by Grey, R. S.
My attention is on my place setting as I will my heart to slow down.
“Yes.”
One word from him and my blood threatens to burst through my veins. I can’t look up despite feeling everyone’s gaze on me.
Collins and Bruce save the day with offerings of wine and champagne. Nicholas asks for a finger of whiskey, and I sit there, numb.
“And for you, ma’am?” Bruce asks.
His voice shocks me out of my stupor.
“Oh, water is fine. Thank you.”
I don’t trust myself with anything else.
“Tell me more about your upbringing, Maren,” Dr. Reynolds goads. “I’m curious. What school did you attend in Providence?”
“I moved schools a few times,” I say with a tight smile, hoping someone will pick up the conversation and run with it.
Alas, Lydia pipes up. “St. Andrew’s is in Providence—didn’t you have a friend who went there?” she asks Tori.
“Cassie, yes. She liked it a lot.”
“I didn’t attend St. Andrew’s,” I say, putting the question to rest. “Or any other private school, for that matter.”
The table goes silent.
“And what about your parents?” Dr. Reynolds presses. “Did they not value your education?”
I laugh at the ridiculous question but then restrain myself once I see she’s absolutely serious. “Of course they did. They simply couldn’t afford to send me to any of those schools.”
“What do they do for a living?” Lydia asks.
Had I known I’d be on the receiving end of 21 questions, I wouldn’t have come down for dinner. Still, I force myself to answer, not wanting to offend Cornelia’s guests. Besides, they’re only curious. I would be too. It’s obvious I’m the odd man out in this room.
“My parents were bohemians, I guess you could say. My mother was a writer, though she never had anything published, and my father was a musician. Between them, I don’t think they had two nickels to rub together. I learned from them, though—more than I ever did at school. We were one of those odd families that didn’t have a TV at home. Looking back, they probably couldn’t afford it.” I look up, somewhat expecting no one to be paying me any attention, but everyone stares, enraptured, so I continue, “No TV meant there was more time for everything else, reading, mostly. We had stacks of old books lining the walls in our living room. My mom had an arrangement with the public library. Every few months, she’d buy a box of books they were trying to get rid of for $5, sight unseen. It was so fun to open that box because we were never quite sure what would be inside. Cookbooks, children’s books, old textbooks barely held together with tape, encyclopedias, erotica…” There are a few titters around the table and a pointed smile from Cornelia. “Anyway, we’d rifle through it together, laying claim. I wasn’t picky. I couldn’t afford to be, I guess.”
“Sounds wonderful. You must have really fostered a love for the written word,” Dr. Reynolds tells me with a smile.
“I did.”
“Reminds me of my Nicky,” Cornelia says. “He was such a voracious reader growing up. Sometimes we couldn’t even get him to come down to dinner he was so absorbed in whatever book had caught his attention that day.”
He doesn’t speak up to confirm the statement, his presence a silent force so easily molded by my own insecurities. I take his quiet perusal of me as judgment, his stern expression to mean he was disappointed to have arrived and found me still here, in his realm. I feel distinctly other sitting at the table with the rest of them, unsure of myself as I reach for my water glass, embarrassed to find that my hand is shaky with nerves.
I only work up the courage to glance in his direction a few times during dinner, and it’s only when I’m confident his attention is pulled elsewhere. I watch while he leans in to say something to Tori, and her resulting smile is an enigma to me. I want to lean forward and plead with her to share his words. Tell me what he said. Tell me what it’s like to sit there and have him lean in close to you like that. I don’t think I’d survive.
When the final course is cleared, Cornelia looks to me with a pleading expression. “Maren, if you’re feeling up for it, I was hoping you’d play a song or two for us on the piano.”
“Oh please do! I love the piano and I’m horrible at it,” Tori says, clasping her hands together hopefully.
I look to Cornelia and nod. “Of course. I’d love to.”
Everyone files out of the dining room, Cornelia and Lydia first, then Dr. Reynolds and Tori. I’m the last one in the room besides Nicholas. I think he hovers near the rear to be polite, but then I’m left with him trailing in my shadow down the long hallway between the dining room and the blue drawing room. I want to turn around and talk to him. I want to ask him if he really is shy and if that’s why he didn’t talk at dinner, or maybe he has something on his mind? His hatred of me, perhaps?
I don’t work up the nerve by the time we reach the threshold of the drawing room, and then the moment passes as I’m forced to turn right toward the piano and he veers left to refill his glass.
Everyone starts to take their seats around the room as I adjust the bench in front of the piano. There’s plenty of sheet music for me to choose from. Cornelia insisted she wanted to order a new batch of books from the local music store for the kids from St. Michael’s to use, so I went and picked them out myself.
I choose a song called “Maribel” by Oskar Schuster, a contemporary composer I discovered thanks to the recommendation from the manager at the store.
I give everyone a chance to get comfortable while I arrange the sheets on the rack above the keys, but what I’m really doing is waiting for Nicholas to take his seat, annoyed when he chooses a chair in my line of sight, slightly apart from the rest of the group. In my periphery, I see him bring his glass to his lips, and I lift my hands and hover my fingers delicately above the keys.
