“You don’t do that already?”
“I can say it better now.”
“There’s someone at the door.”
He does look up then. “Who?”
We live on a remote cliffside. It’s not exactly flush with visitors. Mrs. Fairfax comes once a day. She brings any groceries or supplies we need. The Uber driver was right about that—the only place that winding, terrifying road leads is the Coach House.
“A woman. Umm, I probably should have asked for her name. She said you’re dating.”
His eyes become veiled. “I’m not dating anyone.”
“So I should send her away?”
“What does she look like?”
“You’re going to date a random crazy person if they look good?”
A quirk of his lips. “I’m trying to figure out who she is. Not gauge if I should date her.”
“Pretty. Blonde. Rich.”
He sighs. “Shockingly that does help me figure it out. It’s Zoey. Send her up.”
“Mr. Rochester—”
“What happened to calling me Beau?”
“I guess that stopped when you started dating some pretty rich blonde woman.”
An eyebrow rises. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” I say. “I need to call Noah anyway and let him know what happened.”
Mr. Rochester narrows his eyes. “Send up Zoey. And then leave us alone. I think she can handle my needs from here on out.”
I slam the door, which is childish. I’m feeling childish at the moment. I let Zoey in with a brittle smile and go back to heating up the lobster casserole. Sure enough, Zoey comes down to get servings of the dinner for both of them. They eat together in his room.
Only a few days ago, he kissed me. He touched me. He made me come.
What was I thinking?
Besides the fact that he was very good at it.
I’m no one to him. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I was convenient to him. He probably imagined her beautiful blonde hair when I went down on him in the study.
When I finally make it to my bedroom, I don’t call Noah.
We’ve exchanged a few texts since our big fight, but nothing too personal. Mostly memes we think the other person will like. He would probably be upset if I told him about last night. He’d probably think that was a good reason to come home. After how dumb I feel about getting intimate with Mr. Rochester, I might even agree, but I won’t leave Paige right now.
Instead, in the dark, curled up in the comforter, I google Beau Rochester and Zoey.
The search results make my stomach clench.
They appear at movie premieres and popular nightclubs. There’s a photo of them standing in a group with some famous actors I recognize. They all have huge grins on their beautiful faces. What did he say out in the cold? That he had committed “some truly crazy illegal stunts while high as a kite in Los Angeles.” This group seems like they’d be down for whatever.
God, I’m a fool.
Did you think you’d hook up with the playboy Beau Rochester and get your picture in the tabloids? He asked me that once. I didn’t even know what he was talking about then.
The tabloids speculate if his breakup with Zoey Aldridge is the reason he left the social scene—heartbroken and unable to bear seeing her around. Little do they know that they’re still together. I wonder if the tabloids would be interested in printing that they’re holed up in a bedroom in a Maine mansion right now.
If I fire you, you could make decent money selling a story to them.
Now I understand why some people make unethical choices. We don’t set out to become that person. It’s bitterness that hardens us. I won’t sell information about Beau Rochester, but I can understand the desire to for revenge in the face of my humiliation.
According to Wikipedia, Zoey Aldridge got her big break on this reality dating show years ago. Since then she’s been linked to multiple musicians and Silicon Valley billionaires. She has her own jewelry and perfume lines in major department stores.
And then there’s me. Orphan. Poor. Nanny.
I had the audacity to think that Beau Rochester was interested in me for anything more than a quick fuck up against the door in his study.
The next day I wake up in a slow simmering state of frustration. Even Mrs. Fairfax senses my mood, because she makes my favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes.
We’re eating when Zoey breezes into the kitchen wearing a loose silk top and skinny jeans. “We’re having a little dinner party the day after tomorrow. Beau needs some cheering up. He’s been locked away here in the middle of nowhere for months. No wonder he broke his leg.”
“He fell off the cliff,” Paige informs her soberly.
That earns her a winning smile from Zoey. “Would you like to attend a beautiful dinner party with all of Uncle Beau’s friends?”
She glances at me, unsure of her answer.
I give her an encouraging nod, but Zoey isn’t waiting for an answer.
“We’ll need to discuss the menu,” she says to Mrs. Fairfax. I wait for a comment about how Mrs. Fairfax isn’t paid to do that, but apparently no one says no to Zoey. “Flowers will be delivered. Guests will stay at the Lighthouse Inn in Portsmouth; I’ve already made arrangements for them.” Her gaze falls on me. “And you can be available to take Paige to bed when she’s tired. Our parties can go all night long.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jane Mendoza
The feeling of frustration continues through the next day, where only Zoey goes in and out of Mr. Rochester’s room. I haven’t even seen him in forty-eight hours, and it feels strange after living in the same house for months.
As I’m coming out of Paige’s room, I see Zoey stepping down from the attic. Wait. Why is that place forbidden for me but she can go there? It seems like if anyone needs access to Paige’s old childhood things, it would be the nanny. I’m tired of Beau’s secrets. I’m tired of being locked out, after he made me feel like I finally belonged.
When she goes into his bedroom, I approach the attic stairs.
Part of me still wants to pull back, to follow Mr. Rochester’s orders, to be the good girl. That’s what I’ve always tried to be. Look where it’s gotten me. Nowhere.
I open the door and climb the steps. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to find up here. What is so secretive that Mr. Rochester forbade me to go up here?
And why was Zoey here? Does Mr. Rochester know that she’s exploring his house?
Did you think you’d hook up with the playboy Beau Rochester and get your picture in the tabloids? Precious little of that here in Eben Cape.
I’m suspicious of Zoey, even though that’s ridiculous. She clearly has her own money; she doesn’t need his. And I have no right to be protective of him.
Not when he’s pushing me away.
The attic looks about the way I remember it, more sundrenched now than before, light coming in through grimy dormers. I see the same fine china and Legos. The same paintings and rowboat. Nothing that would make Mr. Rochester forbid me from coming up here.
Something in the box catches my attention.
A little book that’s blue and velvet. Not a book. A journal. There’s handwriting scrawled across the lines—large, loopy, definitely feminine handwriting. I should put this back in the box. Or show it to Beau. Let him decide what to do with it.