by Dawn Ius
Two more buzzes come in rapid succession.
Now my heartbeat begins to gallop. I close my fingers on the small gold cross dangling around my neck, fear seeping into my chest like a thunderous cloud. I don’t deserve His protection tonight, but the cool metal soothes my anxiety.
I lick my lips, contemplating my options. It’s probably just Mr. Dent. Last night he rang at midnight, his cheeks flushed, the strong smell of alcohol clinging to his clothes like death, claiming to have left his key at the pub. Another chink in my father’s fortress, for which I shouldered the blame.
I consider leaving Mr. Dent out in the cold. To be honest, he kind of gives me the creeps. There’s a distinct scent in his guest suite. Musky and sour, like what I imagine it’s like after sex. A shiver trickles down my spine.
Thump. Thump. Knock.
I startle.
Outside, dark clouds roll across the face of a half-moon. Clusters of stars twinkle down on a light dusting of snow, making the ground glisten in red and green under the Christmas lights from the neighbor’s house.
Fresh guilt slides under my skin—I can’t very well leave a paying guest outside on Christmas Eve. Isn’t that the precise reason I told Father I would stay behind?
I wipe my hands on a dishrag and tiptoe into the hall. The family photographs that line the wall guide me down the dimly lit corridor, the pictures faded and old, frames peeling at the corners. They’re not even hung straight, most of them just strategically placed to mask the cracks in the drywall.
Another knock and my pulse leaps right into my throat.
I flatten my hand against my chest, steadying my heart rate. I’m no chicken, but the amount of security in this place is a clear indication of Dad’s paranoia. The B and B doesn’t have Internet, cable television, or decent cell reception, but we’re sealed up like a high-tech Alcatraz.
To keep the outsiders out, Father says. Like the people of Fall River, who are—allegedly—after his money. Best I can tell, the only “outsider” in this town sleeps beside him and is well on her way to draining his accounts. Unfortunately, my case against her has flatlined, while my unusual menstrual cycle and strange behavior has made me a prime candidate for a straitjacket. Go figure.
And anyway, my gut says Father’s obsession with security has everything to do with keeping me here, under his fleshy thumb. Trapped in his prison—for my own protection, obviously. He’s an effective warden.
I peer through the peephole.
Blink.
The redheaded female on the other side is tall and thin, with wild green eyes that seem to stare into my soul. A fluttering rises up from my stomach and gathers in my chest, circling my heart.
I jump back and touch my mouth with two fingers. Shifting closer, I peek again. Draw in my breath. The girl runs her hand through the chaos of her hair and adjusts the knitted cap that traps most of her wayward strands in place. A single curl feathers across her cheek, just barely above her top lip. My eyes lock on her mouth. There’s a small hole in the right-hand corner, like maybe where a piercing once had been.
A scarf is wrapped around her throat—Earth, Mars, Saturn, the whole galaxy, I’m sure, twists in the wind. I flatten my eyeball to the peephole, so close I can almost feel the glass against my pupil. The girl angles her head to reveal a small crescent shape that curves at the base of her ear.
Her jaw tenses.
She leans closer and I’m sure she can see me, hear me, feel me. Her breath fogs up the glass.
I step back and ease the door open, carefully poking my head into the cold. The breeze nips at my nose, my chest, burrows deep in my bones.
The girl’s entire face brightens in a mesmerizing smile. “Um . . . hi,” she says. Her voice is like a melody.
My eyes grow wide as I take in the layers of her clothing—a fitted plaid shawl draped over an olive print dress that falls to mid-calf. Two sections of flesh, red from the wind and cold, poke out from where her dress stops and purple ankle boots begin. A tattoo winds around the skin there, but I can’t read the faded inscription—something Latin, maybe? She adjusts her crocheted backpack on her shoulder. “I’m . . . Bridget.”
I draw a blank. It’s as though someone has stolen my voice.
Her beautiful smile slips a little. “Bridget Sullivan. The new—”
Maid, I think, just as a wave of nausea sucker punches me in the gut and everything goes dark.
CHAPTER
3
The girl—Bridget—stares down at me from behind the thin curtain of her strawberry hair, her large liquid eyes wide with concern. I’m completely sucked in.