The song starts out slow and sweet, a melody from a child’s lullaby. As I continue to play, the song takes shape, growing into something complex and harder to untangle. My fingers fly, and even in the moment, I know I’m playing for him. I resent it. To be laid bare in front of a grand piano—I doubt there’s anything more intimate than performing a piece of music to a quiet audience, all eyes locked on me. They watch unblinking, and their attention could be on my hands as they flutter across the black and white keys, or maybe on the back of my neck…my profile…my lips. I’m lost in the music and am therefore exposed, utterly. Like a doe in the woods standing within range of a hunter’s arrow.
That’s how I feel playing for Nicholas.
13
Nicholas
I’ve learned a lot about Maren this evening. She’s a classically trained pianist, enthusiastic conversationalist, and wonderful addition to a dinner party. I find every detail about her to be more mysterious and confusing than the last. I’ve seen my friends, peers who grew up in the same life I did, sit at Cornelia’s table and become shrinking violets under the steely gaze of my grandmother, but not “our dear” Maren. No, she rose to the occasion.
Even while bombarded by questions that seemed overly personal and rude, she kept her composure and won everyone to her side handily.
I trust her intentions even less now than I did before.
She sits there at my grandmother’s piano, so stunning it would hurt to look away, and she reminds me of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
She begins to play a third song, and I glance over to see Cornelia dab at the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief. She’s always been heavily influenced by music. A beautiful song played well has always softened her heart, and not for the first time, I worry how much she’s coming to care for Maren.
I tried to speak with her again this week about letting Maren go. This time, she wouldn’t even entertain the idea. I was halfway through pleading my case when she abruptly cut me off, told me she looked forward to seeing me at dinner on Saturday, and hung up the phone.
Maren plays on, and I stand t
o deposit my empty glass on a side table. I can’t resist the call of my grandfather’s antique cigar box, so I lift the lid. I haven’t requested them in a while, but Collins keeps it fully stocked. I reach in to retrieve one and grab my grandfather’s old lighter, carrying both to the French doors on the other side of the piano.
My footsteps accompany Maren’s melody as I cross in front of her. She fumbles a note then quickly recovers and plays on. I doubt anyone else noticed, but I did.
So then I affect her like she affects me?
The thought makes my stomach churn. I’m sure she thinks I’m horrible after our exchange last weekend, but I’m not sure what she expects me to do.
I’m acting on behalf of my family, and I won’t apologize for it.
I open one of the doors and stand on the threshold, inhaling the ocean air on impulse before I reach up and light my cigar, taking short puffs until the end glows dark orange in the night.
Standing here makes me think of the night of my eighteenth birthday, when my grandfather first showed me how to light a cigar. I can envision him clear as day, regal and sharp. Everyone knew him as the Commodore, and his legacy lives all around me. I see him in the trophy cases at the yacht club and the portrait gallery upstairs. I see him in the way I practice law, following in his footsteps. He was the one who taught me the difference between right and wrong, between acting for one’s own personal gain and acting for the betterment of everyone. He was generous with his time and with his practice of the law but unyielding when it came to his beliefs. I think it’s why so many people mistook him as severe, but no one who really knew him thought that. Under the surface, he was the embodiment of warmth.
I miss him as I listen to Maren’s music, staring out at the dark churning sea. I ask myself what he would do in my shoes, if he would protect his family above all else.
I know the answer.
It’s not much longer before guests start to depart. I send them farewell nods and continue smoking until Maren’s music cuts off and she rises to leave the room along with everyone else.
“Maren, I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”
Her footsteps stall near the door and, for a second, I’m worried she’s about to ignore me.
“That doesn’t sound like a request,” she ventures.
“It’s not,” I say, flicking ash off my cigar.
“I can’t imagine what you have to say to me now,” she replies, pivoting to face me. “You’ve had all evening to talk.”
I find it easier to keep my gaze off her, easier still if I pretend she’s no one at all. She’s merely a problem I’d like to eliminate.
“Has my grandmother told you about the reporters who’ve knocked on our doors pretending to be relatives and friends? Who’ve shown up uninvited to birthday parties and weddings? We’ve had long-lost cousins appear out of thin air, hoping to slice off a piece of inheritance for themselves. Nosey housekeepers. Thieving drivers. It seems we live with a target on our backs. Easy prey, some would think, especially as my grandmother creeps deeper into her 80s. I hope you understand.”
“I do,” she replies with a steady voice.
“It’s why I can’t have you in her life.”
She steps toward me, her hand outstretched as if trying to convince me to look her way. “I’m not at Rosethorn to take advantage of her. I swear it.”
“No? Then what exactly are you here for?” I say, finally giving in to the urge to turn and take her in from head to toe. A green-eyed siren. “What’s your job title? Housekeeper? Assistant? Gardener? Do you have any experience tending soil, Ms. Mitchell?”
Her silence is all the confirmation I need.
“My grandmother is too kindhearted to send you off, but I’m not. My patience for leeches has grown thin over the years. I trust you know how to pack your bags and find your way?”
