by Helena Maeve
“She’s gorgeous.”
Rhonda’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “Thanks. I’d say something about how I couldn’t have done it without your brother, but honestly? He was kind of a mess.”
Despite herself, Hazel couldn’t disguise a grin. “You don’t say…”
Buddy had gone off to run some last minute errands. He would be back by six for supper with the family. The house was quiet in his absence, as though everyone left behind had taken to holding their breath. The muffled sound of the fridge door opening and shutting as Mrs. Whitley’s maid labored over their meal only occasionally trickled into the elegant living room. The Persian rugs absorbed a lot of the noise in the drafty old house and the heavy drapes on either side of the rear-facing French windows did the rest.
With an intensity that seemed to come out of nowhere, Rhonda said, “We’re really glad you could come, you know. Buddy’s thrilled. He couldn’t stop talking about it after you called. Like he was a little kid and someone told him Christmas had come early…”
Hazel didn’t have to dig too deep for a smile. “Me too.” As much as she’d fought against it, this was her home. Or it had been, before.
“And thank you for the giraffe,” Rhonda added, in that same, intense-nervous fashion. She plucked the stuffed toy off the couch between them and squeezed its little chest. The soft squeak it emitted had Rhonda biting her lip.
The gift seemed pathetic now that it had been delivered.
“I didn’t really know what to get. The airport selection was pretty limited,” Hazel confessed. And I didn’t have enough cash to spend.
“No, it’s great. I mean it.” Rhonda beamed. Her hair was loose and unstyled, hanging around her shoulders in soft auburn waves. It was hard to tell from afar, but up close, Hazel could see she had put on lip gloss and blush, and curled her lashes. If Parents Magazine were to burst through the door looking for the poster-girl for blissful motherhood, Hazel would’ve had no qualms to point them to her sister-in-law.
Yet something hovered in Rhonda’s gaze as she propped the giraffe against the back of the couch. Unsurprisingly, the toy tipped over, beady black eyes peering up at them accusingly.
“Design flaw,” Hazel suggested.
“I don’t know. I think it’s more realistic this way.”
Who are you and what have you done with the leader of every Dunby pep rally ever?
“Do you need help with anything for the christening? I can—”
“No, we’re good,” Rhonda assured her, smiling politely.
“Okay.” Hazel looked down at her hands, wishing she’d had time to paint her nails before she flew down, wishing she’d thought to put a little more effort into making an impression. She couldn’t help feeling judged in this house and it was worse when the one doing the judging was her brother’s picture-perfect wife.
“You think it’s too soon,” Rhonda guessed.
“What? No, no… I mean, I really don’t have an opinion. Never had to organize a christening, so I don’t really know when it’s appropriate—”
“I had a couple of miscarriages.” The revelation was delivered almost apologetically as Rhonda picked up the giraffe. “It’s not a secret. The whole town knows.”
Hazel winced. “I’m sorry,” seemed like an empty platitude. She said it anyway. She couldn’t think past the sudden rush of disbelief to offer anything more substantial.
Perfect, luminous Rhonda had fallen short of the mark in bringing forth the next generation of Whitleys? The town gossips must’ve pored over that for weeks—all under the guise of empathizing.
“Bea’s our lucky third try,” she said, the corners of her lips twitching into what might have been a smile. “But we’re not takin’ any chances. We’re doin’ it right this time.”
Hazel thought of giving her a hug, but that wasn’t really done in their family. Instead, as silence stretched between them and Mrs. Whitley didn’t return, Hazel did what her mother would’ve done and—albeit clumsily—changed the subject. “So…what else’s new in town? Other than the land development thing, I mean…” She had no right to be sore about that. The Whitleys’ holdings were in her father’s care and de facto guaranteed to pass into Buddy’s hands someday. Hazel herself had lost any claim to the family fortune when she’d face-planted off the proverbial wagon in grand, public fashion.
