Lavender and gardenia. Such a pretty scent. Stretching with the fluidity and grace of a well-loved cat, I crack open an eyelid, and reality comes crashing back as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings.
“You could be her twin," I whisper. The woman in the pale turquoise wingback chair next to the bed raises her eyes from the novel in her hand and gives me a gentle smile.
"We used to hear that all the time when we were young, and believe me, there were times we took full advantage of it." Her smile deepens, remembering long-ago escapades. “My name is Cecily. Your mom, Catherine, was my big sister. I'm delighted to finally meet you, Stella." Pulling myself to a sitting position against the mountain of pillows behind me, I hesitantly reach out and shake the finely boned and beringed hand she offers me.
"The Damn Box Letter. You sent it." A statement, not a question. I wince at the crassness of it, instantly wanting to take it back.
"I did," she admits with a chuckle and a nod. "I wasn't sure what, if anything, you knew about me, so I thought that might be the least intrusive way of introducing myself. If you had no desire to meet me, you could just ignore the box and the letter and go on with your life."
Not likely.
She watches me with curiosity as I push myself out of the comfort of the pillow mountain and walk to the large window overlooking the mind-blowing landscape below. With trees for what looks like miles in every direction, interspersed with areas of lush green lawn, the property resembles something out of a movie. Closer to the house, an outdoor kitchen and sitting area flank a sparkling aqua swimming pool, complete with a grotto and small waterfall.
"What is this place?" I ask, without turning away from the window.
"This is Tweedvale Cottage." Her use of the word cottage elicits a bark of laughter from me, and she grins in return as she comes to stand beside me. "If you look to the left, past the patio, you can see the roofline through the trees. That’s the original cottage. After the main house was built, the cottage was turned into a guest house by your grandparents," she explains, pointing to a small outbuilding barely visible through the foliage.
The two of us stand silently at the window for a few more minutes, staring out at the grounds. Eventually, Cecily steps back and gestures to the surrounding room.
"I hope the room is alright. I thought you might like to be on this side of the house since it’s a little more private. Parker brought up your bags and put them in the closet for you,” she gestures to the large double wooden doors on the other side of the room. "Take your time to unpack and get cleaned up. If you need anything, let me know, otherwise come down to the kitchen when you're ready. We can have a bite to eat and talk some more." She retrieves her book from the chair and crosses gracefully to the doorway, her pretty silver bangles jingling as she walks. "It really is nice to have you here, Stella," she says softly, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her.
In the fading evening light, I sit back down on the edge of the bed and take in the bedroom my aunt chose for me. You could easily fit three of my apartments in this single room. Two huge windows make up most of the back wall, with the queen-sized mattress and dove gray headboard nestled between them, and the soft, subtle pattern in the duvet cover picking up the turquoise shade of the wingback chair.
The plush silvery carpet is soft and thick, and I can’t help but squish it between my toes as I cross the room to the imposing closet doors. Once I get close enough, I realize the closet doors seem oddly familiar. Running my fingers over the softly burnished wood, inlaid with delicate carvings of twinkling stars and winding vines, I recognize the same beautiful craftsmanship and design from the box Cecily sent me.
Huh. So not store-bought then. I wonder who the woodworker in the family was.
Opening the oversized doors, my laughter bubbles out at the ridiculous sight of my little bag on the floor of the cavernous walk-in closet. The delicate scent of lavender is stronger in here, mixed with a warm, woodsy smell I can't quite identify. My suitcase takes all of two minutes to empty; I stash most of the contents in the built-in drawers and hang the single dress I brought on one of the empty padded hangers. Grabbing my purse and backpack, I toss both on the bed and follow my nose down to the kitchen for something to eat and hopefully some answers.
Hungrier than I thought I would be, we eat dinner quietly, sitting side by side on tall bar stools at the long white kitchen island. The occasional pleasantry and light conversation about my life in New York the only communication passing between us until I sit back with a sigh.
"So." I shift to face Cecily. "What's the deal?" I ask bluntly, crumpling my napkin and dropping it beside my now empty plate.
"You certainly are a Bradleigh," Cecily laughs, turning on her stool to face me. "We tend to not deal well with the unknown, and rarely put up with anybody's shit.” My eyes widen slightly at her relaxed manner. She pauses as if trying to figure out where to begin. “How much do you know about your mother's life before you were born?"
My mind tracks backward, searching for information. There are potholes in my memory big enough to swallow Volkswagens on a good day. I guess it makes some kind of fucked up sense I wouldn’t remember anything about her past. Or did she just never volunteer that information? Sitting here in this place I never knew existed, with an aunt I don’t know, it hits me for the first time how secretive the woman who raised me actually was.
The discomfort I feel must show on my face because Cecily reaches out and puts her hand over mine. Jerking my hand away and pretending not to notice the flash of hurt that flits across her features, I stand and start to pace the gourmet kitchen that runs almost the entire length of the back of the house.
