Albert takes her hand and spins her as if they’re dancing.
Linnie laughs and gives him an exaggerated curtsy. “Your brother dragged us here, kicking and screaming.”
“Of course,” he says, with an equally exaggerated bow.
Then Albert’s gaze drifts to Chauncey and me, still leaning against the car. Just for an instant, he glances back at Nicholas with no trace of smile, but, when he turns back to us, he looks happy. He holds his hand out to Chauncey and gives her hand one brusque shake before he turns to me.
Chauncey lets her glasses slip down her nose and whispers in a babyish voice, “Don’t I get spun?”
Albert doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t acknowledge her. Strange, since this morning, every other guy nearly wets his pants when she smiles.
I stretch out my hand and say, “Raven.”
He looks a little unsure, as his mitt-sized hand clasps mine. “Nice to meet you, Raven.” What a change: so welcoming to Linnie and so cold with me and Chauncey. Chauncey looks a little less peeved, seeing I didn’t get spun, either. “I’m glad you’re here,” Albert adds my way, lessening my unease.
Nicholas coughs, then claps Albert on the shoulder.
Albert winces and curses something in Swedish (at least, whatever he said sounds like a curse).
Nicholas asks, “Are you coming inside?”
“But of course,” Albert replies, elbowing Nicholas in the ribs, “I wouldn’t miss this.”
One of Nicholas’s hands rubs his side, while the other gestures us toward the house; when we walk, he and Albert follow. The front door is propped open and we file in.
I gaze around at the foyer, which is about three times the size of my living room and adorned with multiple chandeliers. The space is two stories high and has a couple of staircases leading to a landing encircling the room. Everything is pine: the paneled walls, ceiling, stairs, and railings along the walkways, except the carpeted floor, which is navy with an intricate white and black design.
On the landing, between the rounding staircases, three men in suits stand talking; two of them turn as we enter. The youngest of the three looks out of place with his companions, he isn’t wearing a jacket and, though his back is to us, I can tell his tie is loose. He stands with the posture I associate with the guys in high school who think they could have any girl, and usually could. He pivots. I’m not sure what, from his profile, but, there’s something weird about his face.
The other two men stand as stiff as the old English Lords in their portraits. The older man is seventy, or so. The younger, who I assume is Nicholas’s eldest brother, has his nose tilted so high, I have a perfect view into his nostrils. Both have the exact same short-cropped haircut, though the younger has blond (not white) hair, and matching choke-neck tailored suits.
All three turn as we approach and separate to descend the left fork of the staircase. The casual man takes the stairs two at a time and is at the bottom before the other two are halfway down.
The elderly man descends the way I'd imagine the characters from Jane Austin's books would, stiffly and -
He catches me staring and halts. The old man's eyes are blue, sharp shards of ice and I can’t tear my gaze away.
My stomach clenches and I wrap my arms around my middle. He is so familiar, as if I’ve known him all my life, but I’m positive I’ve never seen him before. He has no expression, not irritation or anything else, but I can’t help taking a step back. I’m like an orchid withering in frost; the chill emits from his glare.
An arm wraps around my shoulders and jolts me back to reality. I glance to see the arm belongs to Nicholas.
He too watches the old man; the tilt of Nicholas’s nose and arch of his eyebrows could only be described as defiant.
I glance back to check his grandfather's reaction: the old man slits his eyelids over icy pupils and shakes his head. He wheels around on his heel and marches up the stairs. His younger clone makes to follow, but, the old man barks, “Nej,” and the younger stops.
We are all silent for a collective intake of breath. The words, ‘I didn’t want to come here in the first place!’ Fight to burst out of my lips, but he’s already gone.
“Don’t mind my grandfather,” Nicholas whispers, “He’s just stuck on the past.”
I think the phrase is ‘stuck in the past’ but I’m concentrating too hard on forcing a pleasant expression to correct him. I smooth down my despicably cheap sweater and keep my breathing even. What’s gotten into me?
Chauncey covers her mouth, in an exaggerated gesture, “Oh my god, what a shock. Someone in the world doesn’t love Raven Smith!”