“You know about that?” Rhonda’s voice pitched on a note of surprise. “I would’ve thought…”
“Buddy mentioned it. I don’t think he was supposed to.” Hazel shrugged it off. “It’s okay. Not like I need to be consulted about these things.” The way her grandfather’s will was worded, it could be interpreted that all adult members of the family had a say in what happened to the land or that only the elders did. Hazel, as the youngest in the family—now barring baby Bea—had never clamored for a seat at the negotiating table.
“I see.”
“Besides,” Hazel went on, mostly to make up for Rhonda’s sudden left turn into taciturn territory, “my life is in California. I’ve got friends there. A decent job.” The lies piled high around her, the walls of a fortress she couldn’t hope to defend. “I mean, I’m not winning the lottery or anything, but it pays the bills. And you can’t beat weather like that.”
The efforts her sister-in-law put into brightening up neatly matched Hazel’s shiny packaging of a minimum-wage waitressing job in a town that reeked of exhaust fumes and dashed hopes. “That’s right. On Hollywood’s doorstep, you said?”
Had she? Hazel nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Seen any famous stars yet?”
No one in Dunby would ever know if she stretched the truth a little, so Hazel didn’t hold back. She painted a picture of Marco’s diner as the guilty pleasure of several big-name celebrities. She regaled Rhonda with stories of run-ins that had never happened and autographs she’d never acquired.
“Maybe you could send me one,” Rhonda gushed. “I’ll frame it and keep it by my bedside. Wedding photo, out.”
“I auctioned ’em off on eBay,” Hazel fibbed. “Between you and me, things haven’t always been so rosy. Financially, I mean.”
There was some truth to that—and if she’d had top-billing autographs on hand she certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to sell them for easy cash—but not in any way she wanted to lay out for Rhonda. Word spread fast in a small town like Dunby and the last thing Hazel needed was for everyone to know that she’d fled in disgrace only to sink into poverty on the west coast. People around here had been suspicious of liberal California commies—a local phrasing—for as long as she could remember. She could imagine how smug they’d be when they mentioned her name.
She left out the part where she’d met two men who, while not commies, were certainly as liberal-minded as anything California had to offer. A different sort of rumor could be born of that report and Hazel had been the source of enough salacious gossip to last her a lifetime.
Much in the way Hazel had done with her niece, so too did Rhonda make all the appropriate noises of support and astonishment as she listened politely to stories about Hazel’s life in LA. The half-truths were brought to a swift end by the rumbling of an engine in the driveway.
“That must be Buddy,” Rhonda said, darting to her feet. “I’ll get the door.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Oh,” Rhonda cast over her shoulder, “they’ve had me put my feet up for nine months. I’m bursting with energy. Be right back.”
It seemed to Hazel that she was a tad cavalier about the whole just-released-from-hospital thing, but Rhonda had already escaped the living room couch and was stalking through the foyer, a woman on a mission. Hazel sank back into the chesterfield as she lost her from view. Beside her, the giraffe toppled onto its side.
I know the feeling, little guy.
Voices echoed through the open front door—male, boisterous and familiar.
Hazel rose slowly and braced herself for another round of keen-eyed scrutiny, this time from her fath
er. She tried not to think about her parents comparing notes and coming up with a plan of action to fix whatever was wrong with her. It was far too easy to imagine them like two generals grappling with a logistical problem.
“I don’t think Inès made enough for seven,” Rhonda said, cautionary.
“Not so loud, dear,” Mrs. Whitley pleaded.
Hazel moved closer to the living room door. The way the room was shaped, she had a clear view of the grand stairwell and the statuesque picture her mother cut standing three steps from the ground floor in a black-and-mocha print sheath dress, her pale hand suddenly clenched white-knuckled around the banister.
She recognized her father’s booming voice when he replied, “We’ll think of something, won’t we? Malcolm did good work today. Earned himself a proper supper.” Laughter boomed out of his puffed up chest. “Ain’t that right, Mal?”
“Yes, sir.”
There were hundreds of thousands of Malcolms in the country, probably a few thousand right there in Missouri. But none of them had that lilting, honeyed voice. None of them laughed as if they knew a secret that set them apart from everyone else.
