I’m not sure why hearing that Mr. Nash was a widower took my breath, but learning Isobel had lost her mother on top of getting scarred knocked me for a loop. I blinked at Constance. “Mr. Nash’s wife died?” I thought of the pictures in his office of the blonde woman with two dark-headed children.
“In the fire,” Kit was quick to supply.
“Fire?” I repeated just as his mother shushed him, her face falling gray with sorrow.
But Kit wasn’t so easily silenced. His eyes alive with eagerness, he gushed, “The fire that burned down the first house. But they rebuilt it, even bigger and better. I was only a baby at home with Mom when it happened, but my dad was here. He was the groundskeeper back then, and he tried to save Mrs. Nash.” His gaze slashed to his mother before he finished, “Except he ended up dying with her.”
Mrs. Pan made a choking sound of grief from the back of her throat and pressed a napkin to her mouth.
“All right, enough talk about that, now,” Lewis said gently but firmly, setting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “It makes your mother sad.”
Blinking cluelessly, Kit said, “But it was years ago.”
About eight years ago if I had to guess. Mr. Nash had said Isobel had been isolating herself for eight years, and the fire her mother had perished in must’ve been the one to leave her scarred. Besides, Kit didn’t look much older than eight, and if he’d been a baby at the time, well…it all added up to me.
Sympathy speared through me. It would be one thing to recover from a wound of that magnitude, but to lose a parent in the middle of it… I shook my head, unable to even imagine what she must’ve gone through, when I remembered the dark-headed boy in the photos with the Nash family. Oh hell, maybe she’d lost a brother in the fire, too.
“What about Mr. Nash’s son?” I asked, worried he’d perished as well. Exactly how much crushing sadness had been laid on Isobel’s shoulders at once?
The three adults blinked at me as if I’d just asked the strangest question they’d ever heard. Finally, Constance said, “Ezra? What about him?”
“He didn’t…?” I flushed, realizing this was quite the awkward question to pose. “In the fire, I mean.”
“Oh! No,” Mrs. Pan was quick to reassure me. “No, Ezra was away at college by then. He’s still hearty and hale, living a few miles from here in his own house now.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly silly for worrying about him, a complete stranger. But the idea of Isobel losing both a mother and sibling at the same time was more than I could bear.
“Mr. Nash was away on a business trip that weekend,” Mrs. Pan added, not mentioning where Isobel had been.
Even though I already knew the answer, I had to confirm it. “And that’s how the daughter—Isobel—got her…that is, I mean, that’s how she became…?” I cleared my throat, trying to think up the most sensitive way to ask when a voice from behind me spoke.
“Yes, Mr. Hollander. That’s how I became the monster I am today.”
My stomach dropped at the sound of her voice before I twisted in my chair to find Isobel standing in the entrance of the kitchen, her hands fisted at her sides and blue eyes layered with icy disdain.
Earlier, she’d had her hair up in a ponytail, revealing her entire face, but now it fell down, one half working to cover the mutilated side while the other half lay tucked behind her ear to show off her good side. It filled me with a moment of regret, hoping she hadn’t felt the need to hide her scars because of me.
Across from me, Kit gasped and dove under the table to hide, while the other three adults froze guiltily as if they thought they’d been caught doing something wrong.
Flushing because her narrowed eyes made me think I’d misspoke, I stuttered, “I…I…” Gritting my teeth over such nonsense, I scowled at Isobel and moodily muttered, “I was just curious.” Seriously, how could asking a simple question be that wrong? Then, because she was still glaring at me and making me feel crappier for opening my mouth at all, I hissed, “It’s smart to learn about the household you’re supposed to be working for.”
Yeah. That sounded good. If I was supposed to do a decent job here, I needed information.
But Isobel’s glare turned into two thin slits of rage. “Rest assured, my personal life will never be any of your business. And if you simply can’t control your curiosity, then ask me directly instead of gossiping about me behind my back.”
