The imposing gates come into view and I skip ahead, waving at Neal in the guard house so he can buzz me through the small pedestrian gate that sits beside the huge one. I close it after I walk through and it locks automatically behind me. I sigh in relief as I turn to walk up the winding path that eventually deposits me in the driveway. Immediately, I look toward Nicholas’ parking spot and hold my breath until I see that it’s empty.
As I make my way to the house, shoulders slumped, I wonder if I left the party because I wasn’t having fun or because he wasn’t there.
15
Maren
Nicholas didn’t arrive at Rosethorn on Friday, and it leaves me continually on edge the next day, as if he’s going to appear out of thin air at any moment. All day, I peer around every corner before I proceed down a new hallway, I make sure I’m always presentable when I go downstairs, and I try very hard to get my brain to concentrate on anything other than him. By sundown, he still hasn’t arrived.
A small package arrives for me on Sunday morning. I assume it’s from Barrett, but when I open it up, I find a handwritten note on personalized stationery. The letters VP are interwoven near the top in embossed ink. Below it, a handwritten message.
I’m sorry for how I acted on Friday. I was sad to find that you’d left the party early. Please say we’re still friends? - Tori
Beneath the note, she included a new book of sheet music, and the gesture instantly eases my anxiety. At least I still have one friend in Newport outside of Rosethorn’s gates.
I spend the evening playing songs from the book, aware of different staff members trickling in and out of the room to listen. Cornelia lets them have more flexible hours on Sunday, to go to church or see their families or just relax, so Collins and Frank and Patricia sit on the couches in the blue drawing room listening to me play until my fingers ache.
On Monday, Cornelia says there’s nothing on the agenda for the day, so I keep myself busy on my own. I clip roses in the garden. I collect Cornelia’s mail and bring it to her with her afternoon tea, then I read to her for a little while. I convince Chef to let me help prepare dinner while Cornelia lies down to rest. He doesn’t really let me touch anything, but I’m allowed to bring him ingredients and watch him work if I keep a healthy distance.
Tuesday morning, a group of high school students arrive by bus to tour the first floor of Rosethorn and the surrounding grounds. Apparently, they do it every year. It’s an arrangement set up through the Preservation Society in exchange for a small donation from the school district. Many of their students—like me—have grown up hearing about the Gilded Age mansions but have never seen them for themselves. Cornelia has me accompany her during the tour, and I watch the amazed expressions on the student’s faces as they enter Rosethorn for the first time.
While I’m on the tour, Tori calls and leaves a message for me with Patricia.
Change of plans for our lesson today. Bring your swimsuit. Leave your racquet at home.
To say I’m relieved is an understatement. I’m beginning to hate tennis. Upstairs, in my room, I find a few swimsuit options in my closet, though I have no idea who picked them—someone who doesn’t have boobs to support, apparently. Reluctantly, I grab a pale blue bikini and a cover-up, and I’m extremely excited to show up at the club to find that our tennis lesson has indeed been canceled for the day.
Tori waits for me near the courts wearing a colorful sarong and a wide-brimmed hat. She has two fruity-looking drinks in her hands with little umbrellas sticking out of the tops, and she holds both of them up with a smile.
“This is me apologizing for the weekend.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, accepting one of the glasses from her and taking a small sip. The piña colada is delicious.
“Sure, well, I figure we could use a break from tennis anyway. I really am sorry, you know. You caught me at a bad moment.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as we approach the pool.
“What is it with you?” she teases. “Most people run from awkward conversations.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal if you’d rather keep things private.”
“Private.” She groans at the word. “My whole life has been private. I can’t breathe for risk that I’ll accidentally spill all my secrets.”
“Do you have a lot of them?” I prod.
“Just one,” she says, looking away.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I assure her. “It’s none of my business.”
“I know, which is precisely why I want to tell you. You fluttered into Newport like some rare butterfly and I fully expect you to leave just as quickly, so there’s no real risk in telling you this thing. At least, it’s not as risky as telling my family.”
“You’re making it sound like you’ve committed murder.”
She studies her drink as we continue walking toward the pool. “It’s nothing like that at all.” Then she puffs out a breath and shakes her head like she’s trying to build up her courage. “Right. Let’s just think of it like a Band-Aid. How to…well…you know the other day at lunch with Barrett, when you were asking me about my relationship with Nicholas?”
My heart sinks and I do a small stutter step, enough to slosh some of my drink over the lip of my cup. Thank god she’s too absorbed in her own confession to pay attention to me.
“Ye-yes, I remember.”
“We’ve known each other for so long, and he’s been wonderful to me.”
I want to ask her for details—How has he been wonderful?!—but I sense it’s not the right time.
“I think he and I would fit together so well, and you know our families would love it.”
Just say it! I want to scream. Say you’re in love with Nicholas.
“But I’m in love with someone else.”
I stop on my dime.
“Someone else?” I repeat, dumbstruck.
She glances back at me. “Yes.”
“Who? Do I know him?”
“Her.”
“What?”
She smiles flatly. “Do you know her would be the correct question to ask.”
“Oh. Oh!”
“There you have it. You don’t need to look so surprised.”
“I don’t mean to. It’s just that I really thought you were in love with Nicholas.”
She laughs. “Yes, well, Nicky isn’t my type.”
“Apparently not.” I think back to the party and the woman I heard her arguing with out in the hallway. “Was your girl—er…friend…was she at the party on Friday?”
Her light mood dissipates in an instant. “Yes, Mary Anne. Well, she was there in the beginning, and then she left before you.”
“Because of the fight?”
“Because I was unwilling to do what I’d promised her. I had planned on introducing her to everyone that night as my girlfriend, but then I got cold feet. It’s happened before. It’s a lot…you know, to announce to a room full of people you’ve grown up with your whole life that you’re not the person they thought you were. People expect me to adhere to a certain mold, and I’m ashamed to admit that I wasn’t quite ready to come out to everyone. Mary Anne has been patient with me about it, giving me time.”