by Karen Kincy
“Shit.” Jeb takes a flower. “We’re going to be late.”
We rush from the flat and sprint toward the Examinations Schools. I’m sweating by the time I run inside. We sit in the great hall and wait for our examinations to be called. My heartbeat hammers in my throat.
“Good luck,” Jeb whispers.
“You, too.”
I’m sitting for a Business Finance exam first, a core course for the MBA. Bank regulations, portfolio management, valuation of investment opportunities. I’ve studied it all ad nauseam, but none of it makes sense.
I dodge into the bathroom and shut myself in a stall.
My fingers shake as I fumble with a bottle of pills. I have a letter allowing me to bring it into my exams. Medication for my epilepsy. It hasn’t been helping, at least not stopping the fits. I slide my fingernail under the label and unroll the paper from the bottle. In miniscule text, I’ve written my notes for the course.
God, this better save me. I wish I could say this is my first time cheating.
I stick the label back onto the glue and return to the entrance hall. Jeb has gone already, and all too soon it’s my turn.
I shuffle into a room with my fellow students and take my seat.
The invigilator smiles at me, a cheater, when he hands me an examination paper. I smile back to maintain the illusion. I’ve heard I have an honest face. In deathly silence, everyone reads the first page of the examination.
A question stares back at me.
Calculate the variance and standard deviation for the following portfolio of stocks within a 95% confidence interval.
Below this sentence, there’s a table of hypothetical stocks.
Gripping my pen, I write so hard it digs grooves into the paper. My numbers look wobbly, and I cross them out before starting over. The invigilator paces along the windows. He pauses by a girl and glances over her shoulder. She’s scribbling so fast she must already be done with the first question and onto the second.
I hate students who ace exams.
When the invigilator turns his back, I sneak my pills from my pocket. My hands shake as I peek at my notes. Sweat drenches my armpits. My cap and gown feel suffocating. Quickly, I return the bottle to my pocket.
After I answer the question, the invigilator walks by me without even looking.
I can do this.
Adrenaline surges through my veins. Ink smudges under my fingers, but I don’t stop writing until I peek at my notes again.
Two questions down, eight to go.
When it hits me, I’m gripped with sudden fear. The taste of copper stains my tongue. I know exactly what happens next.
“God.” The word escapes me as a choked whisper. “No.”
The invigilator glances at me. I raise my hand, but it’s too late—
8
Cassia
I wake when Tanvi walks into the kitchen. The coffeemaker gurgles in the silence. I grab my phone and turn it on. No new texts, no missed calls. What happened to my car? I delete the text and kick off my blanket.
“Coffee?” Tanvi says.
“Please.” I go the bathroom and return to find her sitting at the table. “I don’t know how I’m going to go home.”
Tanvi peers over her mug. “Personally? I would toss his things in the rubbish.”
I swallow some coffee with a grimace. “Including the bed.”
“How awful. You can stay as long as you like.”
“Thanks, but I left all my shit at home and I still need to study for examinations. Regardless of a cheating asshole.”
She purses her lips. “Good luck.”
“I have a feeling I’ll need it.”
When I go home, Spencer’s BMW isn’t parked on the street. I unlock the door.
The apartment is empty. Greasy pizza boxes clutter the floor. The sheets on our bed look rumpled. I stare at them, my face burning. Where the hell did Spencer go? Back to Melody’s place? Does that mean we’re done?
A knock on the door thunders in the silence. I hurry to answer it.
Two unsmiling policemen stare at me. “Cassia Santos?”
“Yes, that’s me.” My pulse races in my throat. “Can I help you?”
“Is it all right if we come inside?”
“Sure.”
They take the couch and motion for me to sit. None of this feels real.
The older policeman speaks in a husky voice. “Miss Santos, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident. Spencer Knox crashed his car while driving under the influence last night. He’s at the hospital in critical condition.”
I wait for their words to make sense. “What?”
“I’m very sorry.”
Heat rushes into my face, chased by cold. “Can I see him?”
The policeman’s jaw hardens. “He may not be awake.”
When I visit the hospital, Spencer drifts in and out of consciousness. He looks like shit, his face swollen purple with bruises, breathing tubes jammed up his nose, and I stare at him for a minute like I don’t know him.
“Cassia,” he rasps.
I sit in a chair and grip the arms, my fingernails biting the wood.
I don’t know what I expect him to say.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
He whispers something as I lean closer. “You bitch.”
Those were Spencer’s last words to me.
After...
9
Bram
I don’t know if I can stay.
I’m back in Oxford six months after I left. Jeb invited me to his graduation today, but I couldn’t promise him anything.
My breath escapes my lungs. Maybe some tea will settle my stomach. I wander down the sidewalk, the cobblestones familiar under my feet, and linger outside the Gilded Lily. When I step into the café, I breathe in the bitterness of coffee. I shove my hands into my pockets as I stand in line, waiting for the barista.
Cassia.
She’s sitting at a corner table, bent over a book. Jesus Christ. Should I talk to her? Does she even remember me?