I hadn’t even been gossiping about her, but I felt ashamed as if I had. And the way she so easily drew the shame forward pissed me off. So, I sneered. “Fine. I will. Question number one: have you always been this bitter and rude, or did the accident burn your bad attitude into you?”
I’d just wanted to ask her something—anything—to show her I wasn’t afraid to stand up to her, but as soon as the question left my mouth, I knew it was wrong. All wrong.
Dead silence filled the kitchen. Mrs. Pan, Constance, and Lewis gaped back and forth between us before the cook surged to her feet.
“Can I get you a bowl of stew, Miss Nash?” she asked as she rushed toward the stove.
But Isobel waved a hand. “No, thank you, Mrs. Pan.” Her gaze swerved my way before she added, “I’ve lost my appetite.”
As suddenly as she’d appeared in the kitchen, she was gone.
My shoulders slumped and I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m a complete jackass, aren’t I?”
Lewis choked out a sound before admitting, “Well, I’ve never seen anyone react to her the way you did, that’s for sure.”
“Is she gone?” a small muffled voice asked from under the table.
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Pan said gently. “She’s left. You can come out now.”
No one scolded him for treating Isobel like a freak by hiding from her. It itched at my craw that they let the kid get away with hurting her feelings. And it made me feel worse about hurting them myself. Mr. Nash would probably fire me if he knew what I’d just done.
Worried about that, but even more concerned about how my behavior had affected Isobel, I rose from the table and excused myself.
I tried to find her so I could issue a genuine apology. But she wasn’t in the library. She wasn’t in the theater and I couldn’t spot her through any of the glass walls of the conservatory. So I found myself peering in at her flowers through the windows instead, wondering, why roses? Did she just like the peace and serenity that came with gardening? Flowers couldn’t knock her ego down by hiding from her under a table or making her feel like less of a person.
Or was it a simpler reason, like maybe they just smelled good?
Or did it stem from something more psychological? Maybe she believed she’d become so hideous after the fire that she needed to make up for it to the world by creating something beautiful. Balance things out.
I hoped that wasn’t the case. I hoped I hadn’t made her feel ugly by arguing with her.
I hoped she’d become a hermit in this huge house because she was just that big of an introvert and didn’t like people. I hoped the scars didn’t rule any part of her life at all. I hoped I hadn’t made everything worse.
When I trudged home that evening, it was nearly seven before I made it to my building. I felt bogged down and exhausted even though I hadn’t done much more than climb a ladder to wash windows and change a few lightbulbs in a chandelier. My soul felt weary because I kept worrying about Isobel.
I didn’t even know why I was so concerned; she’d been twenty times nastier to me than I’d been to her. Why should I care if the barbs I’d slung her way had actually hit the mark?
Because I’d meant to infuriate her and cause steam to rise from her collar. I’d wanted her face to flush with the lively rage I knew I could summon right before she fought back, belittling me in return. I’d wanted to taste the victory of another sparring match. Instead, nothing but acid had filled my tongue because it felt as if I’d hurt her. Truly, bone-deep hurt her.
Dragging, I pushed open the front door to my building, only to fall
to an uneasy halt when I saw the woman sitting on the bottom step.
When she saw me, she sprang to her feet, her eyes brightening and blonde hair bouncing. “Hi, Shaw. Where you been all day? Your mom said you got a new job. Did you get something at the new factory in Dover? Do you like it?”
I let out an exhausted sigh, barely holding in the groan I really wanted to release. “Hey, Gloria.”
I itched to brush past her and keep going up to my door, but her expression reminded me of an eager little puppy. I couldn’t kick the puppy, even though I knew any kindness on my part would only encourage her into thinking she might finally stand a chance with me. So I made a production of checking my mail slot, delaying the moment I’d have to face her again.
Gloria was a dilemma I didn’t know how to navigate. She was pretty, got along with my mother, adored the ground I walked on, cooked the best pumpkin pie I’d ever tasted, came from the same background as me and was only a year younger. On paper, we looked perfectly suited for each other, and I should probably thank my lucky stars I’d found such a gem.
