ONE
josephine
The sprawling stone estate looms before me, a foreboding shadow growing ever-larger as the town car rolls slowly up the circular driveway. I close my eyes and focus on the sound — tires crunching against imported pea stone — trying to breathe around the sudden lump lodged in my throat.
I’m home.
A year away should’ve been enough to fade the painful memories stitched into the fabric of this place. But as the chauffeur helps me out of the back seat and carries my bags up the steps to the imposing front entrance of Cormorant House, I realize no amount of time will ever be enough. Not a year, not a decade, not a lifespan.
The scars here run far too deep.
“Will you be okay all alone in this drafty old place, miss?” my driver asks, a crease of fatherly concern marring his brow as he glances around.
My gaze follows his, taking in the familiar grounds. Weeping willows stir in the breeze, their branches heavy with early summer leaves. impeccably trimmed topiaries stand guard along the driveway perimeter, verdant sentinels in the night. The lawn is bathed in pale silver moonlight as it slopes downward toward the sea. Even from this distance, I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks, a melancholy metronome.
It’s beautiful, but cold.
Colorless.
Like the dark wood of a grim fairy tale.
I take a bracing breath and turn back to the driver. “I’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.” He whistles lowly. “Awful dark out here on the cliffside, that’s all. Though I guess you’re used to it, if you grew up here…” His cheeks redden slightly. “Sorry. Listen to me, prattling on like a fool. You must be exhausted after that long flight. I’ll get going, now. Unless you want me to carry your bags inside for you…”
“No, I’ll manage just fine.”
“You sure? On the phone, Mr. Beaufort was rather insistent that I get you settled in safely—”
“And so you have.” Smiling through pressed lips, I reach into my black leather YSL clutch and extract a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Thank you.”
His head incants in a respectful nod before he pockets the tip and walks back down the steps to the town car. I wait until his taillights disappear at the far end of the driveway before I punch in the front door access code and step into the vaulted foyer. My footsteps rap a sharp staccato against the marble floors. The wheels of my suitcase sing an ominous refrain in the darkness.
This house has always felt haunted to me, though rarely more so than in this moment, surrounded by furniture draped in white sheets, shadows pressing close at every window pane. Ghosts seem to linger around each corner — not the result of paranormal activity, but fragments of my own painful memories, hiding in plain sight.
A life I once lived.
A girl I used to be.
Leaving my luggage by the door, I move from room to room flipping switches, flooding the vacant mansion with light. Dust plumes in the air as I yank the coverings off the furniture, exposing a collection of fine-crafted antiques. Form has always taken priority over function here at Cormorant House — a sofa you admire from afar but rarely feel comfortable actually sitting on, a Persian rug so ornate you tread across with self-conscious lightness, porcelain teacups far too fragile to sip absentmindedly. There is no homey atmosphere, no comforting ambiance. Just a pervasive emptiness, creeping over your skin with clammy fingers.
The only warmth this place ever possessed was borrowed from the caretaker couple that lived in the small cottage at the edge of the property. Flora and Miguel Reyes — my personal space heater in the corner of an ice castle. In retrospect, I probably should’ve known better than to pin my survival on something so easily unplugged and relocated. I should’ve realized the people I once saw as surrogate parents were under no obligation to stay with me forever.
Still…
They could’ve at least said goodbye.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting, even after all these months. The glossed-over explanation my mother gave last summer did little to assuage my curiosity — or soothe my hurt feelings.
Miguel took a job opportunity back in Puerto Rico, Blair informed me blithely, barely looking up from her newspaper. They’re already gone. Packed up and left Cormorant House last month. Oh, don’t look so sour, darling. It’s all for the best. Now, eat your frittata before it gets cold. We have a meeting with the VALENT marketing team in twenty minutes.
I knew coming back here wouldn’t be the same without the Reyeses. I thought I could handle it. But standing in the empty kitchen without Flora’s gentle humming to fill the void, without a quick wink from Miguel to spur a laugh… I realize the severity of my miscalculations. The gloom is all-encompassing; my solitude razor-sharp. It seems to cut at my ribcage with each breath.
Turning on the sink faucet, I gather my long fall of blonde hair out of my face, lean forward, and chug water straight from the tap, quenching my thirst in desperate gulps. If my mother were here, she’d be positively scandalized by my lack of decorum. Though, likely not as scandalized as she’ll be when she learns I’ve left Switzerland — and my internship — without warning.
I didn’t have much choice in the matter. If I’d informed my parents of my plan to return to Manchester-by-the-Sea, they would’ve done everything in their power to talk me out of it. To keep me in Geneva for another summer, working beside them at their organization, VALENT. I know exactly how persuasive they can be — given the chance, they might’ve successfully convinced me to push off my acceptance to Brown University yet again, in favor of a second gap year.
But I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
It’s not that the past twelve months haven’t been good. Occasionally even great. Geneva is a gorgeous city full of history, culture, international business, art… and, most unexpectedly, love. Working with Vincent and Blair at VALENT, for the first time in my life I’ve actually felt like I’m earning their affection. They’ve paid me more attention in the past year than in the eighteen that came before. Combined.
But as good as things are, as happy as I tell myself I am… in the back of my mind, a stubborn little voice nags at me — wondering how I found myself so far from home, so far from everything I thought I wanted; whispering in the small hours of the night that this new life isn’t one I would’ve chosen for myself, given the chance.
What about college?
What about fashion design?
What about your big dreams to start your own label someday?
Left unanswered, those questions have grown from a subdued buzz to a screaming roar that wakes me, gasping, out of sound sleep. The sudden claustrophobia of my circumstances has begun to weigh on me so heavily, some days it’s difficult to breathe. To laugh. To do anything at all, except go through the motions like a robot on autopilot.
I need a break from it all — the board meetings and family dinners, the crushing weight of expectation on my shoulders. I need some space to sort out my own desires without thinking about what anyone else wants for me, and from me.
Not my parents.
Not the VALENT board of directors.
Not Oliver.
As if he’s heard my thoughts, my cellphone begins to buzz in the depths of my clutch bag. I pull it out, staring at the name OLIVER BEAUFORT flashing over his picture on my screen — sandy blond hair, dark blue eyes, well-groomed beard. For a moment, I contemplate letting him ring through to voicemail.