“Welcome back,” she says, a hint of Irish accent slipping out.
The back of my head throbs, my mouth is dry and pasty. I wet my lips and squint against the pain pounding against my skull. “Blacked out?”
Yup, she nods.
The first pinpricks of humiliation trickle across my skin. “I’m sorry, I . . .”
Bridget shakes her head. “Don’t be! This one time, a snake slithered in front of me and I screamed so long, I passed out. . . .”
Her animated voice turns to white noise as I spot the smear of red on her calf. A knot forms in my chest. She’s bleeding. No, that’s not quite right. The cramping in my abdomen, the stickiness between my thighs. She’s been bled on. My cheeks go hot. “Oh, God, I’m so—”
Bridget waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t you dare apologize.” She uses the inside of her wrist to scrub at the smear of my blood on her leg, and then wipes it on her skirt. The smudge blends in with the whimsical pattern of swirls and flowers. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. I rolled you off me and left you bleeding for dead.”
“So that’s why my hip hurts?” Heat crawls up the side of my neck. “How embarrassing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—it happened to me just last week.”
My traitorous lip curls into a half smile. I push myself up onto my elbows with a grunt. Something inside of me aches. “Sure, and I’m Lady Báthory.”
Her head tilts toward the blood smear. “Maybe that’s me.” She grins, and my stomach flips end over end. “I’m actually an old hag who keeps her youthful appearance by bathing in the blood of beautiful young women.”
I feel heat in my throat, my cheeks, and I realize that I’m blushing. I’d turn away, but that would only highlight it more, so I hold still. So very still. Bridget stands taller, glowing, as if her body is absorbing the attention. I’m not surprised. She’s probably used to being gawked at.
Her mouth parts a little, and dang if my eyes don’t focus in on her lips. They’re pink, like cherry blossoms, and it makes me wonder if they’d taste half as sweet. My breath catches. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I’ve dreamed of this moment before—my first kiss, first love, being with a girl. But on the heels of those thoughts always comes the gut-twist of shame. The knowledge that not only would the church, my father, never approve of such a relationship—or any relationship, really—but also that my feelings could never be reciprocated. What would anyone see in me?
I stare at Bridget with longing, searching her face for some kind of signal that maybe she senses something different between us too, but her expression is playful, unreadable.
A sour chuckle rises at the back of my throat. A girl like Bridget wouldn’t have given me a second thought if I hadn’t period-bled on her leg. Embarrassed, I drag my eyes from her face, only to spot another streak of blood on the beige tile. Behind it, the Charlie Brown Christmas tree beside the door lies on its side, pieces of broken glass ornaments peppering its base.
“Obviously, you’re not a virgin,” Bridget says. I gasp aloud. Her smile widens and I’m dumbstruck by her beauty—it’s radiant, like the glow from an angel’s halo. I touch my cross, silently thanking Him for this gift, if even for a snapshot in time.
“Virgin to the whole passing-out thing,” Bridget adds quickly, shyly. Her sudden awkwardness is utterly adorable, and I find myself grinning like a lovesick sc
hoolgirl.
I blow out a slow breath. “Not even close.” Here I could launch into a lengthy monologue about my menstrual condition. Instead I shift to take pressure off my hip. Even the slight movement makes me wince. Behind Bridget, the open doors creak against the lightly blowing wind. A shiver ripples down my spine. “It’s only day twenty-eight. . . .” I shake my head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”
Bridget extends her hand. “Let me help you up.” She tilts her head and her hair cascades over one shoulder to fall across her breast. “Unless you’re planning to sleep here. In which case, point me to the blankets and I’ll build us a fort.”
A nervous giggle shoots more pain along my rib cage. Tears gather in my eyes, and I blink them away. Dang it. Everything hurts. Even my heart, as though someone is squishing it, trying to mold it into submission.
I won’t—can’t—give in.
“Okay, no fort.” Bridget crouches so we’re eye level, her smile crooked and perfect. “You’re not okay, are you?” She licks her lips and I’m hypnotized. “You fell pretty hard and I tried to catch you, but I lost my balance and . . .” She shrugs, helpless. “I landed on my ass. You fell on top of me. The rest is history.”