In reality, she was clingy, nosey, annoying and I couldn’t summon an iota of chemistry for her. So I usually felt like an ungrateful ass when she threw herself at me, so obviously letting me know I could have her any time I wanted, or whenever my mom tried to nudge me in her direction. But seriously, a clammy sweat broke out over my skin when I even considered getting my mouth close to hers. I couldn’t do it. I just…I couldn’t. Which made me feel worse, and then caused me to be extra nice and polite to her, which, yeah, in turn fed her hopes and dreams that I’d eventually develop some affection for her.
I didn’t string her along. I swear, I didn’t. I’d explained to her—and to my mother—on numerous occasions that we would never have a relationship. And they both nodded as if they completely understood, only to concoct some new trap to try to snare me into Gloria’s clutches a week later.
The whole situation was a hot mess, and I would give anything to escape it.
Suddenly deciding I wasn’t in the mood to put up with a Gloria encounter after all, I closed the empty mailbox door, gave her a stiff nod, and hedged around her to head upstairs. “Well, have a good night.”
Not that she was deterred. She followed me up the steps. “So, what kind of stuff did Mr. Nash make you do?” Her voice lowered as she moved closer. “Was it illegal?”
I sighed, wondering why she’d asked me where I’d been and if my new job had been at another factory, when she’d obviously already gotten all the inside dirt from my mother. I really, really wished she and my mom weren’t so close, though I felt bad as soon as that thought arose. Mom didn’t have a lot of friends. It was sweet of Gloria to visit her, even though I suspected she only did it to get the scoop on me.
“No, it was nothing illegal,” I answered, knowing she’d probably glean these very details off Mom sooner or later. “He just wanted me to be a handyman at his house.”
Her nose wrinkled. “A handyman? That’s all?” I guess it would’ve been more exciting for her if I’d been breaking kneecaps and handling illegal substances.
I shrugged, inordinately pleased to disappoint her. “That’s all.”
She nodded. “So you got to see his house? I bet that was fancy. What’s the inside of Henry Nash’s place look like?”
“Big,” I answered, reaching my floor and pausing before darting past her, careful not to physically touch her, and hurrying toward my front door. “Well, I’m going to check on Mom now. Have a nice day, Gloria.”
“Oh, she’s fine. We had a lovely—”
I cut her off by slipping inside my apartment and closing the door as quickly as possible. The rest of her words went muffled and I shut my eyes as I rested my back against the door, feeling crappy for probably hurting yet another woman’s feelings today. I was certainly on a roll, wasn’t I?
“Shaw?” my mother’s weak voice called. “Is that you, dear?”
My eyes flashed open, and I immediately pushed myself forward. “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.” I hurried into the only bedroom in our apartment to find it dark with a blanket hanging over the window to keep as much light out as possible, which meant she’d had another migraine.
Wincing because I hadn’t been here to help her through it, I eased down next to the mattress beside her so I could stroke her thin, graying hair. “I just got home. Are you okay? Do you want me to get you some aspirin? Water?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Gloria took care of me.” She made a vague motion with her hand. “I was worried that man would keep you all night.”
I sent her a gentle smile. “Nah. He only worked me eight hours. It just took me a while to walk home.”
“He was…the work was okay?” She sounded worried so I kissed her forehead and smiled again.
“The work was fine, Mom. He just wants me to fix odds and ends around his house. Nothing more.”
She sniffed. “Nothing more so far. Rich, powerful men like that always have a hidden agenda.”
I thought of Henry Nash’s hidden agenda: Isobel and her angry, sad eyes and wounded soul. “Not this time,” I lied. “I think he’s on the up and up, and ulterior-motive free.”
“Humph. We’ll see about that.”
I stroked the back of her hand and changed the subject. “Are you hungry? Do you want me to fix you something?”
“Aww, sweet baby, don’t worry about me. I told you, Gloria took good care of me.” With a wistful sigh, she added, “Such a lovely girl. I still don’t understand why you won’t even give her a chance.”