"Why can't I remember her ever telling me about her past? How come I don’t know any stories about my grandparents? How did I not know I had an aunt until a few days ago?” My pulse starts to gallop like a runaway horse, and I can feel my face flushing. “I can tell you her favorite color, her favorite perfume, and what she liked on her burgers. I can draw you a fucking diagram of the freckles on her cheeks. But I can’t tell you the name of her best friend growing up. I can’t tell you where she went to school or why she ran from this place.”
By this time, I'm no longer just pacing; I'm angry pacing. Stomping.
"What kind of fucking mother has no past? What kind of shitty daughter never thinks to ask about it? Did I ask about it and just can't remember? Why can't I remember?" My sentences start to bleed together in my gathering rage, giving an authentic voice to the frustration and fear that I suspect have been building in me for years. Panic, my faithful pain in the ass companion, starts to flutter her black wings. Spinning on my heel with my breathing turning shallow and rapid, I stare Cecily straight in the face.
“What the fuck is going on? Why am I here? Who the hell am I? What do you want from me?” I rudely yell at the top of my lungs. The rational part of my brain keeps telling me to shut up, but oh God, my panicked self is such an asshole. This woman has been nothing but kind to me, and here I am, screaming at her like every bad thing that’s ever happened to me is her fault. Unfortunately, recognizing my shitty behavior doesn’t make it any easier to stop once the freak-out starts. Now she’s going to hate me and send me away before I get any real answers.
Standing and walking forward slowly, likely trying to avoid spooking the psychotic-looking, wide-eyed mess in front of her any further, Cecily reaches out, grasps both of my shaking hands tightly, and simply breathes with me.
No judgment.
No accusations.
No fear.
And as she stands there, silently accepting of my flip-out, my own breathing starts to calm and my heart feels less like it's going to explode out of my chest.
How did she do that?
This woman I met only this morning has somehow instantly made me feel less alone in the world. That in itself should freak me out, but it does just the opposite.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For yelling at you like that,
and for the other thing. On the porch earlier.”
Her peal of laughter startles me.
“You think that’s the first time somebody has thrown up on that porch? Or even on my shoes for that matter? Have I got stories for you, my girl.” She reaches up and tucks a strand of shiny raven black hair behind my ear affectionately.
"Stella," she starts, "I can't tell you what happened in your past, or why your mom had you both using fake names, or even why she ran away from here, but I can tell you I will help you figure it out. Something horrible happened, and that’s all I know. I will share whatever I can about your mother when she was young, about our family, about your family. We can figure this all out together.” Her voice quivers with long unshed tears. “Tweedvale is where you belong. I would like you to stay. Please stay."
Lifting my eyes to meet hers, her tension is visible, anticipating my argument to leave and go back to New York. As tempting as the idea of running back to normal is, something is telling me my path has shifted, and my normal will never be the same. There are answers I need that I can only find here, with Cecily's help. I need to find out what other secrets my mother was keeping, and why they were so important they cost us both the family we deserved. I want to learn about my aunt and explore the life that would have been mine all along.
“What about my apartment back in New York?” I ask with caution. Just thinking about having to go back to dealing with Creeper Todd and his grabby hands right now makes me throw up in my mouth a little, but I need to know I still have a place to go back to if this doesn’t work out. “It’s not the best set-up in the world, but it’s mine. And I also have to make sure it’s okay with my boss if I take some extra time off.”
I start mindlessly biting my left thumbnail. Cecily smiles and reaches out to gently pull my hand away from my mouth, just like my mom used to do.
“We can keep up the rent on your apartment for now. I’m sure your landlord won’t care where you are as long as he’s getting his money. As for work, even from the small amount you told me about your friend Sally at dinner, it sounds like she’ll understand why you want to stay here for a little while.” The hope that shines from her pretty face reaches through my defenses and touches my lonely hidden heart, making my decision easier.
"Okay, I'll stay. At least for a little while."
With that one sentence, all of my mother’s warnings and my promises to her turn to dust, and unbeknownst to me, a terrifying game that had been on pause since my mother left here, starts up again.
Choking back something between a sniffle and a laugh, Cecily wraps me in a bear hug and dances us around the kitchen.
Chapter Four
After what might have been the best night's sleep I’ve ever had, I wander downstairs the next morning in search of something to satisfy my rumbling stomach. Admiring the beautiful art adorning the walls along the way, I’m totally not paying attention to where I’m going.
"Good morning, Miss Bradleigh." I nearly jump out of my skin as Spry rounds the corner and smoothly sidesteps just in time to avoid me crashing into him.
"Good morning!" I reply, at a higher volume than necessary, startled out of my daydreams. "Rule number one, don't gawk and walk." I scold myself out loud, and we both laugh.
"Your aunt is in the kitchen, Miss Bradleigh," he says as he moves past me on his way to the front of the house.
"Thanks, Spry. And it's just Stella!" I call to his retreating back before he closes the heavy front door behind him.
Cecily is leaning against the counter in front of a complicated-looking contraption that is chugging and wheezing and spewing out a thin stream of something that may or may not be coffee. She looks up as I walk into the kitchen, and once again, her resemblance to my mother makes my heart squeeze.
“Good morning. How did you sleep?" She gives me a cheerful smile while the machine in front of her spits the last of its dark brown liquid into her waiting cup.
