The Marriage Pact

by Winter Renshaw

  I don’t know their names yet.

  Or wait, I don’t remember them.

  Grandma told me what they were in passing, but I was only half listening and now all I remember is that they were old-money names—the kinds of names that sound like they should be last names and not first names.

  In L.A., we had names like Ocean and Sea and Skye and Plum and Pilot. Nouns. Here it’s like people pluck surnames from their family trees and call it good.

  I return the picture frame to its home next to the shiny blue lamp and make my way to the en suite bathroom. Dragging in a breath of sea salt air, I tug on a pair of yellow latex gloves, grab a scrub brush, and drop to my knees. Months ago, I thought for sure I’d be spending my summer at the pool between putting in hours at the fro-yo shop, but here I am, on an island with no internet polishing some rich asshole’s toilet.

  But in all fairness, I don’t know if the sandy blond Yale guy is an asshole. It probably isn’t fair of me to make assumptions like that, but anyone who summers on an island and sails seven days a week and has a name like Remington or Bexley or Ellington or … THAYER.

  His name is Thayer.

  That’s right.

  Anyway, anyone who summers on an island and sails seven days a week and has a name like Thayer … and has a disgustingly wealthy grandfather and attends Yale statistically isn’t the most down-to-earth, relatable kind of person. At least not in my experience.

  Not to mention the fact that I’ve caught him staring at me a few times now—the first time was shortly after I’d arrived. The second time was when I was helping Grandma wash breakfast dishes and Thayer came in to grab a green apple from the fruit bowl (which I swear was nothing more than an excuse to be in the room) and locked gazes with me the entire time.

  I’m not sure what his end game is, but I’ll have no problem informing him that he’s not my type—if it comes to that.

  My hand throbs from gripping the handle of the scrub brush too tight, so I stop and rest for a second. Sweeping my hair out of my eyes, I take a look around at all the marble and penny tile and shiny silver hardware that surrounds me.

  It’s beautiful and timeless, and I hope these people know how lucky they are to have a place like this as a second home.

  “Oh. My bad,” a guy’s voice sends my heart ricocheting into my throat, and I glance up to find Mr. Yale Sweatshirt himself standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

  Shirtless.

  Glistening with sweat.

  Like he’s just gone for a run or a hike or whatever the hell people can do to work out on a rock-and-cliff-covered island.

  I’ve been here four days now and he’s yet to say a single word to me. He simply stares at me with those stormy sapphire blues that I’m sure make all the campus girls swoon.

  The burn of bleach cleaner stings my eyes. “I’m almost done. Give me two more minutes.”

  I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell him to wait or what the rules are in this kind of scenario. Grandpa said something about how we’re supposed to be seen and not heard and we’re never to argue with any of them or refuse a single request, but it seems ridiculous to be so formal with him given the fact that we’re practically the same age.

  “No problem.” He grabs a towel within arm’s reach and dabs at his damp forehead, messing up his hair in the process. I have an urge to finger comb it back into place for him, but I’m pretty sure touching these people in any capacity goes against the house rules too. “I can wait.”

  I don’t tell him he could alternatively use one of the other dozens of bathrooms in this place.

  Thayer lingers, watching me as I get back to scrubbing the marble penny tile floor of his bedroom-sized bathroom. I’m pretty sure you could fit an entire studio apartment in here. Maybe two if we’re talking Manhattan-style.

  I wipe the rest of the bathroom down in a hurry and snap off my gloves, returning all the supplies to my plastic caddy, and then I squeeze past him.

  “Lila, right?” he asks when I’m halfway across the room. I stop, pivoting toward him.

  I realize now that we haven’t been properly introduced, nor have we been alone in the same room together. The only introduction I’ve received so far was on my first day on the job when I was pouring coffee in the dining room as Mr. Bertram went around the table spouting out names I had no intention of memorizing, and then he asked me to grab the creamer from the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on his when all they want to do is pore over the length of his perfectly-chiseled torso.

  He might not be my type, but it doesn’t mean I can’t find him attractive.

  I mean, honestly, you’d have to be dead or blind not to see how ridiculously, unfairly, and disgustingly hot this guy is.

  “Thayer,” he says.

  “I know.”

  He lingers, leaning against the doorway, the sweaty towel still in his hands.

  “You, uh, you like it so far out here?” he asks.

  No.

  But I can’t tell him that.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I say. “I look forward to my stay here this summer.”