I crush my eyes shut as my cheeks heat. Nicholas gives my shoulder a squeeze. I want to curl into him and disappear, but I force open my eyes.
“That is hard to believe,” the confident third man says, as he scoops up and kisses my hand. I know what’s off about his face now; a reddish crevice ascends up his chin, pulls down the corner of his mouth and ends splitting his left ear in two.
I’m staring. I force myself to focus on his eyes, anywhere but the scar.
He must be used to gawkers, because the lopsided smile he gives me brims with amusement. “My name is Stephen, you are very welcome here.”
I just stare. I’m all thrown off by Nicholas’s grandfather’s disapproval. I’m making too much of his un-welcoming; I have to get a hold of myself.
Wake up, Raven. Stephen complimented you and welcomed you and you’re just standing here, gaping.
I manage a smile and fix my gaze on his eyes. “Thank you, my name is Raven.” I step out of Nicholas’s embrace, while gesturing and saying, “This is my sister, Linnie, and her friend, Chauncey.”
Linnie does better than I, she smiles at Stephen not gawking in the slightest; obviously she got all the considerate genes in our family.
Stephen kisses Linnie’s hand and leans to kiss Chauncey’s, when he stops. He examines the bandage on Chauncey’s inner wrist.
She yanks back her hand. “It’s a tattoo.”
“Tattoos are unattractive, especially on women,” Stephen replies in a voice I would have considered infuriatingly self-assured if I didn’t like him more than Chauncey at the moment. Heck, I like poison oak underwear more than Chauncey.
Chauncey’s jaw sags; she stares at Stephen, eyes narrowed at the side of his face, before huffing and stomping from the room. She makes time to shoot me a glare as she exits, as if it's my fault or something. If she ever regretted drugging and deserting me, she’s changed her mind.
Ha! Seems as if everyone is stomping out of here. Lo and behold, Linnie dashes after Chauncey and I’m left with the four brothers!
Nicholas gestures, continuing as if half our party didn’t just run off, “and this is my eldest brother, Tobias.”
Tobias still stands halfway down the stairs. He gives me a tight smile and a slight nod. “How do you do?” His nasal voice sounds as if he has a cold. All four boys have the same blond hair and blue eyes, but that’s as far as the resemblance to his brothers goes for Tobias. He has pinched, angular features, that are not improved by his squeezing his lips into a white line. Maybe, he’s constipated.
“Fine, thanks.” I nod back. “How are you?”
He clears his throat. “As much as I would like to converse, I have work to finish with grandfather.” He makes this sound like a criticism and, in a perfect reenactment of his grandpa’s exit, Tobias spins on his heel and marches up the stairs.
Before Tobias disappears from view, Stephen calls up something in Swedish. Tobias does not turn around, even when Stephen and Albert howl with laughter. Albert actually slaps his knee. Nicholas gives a light chuckle, then motions to follow him outside. The hooting brothers trail behind.
The afternoon sun blinds me, as I step out the door. A zephyr dances by, carrying the scent of roses; there must be a garden near. When I blink my vision clear, I see Linnie, Chauncey and the chauffeur, standing by the car. There’s no taxi, but he is, without a d
oubt, the chauffeur from the dock.
Chauncey’s hand grasps the chauffeur’s tie and she pouts up into his beefy face, while Linnie unloads her bags. The chauffeur glimpses us, steps out of Chauncey’s grasp and snatches Linnie’s luggage off the driveway.
“Your friend works fast,” Stephen whispers.
“She’s not...” I stop before the hateful words slip out of my mouth. It’s true, Chauncey is no friend of mine and she has proved it a couple times. But, a week ago, I would never have been so spiteful as to say something like that because it would reflect on me. That’s what bothers me so much about her, isn’t it? I don’t want anyone to think I’m like her. I told Linnie, I’d let what Chauncey did, go, and I should, I should let it all go and just have fun in spite of her (or maybe to spite her).
Chauncey stares at Nicholas as if she’s challenging him; as if she one-upped him or something, by throwing herself at the chauffeur. Nicholas gazes my way, not even noticing. If she ceased to exist in this moment, his world would be no different.
