your grandmother’s house.”

  I laugh and toss him a disbelieving glare.

  The moment I reach him on the dock, we both get to work preparing Carina for a trip through Brenton Cove and down to Pirate Cave. It’s a short journey by our standards, but I promised my grandmother I’d be on time tonight, and it’ll take us a while to rig the boat.

  We talk as we work. He and I have been sailing together since middle school, for fun and for sport, so at this point, we’re two minds working together as one.

  I ask him about his work in Boston, knowing full well he’s as busy as I am, though he’s in finance, not law.

  He’s considering striking out on his own, starting his own hedge fund.

  “You’ll help me set it up, won’t you?”

  I laugh. “You and I both know that’s not my specialty.”

  “Aw c’mon, all that legalese…” He groans. “You know I’m only good with numbers.”

  I also know he has more than enough money in his trust fund to hire a good team of lawyers, so no, I don’t let his moaning persuade me.

  “How did everything shake out with Michael Lewis, by the way? Last time we talked, it had started to blow over.”

  “It has, largely, though my main focus is the new employee my grandmother hired.”

  “The girl?”

  I pause mid-knot and glance up at him. “What do you mean ‘the girl’?”

  “The girl your grandmother has been parading around town—everyone’s confused about who she is. My mom swears she’s one of your grandmother’s employees, but there are rumors she’s some long-lost relative too. I was going to ask you about it.”

  I curse under my breath.

  “I heard she’s going tonight. My mom mentioned it.”

  “Going tonight? To the ball? Why on earth would she do that?”

  He shrugs. “Hell if I know. I’m just the messenger—don’t shoot me.”

  What a mess.

  I’d hoped my grandmother would use common sense. I’d hoped Maren would be long gone by now. I did exactly as I promised. As soon as I got off the phone with my grandmother two weeks ago, I checked into Maren like my grandmother should have done before hiring her. First, I called her last employer, Holly Home, for a reference.

  Her manager there had quite a lot to say about her.

  “I hate to bring it up. Sure, she was a nice enough girl, but I think you should know…one of our residents had their wedding ring stolen recently. I had two employees confirm that they saw Maren with the ring, though Maren denies taking it. Police were involved. An investigation was being prepared, but then our resident insisted on dropping the case. I think she was worried she’d get Maren in trouble, but if you ask me, she deserves to face the consequences of her actions. Can you imagine someone cruel enough to target the elderly?”

  Then she continued, “Not to mention the fact that she just up and left us high and dry. No two-week notice, nothing. We’re still short-staffed because of her, and if you ask me, her quick departure solidifies her guilt in my book.”

  I thanked her for her time and hung up, staring at my phone, sick to my stomach.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, my investigator dug into Maren’s past and found that she has a criminal record for possession of a controlled substance. Her felony sentence means it was a Schedule I or II drug, something like ecstasy, cocaine, or oxycodone.

  Worse, I can’t be certain that’s all she’s done. If she’s smart, she had her juvenile record expunged when she turned eighteen, but other charges or not, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need there to be more damning evidence against her—it’s clear that she shouldn’t be at Rosethorn. My grandmother has always had a weakness for wounded birds, and maybe I’d be willing to give her a chance too if not for the recent theft suspicions and the fact that we’re still dealing with the ramifications of Michael Lewis. He was able to steal from my grandmother without her even noticing, and my grandmother barely tolerated him. From what I’ve heard, my grandmother really likes Maren, and that’s why I’m even more concerned. This won’t end well for her.

  I talked to my grandmother this week about Maren. Again. I told her all about the theft accusations and her criminal record over the phone, and I demanded that she act accordingly in firing Maren. I thought she had, but apparently I was wrong.

  I guess that responsibility falls at my feet.


  9

  Maren

  I know I should be slightly offended by Cornelia’s motive for inviting me to tonight’s ball. I know, despite the fact that I’m beginning to establish a role for myself at Rosethorn, I’m still first and foremost a charity case to her. I just can’t seem to let that stop me from feeling like a princess as I stand in front of a full-length mirror, twisting this way and that so I can see the overall effect of my gown.