All at once, Hazel seized hold of the wooden frame of the living room doors. Mrs. Whitley glanced at her, shock and maybe a little flash of guilt twisting at her features. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was already too late. Rhonda came into view first, pale and pretty, her baggy shirt and mom jeans doing nothing to detract from her good looks, then Mr. Whitley, an ox of a man in his early sixties, a slightly grizzled version of Hazel’s older brother. A man and a woman stood with him.
Hazel recognized them both.
Somewhere, a camera flashed in a dark room. Through the blinding burst of light and color that blurred her vision, Hazel could just about make out Malcolm’s gleeful smile.
Chapter Twelve
New money was once the first slur in Hazel’s limited vocabulary. Mrs. Whitley and her friends spat it under their breaths so often that in Hazel’s five-year-old mind, it acquired all kinds of nefarious connotations.
But the world changed and in twenty-odd years, new money became a gleeful whisper of courage and go-getter, bootstrap-pulling ethos. Her mother’s eyes sparkled when she mentioned additions to the town whose pockets were loaded. Hazel hadn’t understood how deep the shift went, until now.
Nothing to do with enlightenment—her family was in dire need of cash flow.
And apparently they needed it badly enough to do business with Malcolm Pryce.
“Hazel,” her father started, slightly bemused. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I tried calling you,” Mrs. Whitley interjected, before Hazel could speak.
Her husband cut his eyes toward the stairs. “Ah, must’ve been poor reception.”
“That’s the first thing we’ll have to look into.” Malcolm beamed confidently. “New cell towers.” His tone was light as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Hazel.”
“Mal.” The word was poison on her tongue.
He grinned. “God, it’s been ages… You remember Penelope, don’t you?” With a warm smile, he squeezed his arm around the nipped-in waist of the willowy brunette beside him.
“Of course…”
Penelope moved when no one else did, stalking forward and taking Hazel’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so glad to see you.” Once, she’d been an adept of short leather skirts and tight jeans. She wouldn’t have left the dorm without thick black eyeliner and a studded collar to inform people in-the-know that she was taken and to shock everyone else. Raven hair done up in an asymmetrical bob and her lips painted a very light powder pink, she was a different kind of perfect now. She looked utterly at home in a Chanel blazer worn with riding pants and leather boots.
Hazel felt weirdly underdressed in her presence.
“Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence? We had no idea you were in town.” Penelope’s mouth formed all the appropriate platitudes, but her fingers were a death grip, French manicure digging sharp points into the meat of Hazel’s upper arms. Her breath was a caffeinated fog. She pulled away with smiling eyes. “Are you back in Dunby for good?”
“She’s just visiting,” Mrs. Whitley replied, in her stead.
For once, Hazel was grateful to be talked over. Penelope was so tall that the slope of her shoulder only offered a tiny glimpse of Mal standing a few feet away, watching them. Hazel couldn’t tear her gaze from his. She thought he looked so proud.
“Didn’t realize you knew my daughter, Penelope,” said Mr. Whitley. “Then you must stay for dinner, catch up…”
Malcolm ducked his head, cheeks dimpling as he grinned. “It would be our absolute pleasure.” A shock of floppy blond hair drooped into his blue eyes when he slanted a knowing glance at Hazel.
It wasn’t so long ago that being singled out like that in a crowded room would’ve set her pulse racing. Now, Hazel had to dig her fingers into the door frame to keep from bolting. She didn’t want to be noticed.
She wanted to get away.
* * * *
“I can make your excuses,” Mrs. Whitley said, standing in the doorway of Hazel’s childhood bedroom with arms folded across her chest. “If you’re tired from your flight, I’m sure everyone will understand.”
“I’m not.”
Hazel didn’t need to turn to imagine her mother’s thinned lips, the displeasure she wouldn’t bother concealing. Why can’t you do as you’re told? She had lamented once, not knowing what monster she was cursing into existence.