If I could stop resenting Chauncey, I would feel sorry for her, and wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge, pitying her? I can’t look at Chauncey anymore; I can’t be around her.
I ask Stephen, “Is there a garden around here, somewhere?”
“Yes.” Stephen holds out a hand toward the side of the mansion and smiles. “Several…”
Nicholas steps between Stephen and me. “I’ll show you,” he says.
Stephen chuckles and shakes his head. He pats Nicholas on the shoulder and says, “överanstränga, Nicklaus.”
I follow as Nicholas backs to the space between the guesthouse and main mansion. “Nicklaus?” I ask.
“That is my real name: Nicholas is the American version,” he says.
“Why don’t you just use your Swedish name?”
Although the question isn’t invasive, Nicholas turns away and is quiet.
After we walk the length of the mansions, and into a garden of thousands of roses, he answers me, “I attempt to blend in, in America."
‘Why?’ is on my tongue, but, from his closed expression, I can tell that if I ask, I’ll be forcing him to reveal something or lie. “You do a great job; I thought you were American when we first met.”
The garden is a green canvas of hedges and bushes, dappled with multicolored blooms. One small path cuts through the thorny sea of red, yellow, white and pink flowers. Central in the garden is a lamppost, half consumed by vines. A hedge wall surrounds on all sides, except a gap, covered with an arch of roses, that gives a glimpse of the gardens beyond.
“This is our smallest garden, but my favorite.” Nicholas flashes a smile, “My mother designed this rose garden.”
“She did a wonderful job; this is magnificent. Is your mother here?”
“Well, in a way. I’ll show you,” He retreats out of the garden and leads me to the pasture beyond. Nicholas points toward a gated area next to a round door in the perimeter wall, “She’s buried there, alongside my father, in our graveyard.”
Having a deceased parent should prepare me for when others talk about their departed loved ones, but, I never know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ feels over-used and insufficient, so I remain silent.
We meander toward the graveyard, not speaking. The sun dips toward the perimeter wall, when we stop at the small metal gate, encircling a hundred-or-so graves. The gravestones closest to the wall are worn beyond any legibility; the many stone cross edges are rounded and corners are homes for moss and lichen. The farther the tombstones are from the wall, the less weather and nature they have known. On the six headstones closest to the gate, letters have crisp edges and monuments are free of any flora.
Nicholas leans against the black metal gate, clutching just below the sharp points adorning the top. He does not open the gate, only gazes at the stones. “They died together, two years ago, during a business trip.” His smile holds no happiness. “For some reason, after that day, when my grandfather and I are together, we fight as soon as we open our mouths.”
I rest against the fence next to him. “Did they work for your grandfather?”
“Tobias now has my mother’s job and Albert, my fathers.” He licks his lips and, for a few minutes, stares into the sun-bleached horizon.
“Where does that door go to?” The rounded wooden door is barely discernible from the wall: all I can make out, under the curtain of moss, are a couple of planks, secured by a heavy wood board.
Nicholas visibly shakes out of his thoughts: “A church. Or, at least there was a church there a couple of hundred years ago. Now, all that’s left is the door.” He steps back from the gate and points along the stone wall, “There were eight churches along our walls, but now there are only four. One is at the end of this wall, and there are three more at the other corners of our property.”
I step to the cobblestones and run my fingers over the uneven surface. “How old is this wall?”
“Oh, the wall’s mediaeval, built five or six hundred years ago, much older than our house. The churches were built at the same time, but only one outlasted the weather; my family rebuilt the other three.” He walks to lean one shoulder against the cobblestones and takes my hand off the wall to clasp in both of his.
As his hands envelop mine, my heart patters faster and faster. I can’t take my hand back without insulting him. Do I want my hand back?
“So, you didn’t answer me.” He tilts his head; his face is inches from mine.
My voice is a little shaky. “Answer you?”
“When I asked you to go to dinner with me.”
“Oh…” I hoped to avoid this conversation altogether. I bite my lower lip then let it roll forward.
He gazes at my lips.
I take a step back, but let him keep my hand. “I like you, Nicholas, I really do.”