I close one eye and squint. “I don’t suppose we could forget this ever happened?”
She holds out her hand as if to shake mine. “Hi. I’m Bridget. Bridget Sullivan, the new maid.” Her skin is pale and lightly freckled. A giant blue gemstone glints at me from her pinky. My eyes skim across her long fingers, which extend into well-manicured nails painted lavender. She catches me staring and grins. My heart feels like it’s free-falling through my chest, making me lighter, freer. “Your turn,” she says with a wink.
I blink, as if to reset my racing thoughts. The overwhelming sense of confusion doesn’t fade—it gets worse instead, rising up through my esophagus in rolling waves.
“And my name is . . . ,” she prods, her grin impish.
“Are you sure I didn’t bump my head?” Dang it. What is it about Bridget that makes me off-kilter, a little not quite myself? I limply take her hand. Another shock rockets through my core and I almost pull back. “I’m Lizzie Borden. I own the B and B.” I scrunch up my nose. “I mean, I guess my family does.”
“Oy,” she says. “Talk about making a good impression on the owners’ daughter.” She leans over and starts plucking pieces of the glass ornaments off the floor, gathering them in the palm of her hand. I’m transfixed by her elegance, her nonchalance. Bridget stands, spots the garbage can beside the reception desk, and dumps the debris inside. As she passes the spot of blood on the tile, she rubs her shoe across it, scuffing it clean. “Got a broom?”
I curl forward, forcing myself to sit. The pain shifts from my hip and flares down my lower back. I’m a dang wreck. “You’re not sweeping the floor. You haven’t even started work yet.” She’s actually days early. “Besides, it’s Christmas Eve.”
We glance at the clock over the desk and in unison say, “Christmas, actually.”
“Jinx,” we echo, and then share another laugh. I’m stunned by how in sync we are.
Bridget tucks her hands behind her back. “So . . . this is nice.” She spins in a slow circle. “The color is pretty.” It’s puke green. “And this desk must have cost a fortune.” Five bucks at the thrift shop. She spots the service bell and flattens her palm on top of it three times. A warbled ding, ding, ding croaks out. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” She cups her hand over her mouth. “Shit! Is there anyone here? Of course there is, it’s an inn. Fuck. I hope I didn’t wake anyone. . . . Did . . . I . . . wake someone?”
It hurts to laugh, but I do anyway. “I think it’s just me and Mr. Dent, and I’m pretty sure he wears headphones so he can’t hear himself snore.”
Bridget unties her scarf—it’s such a beautiful scarf—and drapes it over her slender arm. “Oh man, that’s rough. My ex-boyfriend was a real Darth Vader.”
A sharp pang of jealousy sucker punches me in the gut, and the small thread of hope coiled around my heart dissolves with a painful hiss. Of course she likes boys. Why would I think otherwise? Because she was nice to me? I’m so naive.
Her voice goes shallow as she breathes. In. Out. In. “You know? ‘Luke, I am your father . . .’ ” Her grin flattens. “Never mind. Here, let me help you up.”
“Please.”
Bridget wraps her cool fingers around my wrist, the low hum of her energy like a sub-bass tingling against my skin. She pulls, I push, and somehow, I stand. A wave of nausea hits and I reach for her shoulders to steady myself. She smells faintly of cotton candy, and I breathe it in.
Standing next to her, I feel strange. Unbalanced.
Her emerald eyes fill with concern. “You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”
A small drop of blood trickles down my upper thigh. I press my legs together to stop it from hitting the ground and dribbling at my feet. “I’m ninety-nine-percent sure it’s a once-a-month occurrence.”
“ ‘Never tell me the odds,’ ” she says in a deep, sexy voice that makes my knees buckle a little. Her cheeks go pink. “Sorry. Another Star Wars reference.”
Grasping for some way to keep her talking, joking, to prolong this moment, however awkward, I glance down at her exquisite scarf. “You like things to do with outer space.”