  Vivien knows what she’s doing.

  When I tried this dress on a week ago, it seemed all wrong, too long and too tight in the chest yet gaping at the waist. Now, it’s a glove, wrapped around me so well I might never take it off.

  The lace is even prettier than I remember, and the corset bodice shows off my figure in a way that makes me want to blush. The heart-shaped neckline dips down almost too low, revealing more than a hint of cleavage, but Rita assured me while she was zipping me into it that it’s expected. I’ll have to take her word for it because I have nothing else to wear.

  The dress is off the shoulder and styled so that straps of ruched fabric drape loosely around each of my upper arms. They don’t actually hold the dress up at all, but they give it a romantic effect.

  My hair is parted to the side and hanging down in soft waves. My makeup is heavier around the eyes and darker on my lips, accentuating every feature I have to offer. I smile at myself as I hear footsteps approaching out in the hall. Sure, I might be a charity case, but for tonight at least, I don’t look like one.

  Cornelia has spared no expense for the ball. As I walk down the central staircase with my arm looped through hers, I look down at the party in amazement. The entry foyer is already overflowing with guests. As requested, all the women are wearing white, but I’m surprised to find so many varying shades, ranging all the way from blinding snow to dark creams. The men are in black tie, all of them masked.

  Cornelia looks beautiful tonight in a satin dress beneath a coordinating floor-length satin jacket. The shades of white are off by a hair—the jacket darker than the dress—so that each contrasts perfectly against the other. Around her neck, she’s wearing an ornate diamond necklace with a large round pendant at its center. It matches the smaller-scale version around my neck, on loan for the night.

  Cornelia lays her hand over mine and leads me forward into the crush of people. Immediately, guests vie for her attention so they can thank her for their invitations. She introduces me to them all as Maren Mitchell, her ward, and people immediately take interest.

  “Wonderful!” one man says with an exuberant handshake. “Are you from the New York Mitchells? Or the Washington arm of the family?”

  “Oh, um, neither,” I reply, smiling.

  “Maren, come along,” Cornelia says, pulling me along after her. “George, it was good to see you!”

  No one gets more than a few moments with her, which means no one gets more than a few moments with me either. They try their best to use their time wisely, though, asking me a slew of personal questions: my age, alma mater, genetic makeup (I wish I were kidding). “It’s just that you have such wonderful cheekbones,” one woman says, actually touching my face.

  But Cornelia never lets me stand there long enough to answer any of their probing questions. I don’t have an alma mater because I barely graduated high school! Good talking to you though!

  Eventually, we make our way to the ballroom, where a string quartet is stationed in the corner, playing music for all the guests. No one is dancing yet, though it looks like it might take place later. Why else would they have set up the tables only on the perimeter of the room?

  Collins is standing at the threshold of the grand space. When he sees us, Cornelia nods, and suddenly he’s announcing our entry to everyone there.

  “Mrs. Cornelia Cromwell and her guest, Ms. Maren Mitchell.”

  I feel flustered by the amount of attention aimed at us. Curious stares follow us as we walk through the center of the room. I glance over to Cornelia and see her chin lifted in confidence, so I try to mimic the same posture, hoping it’ll have the same effect on my appearance. Doubtful.

  We reach a small table in the back corner of the ballroom and Bruce rushes forward to pull Cornelia’s seat out for her.

  “Maren, I’m parched. Would you mind grabbing us some refreshments from the table over there? Bring something sweet with you as well. I skipped dinner.”

  She points me in the direction of a table marked by a tower constructed out of hundreds of champagne glasses rising toward the ceiling. It has to be at least six feet tall. I study it as I approach, confused about how it will stay standing through the night if guests retrieve glasses to drink. It’s a catastrophe waiting to happen, but the mystery is solved when I spot another batch of pre-filled glasses sitting around an ice sculpture and realize the tower is just for show.