  His full mouth inches up at one side and my heart revs in my chest.

  “You’re lying,” he says with the cutest smirk I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Excuse me?”

  He takes a step closer.

  Then another.

  What is he doing?

  “It’s lonely here. It’s isolating. We’re an hour’s boat ride from the mainland. We get the mail and groceries once a week. There’s no internet. You don’t have to say you’re looking forward to your summer here,” he says.

  “All right. Fine.” I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. “But the place is beautiful. I meant that part.”

  His smirk morphs into a full-on smile that literally makes me weak in the knees, and he drags his hand through his mussed-up hair.

  “I’ve summered here for as long as I can remember,” he says. I hate that he’s using ‘summered’ as a verb, but I let it slide. “If my family wasn’t freakishly close knit, I’d never come here by choice.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I smile and nod like the good little housemaid I’m trying to be.

  “The twins are having a bonfire tonight,” he says, his dark brows arching as he pauses. “It’s on the other side of the east cliffs, just after the sun sets. You should come hang out with us. There’s this little alcove right off the water, and—”

  “—I can’t,” I interrupt him.

  His eyes search mine, and then he squints as if he thinks he misheard me. But from the moment I set foot on this island, my grandparents made it abundantly clear that I’m not to hang out with Mr. Bertram’s grandchildren. They told me I’m here to work and not to play, that it was imperative that we remain professional at all times, and that any trouble I might find myself in would reflect poorly on them—potentially costing them their jobs.

  “Thanks for the invite though.” I turn to leave.

  “You can’t? Or you don’t want to?” he asks.

  I stop again, but this time I keep my back to him. I appreciate his kindness, but this is for the best.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I close his door behind me on my way out and all but sprint down the stairs. Turning the corner, I nearly run into his mother on my way to the back door.

  “Excuse me. I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Everything okay, lovey?” she calls as I slip my shoes on. I can’t remember her name—only that she’s nice and she calls everyone ‘lovey.’

  “Yep, everything’s fine,” I call back. “Thanks.”

  “Have you seen Thayer, by chance?” she asks.

  “He’s upstairs, I believe.” I tie the laces on my Chucks, and then I’m gone, out the door, heading back to my grandparents’ cottage, which is ironically bigger than the average American house. There’s nothing quaint about it, though I guess when y
ou put it next to The Bertram, The Ainsworth, and The Caldecott, it gives off cottage vibes.

  When I get inside, I kick off my shoes and trek to the kitchen to pour a glass of my grandma’s famous Earl Grey iced tea, and then I collapse on the plaid sofa, watching the wind make the curtains dance and listening to the seagulls and crash of the ocean waves.

  The muscles of my upper back burn, and my knees are on fire. Cleaning all day every day is no joke—and my grandma’s been doing this for decades.

  I think she likes this sort of thing though, being a housekeeper. She likes structure and order and cleanliness and being needed.

  The sound of a chainsaw in the distance is more than likely my grandpa doing one of the zillions of outdoor projects Bertram has him working on. I think this morning over breakfast he mentioned cutting down some dead trees for firewood—aaaaand now I’m thinking about that bonfire.

  I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to go.

  Of course I want to go.

  There are three other people on this island who are my age, and I’d much rather hang out with them on a Friday night than hole up in my new room getting firsthand experience of how people lived before the internet was born.

  Sitting up, I rest my arm on the back of the couch and stare out the window toward Thayer’s house. I can’t quite get a read on him yet given the fact that we’ve had one conversation in the history of ever, but if he was nice enough to try to include me in his plans tonight, he can’t be all that bad.

  But still, I’ve been here less than a week. I can’t rock the boat. I can’t flirt with rebellion. If there’s anything the last several weeks has taught me, it’s that life can get real in a matter of seconds.

  All it takes is one moment and your entire life can change.

  Just like that.

  Chapter 3

  Thayer

  “Thayer, you want to take over once I get us turned around?” Granddad steers us portside as Westley tightens the flapping sheets in the second mast of the ketch. It’s just us three this afternoon on the water. Junie packed us a picnic basket filled with enough food to feed an army, and Rat Pack music plays from the tinny speakers of a portable radio.

  I’m lying on my back, hands behind my head and the sun warm on my face.

  “You need me to?” I ask, sitting up.

  Granddad’s smile fades, and I realize he was only asking because he takes pride in watching me follow in his footsteps in any capacity. He never had a son—but the way he treats Westley and I, you’d think we were his.