“I won’t leave until Cornelia asks me to,” she says with a venomous tone. “Contrary to what you may believe, I am of value to her, just not in the conventional ways. No, I don’t till her gardens, but I eat dinner with her every night and I read to her in the afternoons. We take walks around the garden and we talk. We’re friends.”
When our gazes lock, she tips her chin up.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not leaving.”
She turns and stalks out of the room, her footsteps the only thing I hear, even after she’s long gone.
* * *
The following morning, I’m headed down to breakfast when I hear shuffling in my grandfather’s old office. I know Cornelia has taken to using it in recent years and I expect to find her in there, sitting in his oversized chair, which is why I stop and peer in.
Instead, I find Maren rifling through papers behind the desk, visibly distressed.
“What are you doing?”
Her body tenses and she squeezes her eyes shut as if I frightened her. I probably did.
“Looking for your grandmother’s glasses,” she replies, not a hint of kindness in her tone.
“Well they’re clearly not there in those papers.”
She stops her search and glares up at me. “Are you insinuating something? If so, I’d rather you just say it.”
I have the uncanny urge to smile and let her know I’m partly teasing. I don’t think she’s dumb enough to sneak around my grandmother’s office in the middle of the day, especially while I’m still here. Besides, she didn’t even shut the door.
When I don’t reply, she continues her search, but not for long.
With a huff, she dips down to retrieve a pair of my grandmother’s reading glasses that had fallen onto the ground. Mission complete.
“I wasn’t snooping,” she says as she brushes past me.
I have no choice but to follow after her, listening as she curses me under her breath.
We turn a corner and I could quicken my stride and catch her with ease, but I know she’d hate it. Instead, I speak up. My voice is deceptively casual, though we both know I’m trying to get a rise out of her. “You know we’re going to the same place. There’s no need to walk three steps ahead of me. I think we’re capable of having a cordial conversation.”
She laughs caustically. “We aren’t.”
Down in the breakfast room, my grandmother sits with the newspaper held up a mere inch from her face. When she hears our footsteps, she folds it down and sighs gratefully.
“I knew you’d find them, dear. Hurry along, I’m trying to read this story about azaleas and it’s giving me eye strain.”
Maren shoots me a pointed told-you-so smirk as she hands her the glasses before turning to the breakfast buffet.
“It looks like you picked up a stray on your way back down,” my grandmother adds, winking at me.
“Not by choice,” Maren murmurs under her breath as she starts to fill her plate with toast and sausage and eggs.
“What was that?” my grandmother asks.
“I said, ‘What a glorious day it’s going to be!’”
I smile despite myself and Maren catches it, her eyes going round as saucers.
I immediately drop it and clear my throat, moving along to fill my plate as well.
“What are your plans for the day, Nicky? Tell me you aren’t running back to the city right after breakfast.”
“I’m going to the club this morning to sail.”
“You are? You should take Maren with you! We were just discussing the fact that she’s never been before.”
“No!” Maren says, shooting the word out of her mouth so fast it’s a wonder I don’t feel it whoosh past like a bullet.
“But Nicky’s a wonderful yachtsman.”
“I’m sure he is,” she says, glancing at me. I swear she’s sizing me up, but I can’t be sure. “Even still, I’d rather not. Besides, you and I were going to prepare those baskets for the Boys and Girls Club, remember?”
I’m frowning, and it takes me a second to realize why exactly her answer annoys me so much. It’s not like I want her to come sa
iling with me, but her adamant refusal doesn’t sit well either. If her plan is to needle her way into Cornelia’s life permanently, shouldn’t she want to ingratiate herself to me, Cornelia’s only grandchild, as well? She should be flirting and smiling and pretending to be a perfect angel.
I nearly choke on the thought. With her rich brown hair and sharp green eyes, angel is the last word I would use to describe her.
“It’s better this way,” I say, aiming my words at Cornelia. “Rhett and I already have a full boat, and I wouldn’t have time to keep an eye on Maren.”
“Who says you’d have to keep an eye on me?” she challenges, standing up a bit straighter.
“Spoken like a true sailing novice. Have you never seen a yacht in action? Injuries are extremely common with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing.”
“It’s not as if I’d be the one tying the lines off, or whatever it is you do on a sailboat.”
“No, you’re right—you’d just be in the way.”
Maren and I stand facing each other with our plates in hand, holding each other’s gazes as if we’ve entered into some unnamed competition. Her eyes narrow and seem to say everything she’s unwilling to give voice to. I cock my head in challenge.
“Why do I feel like I need to ring a bell and call for a timeout between you two?” my grandmother asks with a deep-set frown.
Maren is the one to look away first, so she can finish scooping some fruit onto her plate before carrying it over to the table.
“Ignore us. We haven’t had our coffee yet,” she says, smiling at my grandmother.
I finish making my plate and then pull out the chair across from Maren. We do a charming job of avoiding each other through the rest of breakfast, directing conversation through my grandmother. She must realize what we’re doing, but she doesn’t let on.
Maren is the first to finish and she rises, sweeping a hand down the front of her sundress to flatten the nonexistent wrinkles.