The silent treatment was difficult to bear, though and eventually, Hazel spun around. “Can I wear the white or will it clash with your décor?” The baggy peasant dress was badly wrinkled from the rucksack, but it was the only non-jean ensemble Hazel had thought to pack. She held it up for her mother’s scrutiny.
“You have nothing else?”
“I left my Donna Karan in LA.”
“Don’t be snide.”
Mrs. Whitley sauntered into the bedroom uninvited and opened the closet doors. She had done it often while Hazel was growing up, mostly to bemoan the state of her room but also to sigh and wonder aloud why Hazel didn’t wear the twin-sets Mrs. Whitley had ordered especially for her.
Because they make me look old and dowdy was never an answer Hazel could get away with.
She breathed more easily now, knowing that whatever was left in her wardrobe couldn’t possibly fit her. College had been the perfect opportunity to make a clean break with her mother’s tastes. Hazel had left behind cashmere sweaters that had probably cost a fortune and demure, knee-length dresses that only exposed her mannish calves, and picked up fishnets, leather—metal chains.
Mrs. Whitley sighed. “I suppose the dress will do.” She didn’t even insist that Hazel pin up her hair or fix her face.
If Hazel didn’t know better, she might have thought her mother was turning a new leaf. Not if hell froze over and all the demons turned into adorable penguins.
Halfway down the stairs, her suspicions were confirmed. Mrs. Whitley seized her arm. “About tonight—”
“Don’t worry.” Hazel didn’t bother forging a smile. “I won’t ruin the party. You won’t even know I’m there.”
Mrs. Whitley insisted on driving the point home. “This contract with Pryce is very important to our family. Whatever romantic history you two have… That is all this is, yes? He courted you, it didn’t work out. He married Penelope.”
“Sure. If that’s how you want to remember it.”
“Hazel—”
“Relax. I didn’t come here to cause a scene.” No matter how much she might have felt like screaming in rage, she could keep that bottled up until she went home, back to Dylan and Ward, back to forgetting this place existed.
She tore free of her mother’s arm and trooped the rest of the way down the stairs. The layout of the house offered plenty of corridors and doors to put distance between herself and the rest of her family. The best choice by far was the kitchen.
When Hazel had been a little girl, she’d been banned from the fridge and pantry, stuck with injunctions against snacking between meals. Covertly, though, the maids would sneak her contraband candy bars and set aside dishes of biscuits when Mrs. Whitley wasn’t looking.
The kitchen was a place of mischief and comfort, a source of gossip and warmth absent from the rest of the house. But the maids Hazel had known were long gone, replaced by a uniformed stranger standing at the kitchen island, methodically slicing celery sticks.
Hazel mustered a smile, then grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and made for the back door.
The smell of gardenias hit her like a slap as soon as she set foot on the flagstone path. It was the scent of late summer, the stark white blossoms swaying gently in the faint, dry breeze. Further away, the tree boughs shimmered and shook, already shedding the first of their sun-scorched leaves.
The Whitleys prided themselves on a grand house—by Dunby standards—and a well-tended yard. In winter, their Christmas decorations were subtle and tasteful. In summer, the backyard bloomed in shades of white and purple, a few pink roses elegantly climbing the trellis of the gazebo.
Hazel didn’t realize someone was already inside the small, hexagonal structure until Penelope turned around.
Her smile was sharkish. “No, that’s all right,” she chirped into the phone pressed to her ear. “We’ll see you when we get back. Kisses!”
It was too late to run. Hazel was already caught in her sights.
“That was Candice.” Penelope reported. “You remember her, don’t you? From college?”
Wyoming-meets-Florida, they’d called her during their less-than-charitable moments—and there had been a lot of those. Penelope had had a list of gripes about everyone they’d known. Club members only got a pass if they happened to be holding the right end of the leash.
“I remember everything.”
Something flashed in Penelope’s eyes. Hazel knew better than to mistake it for remorse.
“You look nice,” Penelope noted lightly, her gaze journeying down Hazel’s white dress and unremarkable flats. Her motto had once been that if something seemed cheap, then it probably was.
