In the dark, Hannah’s mouth found the hollow of Huck’s throat, and he held her. He tasted of salt and skin, and she felt his sharp intake of breath. Her body moved to his, melted against him, and he whispered against her hair, her neck, “I love you, Hannah,” and she knew that he meant it. And that now, someday soon, he’d want to know all of her, the parts she’d kept secret: Wyatt. Julia and Aunt Fae and Trina. Wes. She’d never told anyone about her stepfather, not even Julia. She couldn’t imagine telling anyone now; it felt like it had all happened in another lifetime, to another person.
And still predominant, the circling uncertainty: Would Huck have loved her more had he never come to Brackenhill? Had he never seen with his own eyes the complications of her childhood, of her family? And what if he had never known the secrets of the castle, the ways in which this visit would change her, change them, because surely it would if it hadn’t already done so. She tried to push away this feeling—that this was an ending for them, not a beginning—and found she couldn’t. And maybe it was a necessary end: the end of false happiness. To be married, you had to be real. True. Complicated. Messy.
When they shed their clothes, Hannah had the disorienting feeling that she wasn’t in bed with Huck but with Wyatt. She remembered the first time, her first time ever, in Wyatt’s bed in his dad’s house, with the shades drawn in the middle of the day. She remembered the way he’d smelled—musky and woodsy—the way he’d moved, carefully, fervently, how fast it had been over. And the second time, that same day, hours later, when she’d climbed on top of him, clinging, desperate.
And now Huck whispering that he loved her as he climaxed. She felt the shame in that, thinking of another man during sex. Wyatt showing up at the front door had done a number on her.
She refocused on Huck, on his smile, a glint of something both loving and mischievous in his eyes. “I want to know all of you, Hannah,” he whispered. She let herself be pulled under, away from the castle, Uncle Stuart, the accident, the bone, to a place where nothing mattered, where her sister was alive and they were all happy and she could lie in the garden and see all four turrets in periphery and the sun beat down and she loved a man who loved her back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Now
Hannah found Huck in the kitchen later, preparing a sandwich for dinner. She felt disoriented, hardly believing that Rink had found the jawbone this morning. That it was still the same day, even the same week.
A purple sky was a thin streak through the kitchen window. Twilight at Brackenhill. She remembered it. The smell of Aunt Fae in the kitchen, the house settling in for the night, the heavy anticipation as they’d prepared for the evening, Uncle Stuart washing his hands—long trails of dirt swirling in the porcelain sink. In late summer, the air felt pregnant with rain.
Still, even in the night, Brackenhill hadn’t scared Hannah. The pool, the basement—these things were thrilling. Terrifying in an exhilarating way. Hannah had never felt in danger. Julia would tremble at each creak and groan, but Hannah had blown it off, hardly noticed it. She’d accepted it when Aunt Fae had attributed the strangeness to the house’s age, its size, the wind, the mountain air.
Hannah slid onto a stool at the kitchen island. When Huck turned, he held out two plates, two sandwiches. He smiled at her, a dimple in his left cheek, and Hannah said, “Thank you.”
“You must have needed the nap. You’ve been asleep almost two hours. You never nap,” he teased her.
“It’s so weird. I don’t think I’ve been sleeping well here. I mean, when I wake up, it seems like I was knocked out, but I don’t feel rested.” Hannah took a bite, pressed her lips with a folded paper towel. The food tasted like dust. “That doesn’t make sense, I guess.”
She’d forgotten that she hadn’t slept well as a child. In Plymouth she’d always been listening for the creak of her bedroom door—something else Huck knew nothing about. Here, at Brackenhill, she used to sleep fitfully. Waking up all over the house, sometimes in the middle of tasks: making a sandwich or once, dangerously, starting a fire in the fireplace. The sleepwalking had only happened during the summer at Brackenhill. That last summer had been particularly bad, with episodes nearly every other night. Hannah had tried to tell Julia, but her sister had blown her off, acted like she was imagining things or like it hadn’t happened.
In Virginia, as an adult, she’d slept so soundly and peacefully she’d forgotten about her childhood insomnia entirely.
“What did Wyatt mean about Fae’s accident being irregular?” Hannah picked a line of crust off her sandwich. At the thought of eating it, her stomach churned, and she put it back on her plate.
“I think car accidents typically have a standard investigation, even when it’s only one car. Try not to read too much into it. At least, not yet.” Huck was so practical, steady. “You should eat, Han.”
“I just . . . can’t. What if it’s Julia? What if it’s not? What if someone ran Aunt Fae off the road? Why?” Hannah pushed her plate away. “Even the idea of eating is just . . . blech.”
“What if instead . . .” Huck’s voice caught, and he stopped. Then he took a deep breath, started over. “What if you gave me a tour?”
“A tour.” Hannah repeated it dumbly and looked around the kitchen. Trying to see the house, the castle, through Huck’s eyes. The wide old stove, the small square porcelain tile floor, the stainless steel worktop of the island. The hanging pots in the corner, near the back door. The outside had always been more impressive than the inside.
They stood, and he took her hand, as if trying to understand all the new things about his fiancée, this new place, a new piece of her history slotted into place, while simultaneously assuring her that he was there for her: a shoulder to cry on, to lean on.
Hannah could see his need, which should have been endearing. She preferred him when he was just there, rather than continually inserting himself. She didn’t need him to save her. This wasn’t fair—of course it wasn’t. They’d made love; he’d made her a sandwich. She could give him a tour. It was so little to ask of her. And yet Hannah was overwhelmed. At the same time, she was sure he didn’t want the full tour—all the ugly secrets and truths of Brackenhill. Of her.
Hannah started in the kitchen, tonelessly gesturing. It was the one room he was familiar with. As she warmed up, she started to remember.
In the living room: Uncle Stuart playing old records for her. Artie Shaw, Glenn Miller, the pop and crackle of a forty-five on the turntable (she’d never even seen records before Brackenhill) while Uncle Stuart and Aunt Fae showed the girls how to jitterbug, music and dancing well before their time, but Uncle Stuart had always absorbed musical decades until they were part of him: his marrow infused with everything from Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman to Elvis to the Rolling Stones and Ozzy Osbourne.
In the front hall, the chandelier glittering in the moonlight, and the tall windows stretched floor to ceiling on either side of the door, wavy leaded glass playing tricks on the mind. The woods beyond the drive, black in the deepening night. Aunt Fae on a tall ladder, cleaning the crystal, and Hannah watching, mesmerized, as it glittered and reflected rainbows of light onto the ceiling, walls, floor. Then, quickly, a scream. The ladder teetering. Uncle Stuart, seemingly out of nowhere, catching Fae as she fell, both of them landing in a heap. Hannah, stunned, never fully understanding what had happened, just that Fae would have been badly injured if not for Uncle Stuart. The incident cementing the idea that Uncle Stuart would always, whether he was there or not, come to save them.