  I grab two then slowly peruse the selection of food surrounding the champagne tower. There are layers upon layers of options served in small bite-size portions, each with little placards perched in front bearing the names of the dishes: pork rillettes, Provençal vegetable tarts, tartes flambées, cheddar gougères, zucchini-tomato verrines, and chicken liver pâté. I have no idea what Cornelia would want, so when I see another guest pick up one of the trays off the table and walk off with it, I do the same, adding the glasses of champagne on top so I don’t drop them. It’s not until I’m halfway across the ballroom and drawing not just curious stares but obvious laughter as well that I realize I might not have done the right thing.

  Cornelia’s eyes widen when she sees me approaching.

  “Bruce, take that from Maren, would you, please?”

  He rushes forward and takes the tray, handing it off to a man who dashes over, apologizing for the misunderstanding. He’s dressed just like the guest I saw back at the table and I now realize, with reddening cheeks, that they’re dressed in uniform. They’re working the event, hence why they’re carrying the trays.

  My blush deepens when I see Cornelia is now sitting with two guests who’ve had front-row seats to my mistake.

  The woman on Cornelia’s left is older and impeccably dressed, and the girl sitting beside her is closer to my age, tilting her head and studying me like I’m an animal in a zoo.

  “I admire your method, child,” the older woman says. “There’ve been plenty of times I’ve been at parties like this, practically starved because no one has made it around to my table with some tasty morsel for me to eat. Maybe next time I’ll take a tray for myself too.”

  I try to force a smile. She’s being nice, after all, trying to make me feel better, but I can still hear the people laughing behind me and I have the sudden urge to walk right out the door to my right and never return.

  “Don’t worry about that silliness, Maren. I’ve seen people do far worse at parties like this,” Cornelia assures me. “And anyway, I have introductions to make. This is Lydia Pruitt, my dearest friend, and her granddaughter, Victoria.”

  Lydia extends her hand for me, palm down, and I know now, from Cornelia’s instruction, that I’m supposed to delicately shake it without gripping it too hard. Her granddaughter, Victoria, bows her head in greeting without extending her hand then pats the chair beside her.

  “Sit down by me?”

  I do, instantly, if only to escape the stares at my back.

  Victoria smiles and leans closer. “You have nothing to worry about. At my coming out ball, I tripped going down the stairs after my introduction. My mother was so horrified, she stormed out of the room crying. It was a sight to behold, and much worse than what you just did, I promise.”

  I force a smile, more than a little bit intimidated by her.

  Victoria belongs in this ballroom. Everything about her is refined and cultivated. She has the fine bone features of a bird. Even sitting down, I can tell she’s tall and impossibly thin, with dark brown hair and brows that stand out against pale ivory skin. Her loose-fitting beaded gown looks vintage, and so does her hairstyle.

  She s
miles wider, and I realize I’ve been studying her too closely.

  I look away.

  “You can call me Tori. All my friends do.”

  I realize I haven’t contributed much to the conversation yet, so I turn back to her. “Did you grow up here in Newport?”

  She shrugs, reaching for her champagne glass. “Here and there. My family spent the summers here and the winters in the Caribbean. My boarding school was in Connecticut and my father lived mainly in Tokyo, for business, so I’d visit him there every so often as well. What about you?”

  I close my mouth, which dropped open midway through her answer. “I grew up in Providence mainly.”

  “So then you aren’t far from home.”

  “No, not at all.”

  Silence fills the gap between us and then she leans in close. “I feel like I should tell you that Cornelia has told me a bit about you.” I jerk my attention back to her in alarm, and she holds her hand out to touch my shoulder. “Nothing too personal, just that you might have had a difficult time recently, and well, I just wanted to say I can be a good friend. I’m told I’m a good listener.”

  I have no reply to this, mostly because it’s not what I was expecting her to say.

  This woman with her gentle features and luxurious upbringing has every right to be a snooty asshole, and yet she’s offering me friendship. Our eyes meet, and I see something complicated lurking behind the surface. Something…sad, I think. Her eyes seem to implore me to take her up on her offer.

  “I’d really like that.”

  She grins. “Good. Do you play tennis?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m not so good. My mother didn’t want me playing as a child because she was worried it would interfere with my posture. I have no idea where she got that notion, but now I’m taking lessons at the club, and you could join me if you’d like. This Tuesday?”