When she glances at me, a smile brightens her face. “Bram!”
Now I’m grinning like a fool. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
When she beckons me, I stare at the tattoo on her wrist. Red roses crawl around her skin in a circle of thorns. A dewdrop clings to an inked leaf, so real it might roll away. The roses obscure Spencer’s name completely.
Thank God that idiot is gone. Is she still single?
I fetch my Earl Grey tea from the barista and sit opposite Cassia. “How are you?”
“Good.” Her laugh sounds breathless. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Working.”
“You left Oxford?”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
I sip my tea for a long moment. “The MBA was a bit much.”
She studies my face, and my cheeks burn under her stare. Her eyes are darker than I remember. “You look relaxed.”
Not having a fit a week likely helps.
“You look lovely,” I say.
She blushes and glances at her fingers. “God, I forgot how charming your accent sounds. It should be criminal.”
Laughing, I duck my head. Her compliment glows in my chest.
“Where are you working?” she says.
“For the family business. It’s nice earning money rather than spending it.”
“Dude, don’t even talk to me about debt.”
I toy with the saucer under my cup. “Are you done with Oxford?”
“I am.”
“What will you do now?”
The light in her eyes dims. “I don’t have an excuse to stay.”
My stomach somersaults. I lean my elbows on the table. “Are you interested in historic English gardens, by any chance?”
“Seriously?” She inhales, holds her breath for a second, and exhales. “Where?”
“Wolfenwold Hall.”
; “That sounds like something straight out of Masterpiece Theatre.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.” She swats away my comment. “How far away?”
“East Sussex.”
“Damn.” She swigs her coffee. “I don’t know if I can afford that, Bram. I wasn’t joking about the student debt.”
I twist my mouth to hide my disappointment. “It’s not as if I wouldn’t pay you.”
Her eyebrows shoot skyward. “You would be my boss?”
“On paper.”
Cassia tilts her head and squints at me. “What would I do?”
“Renovate the gardens at Wolfenwold Hall, which are a wee bit overgrown.”
She gnaws on her lip. “I would need a work visa.”
“Not a problem.”
“Really?”
“Consider it a favor to an old friend.” We’re hardly friends, but I don’t know what else to say without sounding pathetic.
Cassia stares at me for a heartbeat before smiling. “When can I start?”
10
Cassia
My train stops at Berwick Station. I’m two hours early and two miles south of Upper Dicker. I can’t believe somebody named a town that, and I can’t wait to give Bram shit. He’s waiting for me at Wolfenwold Hall.
Clouds like dollops of cream float over East Sussex. Robins chirp and hop in the grass.
With a whistle, the train chugs down the railroad. I’m left standing at the tiny station, my suitcase at my feet. I pull out my phone and call a taxi. A shiny black car whips into the parking lot not fifteen minutes later.
“Where to, love?” the cabbie says.
“Wolfenwold Hall, please.”
He tips an imaginary hat and hauls my suitcase into the back. As the cab zips onward, I reread an old email.
Dear Cassia,
I look forward to seeing you at Wolfenwold Hall this Saturday at noon. I hope your journey here will be pleasant.
Yours,
Bram Winterbourne
He’s so polite, it’s ridiculous. And Winterbourne sounds like such a proper name. Smiling, I stare out the window. Lush green countryside unrolls alongside the road. I can’t believe I’m staying in England. I don’t have to go home. I don’t have to return to a life that died with Spencer. Hope flowers in my chest.
This is my second chance. This is my shot at redemption.
I blink away tears blurring my eyes. Fields yield to an oak forest. Sunlight flickers through the shattered stained glass of leaves. Beeches line a long drive. At the end, a manor house crumbles like a rotten wedding cake.
“Here we are, love!” The cabbie hops out and fetches my suitcase. “Wolfenwold Hall.”
“Jesus,” I whisper.
A wee bit overgrown? That’s an understatement. Climbing roses clamber over the windows of the manor house. The Elizabethan knot garden looks unraveled, like the herbs haven’t been pruned for a season or two. Foxgloves sway over thyme creeping into the lawn. God, but it’s a gorgeous anarchy.
The cabbie clears his throat. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, thanks.”
I pay him and drag my suitcase toward Wolfenwold Hall. As I walk beyond the beeches, my jaw drops. A greenhouse with Victorian flourishes gleams in the sun. I ditch my suitcase by the door and step into the muggy heat.
Potted palms and lemon trees glisten with dew. An ancient woman bends over an orchid—a gorgeous Phalaenopsis species, its stunning magenta flowers at the height of bloom. She glances at me long enough to smile¸ her face wrinkled and rosy like an old apple. “Morning! You must be my new assistant.”
I blink before returning her smile. “Cassia Santos.”
“Mrs. Lennox.” She touches her straw hat. “Master gardener.”
Bram didn’t mention one, but I guess that makes sense.
Mrs. Lennox tosses a pair of gloves at me. “The violets are in a dreadful state. We have to water the poor darlings.”