He gives me a half-smile, “But?”
“But, I’m only in Europe for three months and only in Sweden for...” I slip my hand out and shrug, “Who knows?”
He closes the distance and takes my hand again, “How about this: you don’t answer no or yes, just tell me maybe you will go to dinner with me.”
I use my lip like gum, without thinking, and draw his gaze again. I sigh and say, “Alright, maybe. Maybe I’ll go on a date with you.”
His face is too close and drifting closer.
“Race you to the mansion!” I say, too loudly, then break away from him and sprint back the way we came.
I keep ahead of him for a minute, but he passes me well before we cross the first gardens. I’m not an endurance runner. I walk the last few paces to the back entrance of the guesthouse, out of breath.
Nicholas waits by the open door.
“I can’t believe you can run that fast in a suit,” I huff out.
Nicholas laughs; he's not at all out of breath. “The suit’s flexible and I have a good amount of practice. Anyway, you’re running in a skirt.” He steps away from the wall. “I hope you don’t mind, because of Albert and Tobias’s work schedule, we dine at sunset, no matter the time of year; which will be...” He peers behind at the sky and says, “In about two hours.”
After I assure him this is fine, he gives me directions to the dining room, smiles and then walks off.
When he disappears from view, I wipe my hands across my face and huff out a sigh. I’m so jittery. I shouldn’t have come here. There’s no two ways about it, this was a mistake. What am I doing?
The plan was to be exploring Paris with Linnie. I’m not supposed to be staying in some Swedish mansion with Linnie’s treacherous roommate, a stunning, exceedingly wealthy guy who is so obviously hiding something, his three brothers and an old man who detests me. And I’m not even welcome here; Nicholas’s grandfather would rather receive a giant rodent into his house. Next time I see him, I’ll yell, ‘I’m not even interested in Nich...’
Hmmm… I need a shower, a long cold shower.
Chapter Nine
Day Seven (Continued)
The thin and scratchy, but enormous, towel unwinds from around my hair.
This guesthouse surpasses anywhere I’ve ever been in sumptuousness, and I bet it doesn’t compare with the main house. The room Linnie picked has two beds, so, when I first entered, I settled on the one not covered in her clothes.
After a lengthy phone call with our father, Linnie and I explored the beautiful house, finding a small gym, a room containing a large wood hot tub, two sitting rooms, a dining hall and a large kitchen, with a cook and maid. We skidded to a halt there, self-conscious about frolicking around in front of the staff.
The maid, a stick thin woman named Nelly, carried a load of towels, heavy looking in her bony arms, and told us, in a thick accent, to wash up for dinner. Somehow, Linnie and I regressed to being eight and seven years old and we giggled all the way to the showers, under Nelly’s scrutinizing glare.
A shower was what I needed, but now I face a new dilemma: I have nothing, whatsoever, to wear! The only clean things I have are ‘wife-beaters’ and underwear; the rest of my clothes have been worn and aren’t stylish enough for this splendid atmosphere, anyway. Nothing I own, even at home, fits with this extravagant place. I’m not wearing my red dress, no way; even looking at the dry cleaning bag makes my insides do somersaults.
Linnie’s clothes don’t fit me, and I’d rather run around in my birthday suit than ask Chauncey. I slip on my boy short underwear and two tank tops, when Linnie crashes down on her bed.
“Raven, I’m no ‘fashionista’,” Linnie says with her wet hair on the pillow, “But I bet these people dress up for dinner.”
I snap my fingers, “Oh, darn, my Oysterfest t-shirt is dirty!”
Linnie mocks a haughty tone: “Aren’t we made for fine living?” She sits up and adjusts the towel, wrapped around her. “Why don’t you borrow something from Chauncey? I bet she has gowns to...” She examines my expression and trails off, then continues in a whisper, “I thought you were letting what happened, go.”
“I did, I let it go.” I try to sound earnest. For emphasis, I add, “‘it’s gone.”
Linnie rolls her eyes, “Yeah, sure. Well, if you two are fine, then you won’t mind if I...” She yells, “Chauncey!”
The Deception Dance Page 9