  “I got it,” I say, motioning for him to get out of the way as I take over steering duties.

  He moves to the windward side, taking a seat and grabbing the handrail for balance. There’s a look on his face, the one he gets when there’s something he wants to talk about, so I brace myself.

  “So.” Granddad clears his throat. “That girl. That … Lila.”

  “What about her?” I adjust my sunglasses. I’ve done my best this week to avoid being overly friendly, but I couldn’t help talking to her when I came back from my hike and she was in my room. It would’ve been rude not to make small talk when we were in such close quarters, and I refuse to ignore her, to treat her like she’s beneath me just because she’s a housemaid.

  Granddad chuckles. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. Wasn’t born yesterday. I know what it means when a young man looks at a young lady a certain way ...”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He leans forward, elbows on his tanned knees. “She’s a beautiful girl, and I remember what it was like to be nineteen. That said, I just want to make sure you remember our conversation the other day.”

  Westley finishes tightening the sheet and glances back at us, removing his hat and replacing it as he tries to determine if he should join us or not.

  “Granddad, I can assure you I would never create a liability for you,” I say.

  “You’re a good kid, Thayer,” he says, and I cringe at the fact that he still views me as some knobby-kneed, freckle-faced child running around the island. “But you’re young. And you’re naïve. And there’s a lot of life you haven’t experienced yet. All I’m saying is if you’re smart, and I know you are, you won’t waste your time on some meaningless fling. She might be beautiful, but beauty fades and summer always ends.”

  “All due respect, I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

  He leans back, almost grinning at the water like he’s lost in his own thoughts for a second.

  “Because as different as we are, I still see so much of myself in you,” he says. “And I see a whole future for you that won’t happen if you lose yourself in someone else at your age.”

  “I’ll never lose myself in anyone.”

  He turns back to me, removing his sea-misted aviators. “That’s what I always said too. And then I met your grandmother.”

  He draws in a long breath between parted lips before slipping his glasses back over his nose, and then he lets it go, shoulders sagging. He always gets like this whenever she’s mentioned—contemplative, melancholic. And I get it. She was the love of his life. She was his person, his everything, his soulmate.

  A part of him died along with her, and he’s never been the same since. At least that’s what my mother says. I was only four when Gram passed. I don’t remember much of what he was like before that, but I do have pictures of him bouncing us on his knees, playing “horsey” and letting us try on his skipper hats.

  I know he means well, he’s just trying to protect me from the hurt and the pain he’s been suffering since losing her, so I let the conversation go.

  The gruff old man with the hard outer shell turns his face from mine, and from the corner of my eye, I watch him wipe a single tear from his eye.

  “May I ask if Westley got the same warning or does this only apply to me?” I ask in partial jest, though I’m curious to know just the same.

  “I’ve already had this talk with Westley on three separate occasions,” Granddad snips back, his tone a wordless reminder that it’s none of my business. “Anyway, should we check the lobster traps?” he asks a second later, as if the last two minutes never happened. “Yes. I think we should. And we will. Westley ...”

  The two of them adjust the mainsheet and boom, and I steer us toward one of Granddad’s lobster traps.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent in contemplative silence, Granddad likely thinking of better times with Gran and Westley probably thinking about lacrosse.

  By the time we get back, the sun’s just beginning to set over the water, and once the ketch is stowed away and we head back up to Granddad’s, it’s almost dark and there’s a chill in the air.

  The Twins will be starting the bonfire soon over at the alcove, and I can’t help but wonder if Lila might change her mind about coming and show up.

  I can’t say I’d be disappointed.

  Quite the contrary.

  Granddad can lay down all the laws he wants, but it doesn’t make me any less curious about her. Despite the fact that we’ve spent all of maybe ten minutes around one another total, I can already tell she’s unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.

  On the outside, she’s the quintessential sun-kissed, bleached-blonde Californian, but there’s nothing warm or laidback about her. She’s guarded and distant, but I know there’s something more beneath all of that. All the times she’s caught me staring at her, she’s stared right back—and I don’t even know if she realizes it. And earlier? In my suite? I clearly made her nervous. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  All I know is she’s a cocktail of contradictions and I find her utterly fascinating.

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  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra-portable laptop. When she’s not writing,
she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair (don’t ask).

  Winter also writes psychological suspense under the name Minka Kent. Her debut novel, THE MEMORY WATCHER, was optioned by NBC Universal in January 2018.

  Winter is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

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