“My mom gave me this when I turned ten,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “But yeah, I guess I’ve always been obsessed. I used to take her silver eyeliner and draw stars on my cheeks.” She lifts her hair to reveal a small crescent moon tattooed behind her left ear. “I got this when I was fourteen.” Her shy grin worms under my skin, filling my entire body with warmth. “I’m kind of a geek.”
A gust of wind blows through the open door, bringing with it a fine mist of ice rain. It’s enough to shock me back to reality. Christmas Mass will end any second, and Abigail can’t see us talking, laughing. “Servants” at the Borden B and B are not meant to be seen or heard.
“We should bring the rest of your things in,” I say.
Bridget points to the small rainbow backpack puddled on the floor. “That’s everything.”
My jaw drops. “Everything?”
Fresh curiosity buzzes through me. I don’t own much, but even the few items I care about—trinkets, my rosary and Bible, my journal, pictures of me and Ems—would need a half-decent-size suitcase, at least.
Bridget winks. “It’s magic.” Her stomach growls, drowning out another of my humiliating giggles. She presses her lips together, but her laughter seeps through.
“Someone’s hungry,” I say.
Her face goes crimson. “Don’t mind him—that’s just my guard dog, Seth.”
“Sounds ferocious.”
“He can be.” She bites her lower lip and again my thoughts veer far from innocent. I close my clammy palm around the cool steel of my cross. Oblivious, Bridget grins. “So, you got any food for this guy?”
Fire rushes to my cheeks. “Meat loaf?”
“Sounds delicious.”
My voice is too loud, too sure. “Oh yes, it’s utterly to die for.”
CHAPTER
4
Bridget flops onto the bed, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress so that the heels of her purple boots click, click, click together. Her pale calves are almost white against the pink-and-yellow floral bedspread.
I shuffle my foot across the worn, patterned carpet, my freshly washed toes leaving while ridges in the grime. It’s a sin for someone as beautiful as Bridget to be surrounded by so much gloom. “My sister and I painted your room,” I say.
She stares at me with eyes that make me think of lush jungles, which is maybe why all common sense gets tangled in my throat. “It’s yellow,” I add, and my face goes so hot I expect it to burst into flames. “Obviously.”
She giggles.
Twirling a strand of wet hair, I focus on the thin strip of wallpaper at the back where the drywall meets the low end of the lofted
ceiling. No matter how hard Emma and I scrubbed, we couldn’t strip it clean. Like somehow the house itself is clinging to it, refusing to release the memories, no matter how painful or old.
“Where is this sister of yours?” Bridget says, expertly pulling me back into the moment. “I must thank her.”
“Oh, she’s at college in Boston.” I swallow the tightness that threatens to close off my throat every time I think about Emma being gone. It stings that she isn’t home for Christmas, that we seem to be drifting further apart. The gaping hole in my chest thrums with a constant emptiness, a hollow ache that until this moment seemed impossible to heal. For the first time since my sister left, the pain isn’t debilitating, and that awareness fills me with hope. “Emma picked the color. She said it reminded her of sunshine. . . .”
You are my sunshine.
I swipe clear my mother’s singsong voice, echoing from the dark recesses of my memory.
Bridget pulls a pair of oversize sunglasses out of her rainbow backpack, puts them on, and falls backward onto the mattress. Her hair splays out like a fan. “I can actually feel the heat. . . .”
My heart is like a hummingbird.
I’ve grown up in this cold house of darkness and deprivation, my youth structured around the rigid adherence to church teachings and my father’s hypocritical heavy hand. But there’s something bohemian about Bridget—wild, bright, free. Everything I’ve wished for.
Even things I never knew I wanted.
Bridget lifts her head and smiles. “I’m serious. Check it out.” She pats the bed. “Lie down next to me.”
It’s playful. A teasing invitation. Soft, gentle, and yet it comes to me as a command. Her voice is so persuasive it’s almost physical. Something about it makes me queasy and breathless, but I climb onto the mattress and roll onto my back, tingling in quiet anticipation.
She slips the sunglasses over my eyes, fingertips skimming across my skin. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes,” I whisper, but I’m sure we’re not talking about the same thing. My entire body buzzes with restless energy. I’ve only just caught my breath when her warm hand closes over mine. I can’t move away, not that I’ve tried.