“Oddly enough, I slept well, thanks. I’m usually a light sleeper, especially in new places. Kind of the whole one eye open thing." I shift nervously, not quite sure if I should sit or stand or run. I'm rusty at being anything but alone. Cecily senses my awkwardness and offers me a distraction in the form of a glass of orange juice before shooing me over to the long kitchen table. She follows close behind with her coffee and a plate of fresh muffins.
"I didn't know what you liked to eat for breakfast, so I thought this would be a safe choice before we go register you for school," she says and sits down across from me.
Miraculously, I manage not to choke to death on the chunk of blueberry muffin I just stuffed in my mouth. I chug half my juice and stare open-mouthed at her, hoping my ears misheard what she just said. Cecily stares right back, neither of us giving an inch.
"School.” The word tastes like chalk in my mouth.
"School," she repeats. “Since you’re going to be staying here, at least for a while, you might as well focus on your senior year and start looking at colleges. You’ve only missed three weeks of classes.” She shrugs. “Go get ready, and we'll finish getting you registered."
College. I’ve never even considered college a possibility. I'm smart, yeah, and I got decent grades right up until my sophomore year in high school. When shit fell apart, school became the least of my worries, and my grades suffered. I switched from traditional high school to an online program to at least try to graduate eventually, but it’s still been challenging to find time for everything I need to do in a day. Besides that, there has never been a remote chance of being able to pay for college, even if my grades were stellar.
Once the initial shock wears off, I realize Cecily said finish getting me registered.
"Finish?” I question. “Oh, Auntie dear, how can we finish something we haven't even started yet?” I squint at her across the table, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. She just laughs her tinkly laugh and brushes me off with a wave.
"What can I say, I’m an optimist. As soon as you told me you were coming, I might have called a friend at Woodington to advise them you would be enrolling." With that little nugget of truth, she turns and floats out of the kitchen, leaving me gaping after her.
Woodington is actually Woodington Academy, an imposing century-old institution of higher learning with a storied history and a long line of fantastically successful alumni. At least that's the line the headmistress tried to spoon-feed me at the very long and very dull registration meeting yesterday.
Both Cecily and my mother were students here at one time, though only Cecily graduated. Her strong ties to the school might explain how I bypassed the substantial waiting list and was allowed to enroll after the start of the school year.
Almost like magic, my aunt had five complete uniforms appear in my closet overnight, pressed and hanging perfectly. Dark navy blazers, charcoal skirts, crisp white shirts, and a choice of long navy socks or tights. I'm even wearing a tie, for fuck's sake, though I had to ask Spry to teach me how to knot it properly.
Dressed in what feels like borrowed finery, I’m glad my shoes are still all me. One thing Cecily didn’t think of was footwear, and oh boy, was she kicking herself for that this morning when she saw these beauties. My well-worn black and white Vans make me smile as I stare down at them, remembering Sally calling them my Spicoli slides. When I told her I didn’t know what that meant, she made me watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High with her after calling me a heathen.
My smile falters as a perfect pair of high-heeled black patent Mary Janes step into view, rousing me from my thoughts.
Here we go.
"Stella Bradleigh?" the shoes ask politely in a lilting, smoky voice. Looking up, I'm struck by the silver-blonde beauty of the girl standing in front of me with her hand held out in greeting.
“Yeah. Hi.” I stumble over my words a little. “I’m she. She’s me.”
Fuuuuuuck. Deep breath, spaz.
“Sorry. Hi. Yes, I’m Stella.”
"I'm Sunday Easton, and I’ve been assign
ed as your peer mentor to show you around Woodington." She shakes my hand with a much firmer grip than I expected and grins down at my feet in appreciation. "Love your shoes. There's a hot pink pair of Chuck Taylors I keep hidden in the back of my closet so my mother can't find them and throw them out." Sticking her nose in the air, she says in her best haughty fake British accent, "Eastons don't wear sneakers, Sunday Grace." She rolls her warm hazel eyes and then laughs at the look of disbelief on my face at the mention of her middle name. "Oh yes, it’s true, but don’t worry, I do my best to not live up to the name. Perfect saintly Mother would shit twice and die if she knew half the things this Easton does." She grins and jerks her thumb at her chest for emphasis.
Something in Sunday's manner and easy laugh makes me instantly comfortable. My gut tells me I can be friends with this girl, no problem. My whole life, I’ve been conditioned to stand apart and keep everybody except my mother at a safe distance. Maybe it’s time for something different. We spend the next few minutes comparing notes on books we've both read, movies we've seen, and music we love. Who knew a California rich girl would have tastes so in line with a poor girl from small-town New York?
The school secretary, clearly annoyed with our conversation, manages to ask us almost politely to take it elsewhere. I follow Sunday out through the office door, and into the crowd of students milling around in the front foyer. We've got about forty minutes before our first class, so I'm surprised to see so many kids already here. Surrounded by all the visible privilege and wealth, I'm a little off my game. So much so, that I walk right into the back of my guide as she comes to an abrupt halt in front of me.
Fragile Things (Folkestone Sins Book 1) Page 3
