I’m so occupied with my work that I don’t hear anyone enter the room. Suddenly there’s the sound of a step behind me, and I jump, dropping the whole stack of brochures at my feet.
Crap.
I instantly fall to my knees, scrambling to gather them before my petty revenge is revealed, but it’s too late. I’ve been caught.
Fortunately, it was by the only person in this entire place who couldn’t care less about the fact that I’ve just defaced a bunch of pictures of Huntington Manor’s owner. Ward kneels down in front of me, that disarming grin of his on his face.
“Geez!” I say. “You scared the crap out of me.”
He laughs and grabs one of the brochures off the ground—the one where I gave the entire family elephant trunks. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he sees my work. And then he looks up at me and barks out a laugh.
“Seriously?” he says. “Elephants?”
“What? I thought it was clever.” I snatch the brochure out of his hand and fold it up again. “What are you doing up here anyway?”
“It’s my lunch break and I thought I’d come find you,” he says. “It only took me twenty minutes. I was afraid you were trapped with Haymore somewhere.”
I laugh. “No, thank God.”
He’s sifting through the brochures on the ground, studying my handiwork.
“So you don’t just stop at stealing wine,” he says, clearly amused. “You’re also into vandalism.”
“Drawing on a brochure is hardly vandalism.”
He picks up another one. “It is when you draw dicks all over a photograph of the people who own this place.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he reaches out and touches my cheek.
“Actually,” he says, “I think rebelliousness is sexy.”
“Do you now?”
“Very.”
He’s looking at me in a way that brings back all of those sensations from last night. I don’t think it’s exactly a good idea to jump him here in the Welcome Center, so I quickly look down and grab another brochure.
“What do you think of this one?” I ask.
Ward’s eyes crinkle as he looks down at my drawing. “What are those supposed to be? Antlers?”
I snatch it back away from him. “I was running out of ideas. So sue me. You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
He laughs. “Jealous?”
I hold the pen out to him. “Come on. You know you want to do one.”
He resists for about ten seconds. Then he snatches the pen out of my hand and grabs one of the brochures I haven’t defaced yet.
“Don’t get your hopes up, though,” I say, gathering the rest of the brochures. “You’re never going to top my moose Carolsons.”
“Moose people are amateur,” he replies without looking up.
I grin. For a moment, I just watch him work. His head’s bent over the brochure, his mop of red-brown hair on full display. I want to reach out and run my fingers through it.
But I don’t. In my opinion—whatever that’s worth—he needs to do this. He needs to feel a little of that sick satisfaction I experienced when I gave Carolson a third arm and a huge head of curly hair. Channel some of his anger into something crazy but relatively harmless.
Finally, he grins and holds out his work. I grab the brochure eagerly.
He’s given everyone in the family devil horns. Carolson himself also got a forked tongue and spiny tail.
“What’s this on the end of the pitchfork?” I ask.
“A human heart.”
I laugh. “Gross.”
“And look at the bottom,” he says. “He’s stepping on a couple of puppies. And that’s a wad of hundred dollar bills in the fire.”
“Ah, I get it. He’s burning money.”
“Clever, huh?”
“Genius.” I smile, but there’s a knot in my stomach as I look at the drawing.
I glance back up at Ward. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but after the things that happened between us last night, I need to know something.
“You know that not all rich people are like him, right?” I say.
He raises a single eyebrow and gives a short laugh.
“Maybe not quite his level of evil,” he admits, “but money doesn’t exactly breed compassion.”
I know I should shut up, that this isn’t the time for this conversation, but I can’t help myself. “Sometimes it does.”
He looks at me like I’ve just told him the world is flat.
“Name one rich person who’s also what the general public would consider a good person,” he says.
There was a time when people seemed to think that I was a good person. That every time my name was printed in a magazine or on a website, they’d mention my work with Cunningham Cares International. But that just proves his point, doesn’t it? I was never a good person. I was a fraud, a girl who smiled sweetly and humbly for the cameras like some saint but broke down the minute all the trappings of her privileged life were torn away from her.
But not everyone’s like me. And I need to know the blunt truth about how Ward sees my family.
“Wentworth Cunningham did a ton of philanthropy,” I say carefully. “He worked with a dozen charities and made sizable donations regularly to medical research centers and museums.”
Ward wrinkles his nose. “Has Haymore been brainwashing you or something? You sound like a PR person.”
“I’m just… just stating the facts.” Pull it together, Lou. “Wentworth Cunningham spent a lot of money on admirable causes.”
“Throwing some change at a good cause doesn’t make you a good person. It might make you feel a little better about yourself for a while, but that’s it. How many of these ‘philanthropists’ are actually out there, getting their hands dirty? And half of them wouldn’t even bother with the donations if the general public didn’t expect it of them.”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve thought the same thing over and over again—that I’ve accused myself of the very same things. Hearing someone else confirm it—hearing Ward confirm it—makes me feel like I’ve been punched.
“What about his daughter?” I say before I can stop myself.
“Whose daughter?”
“Cunningham’s.” I stand, brochures in hand. “What about Louisa Cunningham?” I shove the brochures back onto the rack. I’m afraid to hear his answer, but I have to know.