I tug on the gloves. Sweat rolls down my back, since it must be ninety billion degrees. Mrs. Lennox leads the way to the back of the greenhouse. Shelf upon shelf holds African violets in decorative porcelain pots.
“Water them from the roots,” Mrs. Lennox says.
I nod, even though I already know this, and fill a watering can. I lift a porcelain elephant with violets sprouting from its back.
“Careful!” she says. “That elephant is early Edwardian.”
I pour water into a tray and carefully set the elephant into the pool.
“Edwardian?” I say. “Really?”
“Yes, like the flower itself. They discovered Saintpaulia ionantha in 1892. Deep in the wilds of Tanzania.”
“Africa?” I deadpan. “I had no idea.”
Mrs. Lennox sniffs. I’m not sure she finds this amusing. Bram would have laughed at the joke, or at least given me a grin.
“Damn,” I say, “it’s too hot in here.”
Mrs. Lennox glances at me. “Quite right. Open the windows up top.”
I do as she says, and a blissful breeze sails into the greenhouse.
We work together in silence. Watering the violets, fertilizing the orchids, and pruning tiny citrus topiaries one twig at a time. Peace blankets me with every breath I take. I have attained gardening nirvana.
Bram strides into the greenhouse. God damn, he looks dangerously sexy in a suit.
I give him a slow smile. “Hello, Mr. Winterbourne.”
“Cassia.” He folds his aviators and hooks them onto his shirt. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I clutch pruning shears between my breasts and fake a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Is it almost noon? I lost track of time.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Lennox, could I have a word?”
She concentrates on a diminutive lemon tree. “You may.”
“Alone.”
Mrs. Lennox sighs and pulls off her gloves. “Very well.”
He glances at the lemon, then through the roof, then at his shoes. “Cassia, why don’t you enjoy the fresh air outside?”
What’s going on? Bram’s jaw looks rigid with tension.
Outside, I swig the cool air. My neck has a crick in it from hunching over plants for so long. I lace my fingers over my head and stretch. My shirt lifts above my stomach, and a breeze cools the sweat on my back.
I can’t hear what Bram’s saying. He seems to be doing most of the talking.
Mrs. Lennox bends over a workbench, her shoulders slumped. She shakes her head, her hat crooked, but she doesn’t straighten it. Bram holds his fists at his sides. He keeps rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles. With an empty stare, Mrs. Lennox trudges from the greenhouse and walks past me like I’m invisible.
“Mrs. Lennox?” I say.
“I have to go now,” she says, her words robotic.
I march into the greenhouse and collide with Bram. That jolts some life into his eyes. He catches me by the shoulder and holds me back. “Cassia, I—”
“What did you tell her?”
His face stays calm, though he grips my shoulder tighter. “I’m afraid Mrs. Lennox has a tendency to forget things.”
“Like?”
“We let her go months ago.”
I stare at him. “You fired Mrs. Lennox?”
“She should have retired.”
“You don’t have a master gardener?”
He shrugs. “Not at the moment.”
My shoulders stiffen. “What happened to Wolfenwold Hall?”
He offers me his arm, straight out of Regency romance novel, but then again I’d need a chaperone and this would be forbidden.
And I’m anything but a proper lady.
“Walk with me?” he says.
I hook my arm around his like I’m wearing white gloves. “Where to, Mr. Winterbourne?” I fake a British accent.
He smirks. “You sound too American to pull that off.”
“I forgot you studied linguistics at Oxford. I won’t torture you.”
I’m going to get hurt, but I can’t walk away.
11
Bram
When I hold open the door to Wolfenwold Hall, Cassia steps inside with a soft intake of breath. Cobwebs festoon the plasterwork angels and chipped gilding on the ceiling. The manor house hasn’t been occupied for years. Paint peels from the walls in curls of white; floorboards creak beneath threadbare carpets.
Cassia traces dust on a table with lion’s paws. “This place must be ancient.”
“Early 1700’s. Wolfenwold Hall belonged to a family who had the required riches, but over the years they lost their fortune between the world wars and gambling debts. We bought the property for a pittance.”
She glances at me, her forehead furrowed. “Why buy a manor house?”
“I meant to show you before the greenhouse lured you in like a Venus flycatcher.”
Her smile lasts only a second. “You mean Venus flytrap.”
I lead her to the library. Moldering, musty books crowd the shelves. Mozart plays through static on an old transistor radio. The blueprints for Wolfenwold Hall curl on the table, and I spread them flat under my hands.
Cassia leans over the blueprints, her elbow brushing mine. “What is this?”
“A business retreat.”
Meeting rooms. A restaurant with a bar. A golf course overwriting the gardens.
It’s all practical, for executives to drink and putt and network. No need for leisurely walks through yew hedges clipped into a labyrinth. No point in sitting by a pond. No use for a rose garden lush with perfume.
Her mouth hardens. “You aren’t preserving the gardens?”
“Modernizing. This isn’t the country retreat of the upper crust anymore.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The gardens are a luxury. We need them to turn a profit.”
Her eyes look dark with anger. Disappointment. Damn, I should have expected this.