I groaned. “Mom, we’ve been over this. Gloria and I have nothing in common.”
“I know, I know,” she lamented. “She doesn’t like books the way you do. Or have such fanciful ideas.”
And right on track, the guilt clouded me, for not being able to like Gloria like I should, for being a nonsensical dreamer who wanted…hell, I’m not even sure. Maybe smart and accomplished were the right words for what I wanted to be. I wished to be something that made me feel meaningful, anyway. I’d always thought it would be cool to be an archeologist or even work in a museum. I loved history, discovering new cultures and learning about hidden societies. Becoming a real-life Indiana Jones would probably be the biggest high of my life.
Both Gloria and my mom thought that dream was silly…their words. They didn’t care so much about the past, or its cultures. They preferred to live in the present.
“It’s more than that,” I told my mother.
The few times I’d tried to open up to Gloria and talk about my passions and life goals, she’d either tried to convince me that wasn’t really what I wanted to do, got too bored to listen, or changed the subject. The true problem was she didn’t want me to be me. And what’s more, she didn’t seem to have her own dreams either, except to land me. I seriously didn’t know what she wanted from life, what goals she had, what she feared or loved. I wasn’t even sure if she knew. And that’s what ultimately made me shy away from her. There was no connection there at all.
“I just want to see you happy and settled down.” This time, Mom was the one who reached out to touch my face. “I want my baby boy to have the best.”
“I do,” I told her, clasping her hand more firmly to my cheek. “I have you.” And I would take care of her until my last breath.
“Oh, you…” She smiled and patted my cheek before dropping her limp, exhausted hand. “You’re the sweetest boy ever. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I kissed her forehead one more time, glad she’d dropped the subject of Gloria, and rose to my feet. “Well, you don’t have to find out, because I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always take care of you. Always.”
And I would. To keep my mother safe and settled, I’d brave Isobel while resisting that powerful, undeniable draw I felt toward her. And I’d do it so well Henry Nash would praise the day he met me.
Everything was going to end up just fine.
chapter
SIX
r /> The next day was Sunday. I didn’t work at Porter Hall on Sundays, so I spent a good portion of the afternoon at the library, studying up on roses. No idea why since I wasn’t allowed to go near Isobel’s garden again. But I learned as much as I could anyway, because she intrigued me, and roses seemed to intrigue her. Plus, I felt bad about the way things had left off between us the day before, which was why I arrived to work on Monday with a small packet of seeds in my pocket.
I had stopped by a garden store on the way over, planning to get something amazing for Isobel in the hopes she’d forgive me for hurting her feelings on Saturday. Since she’d made it impossible for me to apologize to her in person, I thought maybe a gift—an olive branch, as it were—would do the trick.
But I hadn’t had much luck at the store. Most of the rosebushes they stocked were common, hearty brands. I’d wanted to get something rare, something special that stood out, like she stood out. When I asked the owner, she’d shaken her head before telling me all she had were a couple seeds for some midnight supreme rosebushes.
The catch was that no one who’d bought them before had ever been able to actually get them to grow. I thought that if anyone could coax a rose from its stubborn seed, it’d be Isobel, so I asked to purchase a few anyway. The owner’d had pity on me, certain I wouldn’t have any more success than anyone before me, so she’d thoughtfully given me a discount.
When I reached Porter Hall, I rang the bell at the end of the drive, and the gate automatically opened before I could even tell anyone who I was. I walked around to the back where the bay of glassed entrances was unlocked, and I let myself inside.
No one was around, so I trudged to the library, which was empty. I waited a few minutes, except Isobel never showed, so I set the packet of rose seeds on the seat of her sofa with a note.
Dear Miss Nash,
I just wanted to apologize for my behavior on Saturday. I hope you will accept these seeds in peace offering. I was told they are for a rare midnight supreme rosebush that’s supposed to bud into black roses with blue tips. No one else who’s planted them has gotten them to grow, but I had a feeling you would be the exception to the rule. Good luck with your growing endeavors.