But I don’t mind the work as much as I feel like I should.
When Mr. Haymore’s yelling to me from his office next door, it’s hard to think about what I almost did with that random handyman. Sometimes I even forget that I’m doing all of this for Huntington Manor—until I stumble across one of the glossy brochures and reality comes crashing down again. Fortunately, my new boss can only go about ten minutes at a time before piling something else up on my plate, and then the cycle starts all over again.
They’ve put me in a little room off of Haymore’s office that my father used to use for storage. Any books or files that couldn’t fit in my father’s study went here, and I think I only set foot in here once during my entire childhood. After all, it wasn’t really anything more than a glorified closet. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or sad that I’m having trouble picturing the way it used to look.
Currently, it’s been decorated to match Mr. Haymore’s office. If I stare at the walls too long, I start to get dizzy. There’s a small window overlooking the eastern part of the estate, and sometimes when I get overwhelmed I stand at the glass and stare down at the gardens.
I missed them the most when I was in Thailand. This house always made me feel a little uncomfortable about our wealth, but the gardens… even on my guiltiest of days, I could go sit in the gardens and breathe in all the life and things just felt better somehow. There was a place in the hedge maze—a small nook carved into one of the leafy walls about halfway through the labyrinth—where I’d curl up sometimes and just think. The hedges would block out everything but the sky high overhead, and I’d close my eyes and try to find peace.
It’s funny. Back then I thought that leaving this place would help me. That giving everything up and dedicating my life to helping others would give me a sense of inner harmony. A purpose. Instead, it just made me more aware of how utterly self-centered I am.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Ian. Of the way he looked at me. Of the things he said to me.
If I close my eyes, there he is, sitting on the edge of his bed that last night in Chiang Mai, watching me scramble for my clothes.
What was all this, then? he asked me. Just a way to make yourself feel better? A distraction?
No, I said. It wasn’t just a distraction. But even then, those words struck too close to the truth.
You can’t just bury your feelings, Lou, he said. I know it’s hard, but it doesn’t work that way.
What feelings? I wanted feelings. All those nights I’d turned to him, I’d just wanted to feel something, anything, but sickening emptiness.
And I’d never cared that it came at Ian’s expense. I’d never stopped to think about how he felt. What I was giving to him in exchange for everything he was giving me. I just took and took and took until he had nothing left.
I pull away from the window. It’s funny, how easy it is to go twenty-four years without realizing what a horrible, selfish person you are.
“Ms. Thomas!” Haymore calls from the other room, pulling me out of my thoughts before I can fully lose myself in self-loathing.
I flick my ponytail over my shoulder and straighten my skirt before walking over to his office.
My new boss is a little high-strung even at the best of times—I suppose it’s inevitable, this close to the grand opening—but he’s looking extra frazzled today.
“I just got off the phone with Edward Carolson,” he says without looking up. “Apparently he’s decided to fly down a day early. And he’s bringing his family with him.”
Edward Carolson. Just the name makes my skin crawl. Carolson’s the new owner of the estate. He didn’t tell Calder anything about his plans to convert the house into a resort during the negotiations for this place, but as soon as the contract was signed, he set about getting the property rezoned. As much as I always disliked the idea of anyone outside of our family living here, it would have been far preferable to this.
Yeah, Carolson’s not exactly on my list of favorite people right now.
But I’m confused.
“A day early?” I say. “That means—”
“Tonight,” Mr. Haymore says. “Their flight gets in at five. I need you to arrange a car.”
I nod.
“He wants us to plan a luncheon for tomorrow,” he adds, sifting through the mess of papers on his desk. “For all the staff. Day laborers, too. Apparently he wants to talk with everyone. We’ll need a full menu from the kitchens. And we—did those new brochures come in? The ones with the fold-out map?”
“I don’t know, but I can—”
“Any word on the press badges?”
“They should be here this aft—”
“Confirm it. He’ll want to make sure everything’s ready for next week.”
I nod again, adding it to the never-ending To Do list in my head, when he glances up.
“Why aren’t you writing this down?”
“I can go grab a—”
“There’s no time for that right now. What’s this?” He points at my ear.
My hand flies up, touching the small diamond stud. These were my mother’s, once.
“No jewelry while on duty,” he says. He points to my name tag. “And wipe the smudge marks off of that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Apparently I don’t sound enthusiastic enough because he shoots me a look before sitting back down. He begins searching through the stacks of papers on his desk again, and I can’t tell whether he actually knows what he’s looking for or if he’s just too frazzled to keep still.
“You’re dismissed,” he says, without looking up at me again.
I’m only too happy to escape back to my little office.
Honestly, none of the tasks he’s given me are particularly difficult, but that definitely doesn’t make them pleasant. As I pull up the number for a local car service, I entertain myself by brainstorming all the terrible little ways I could torture Mr. Haymore. Nothing dangerous or illegal, of course—just a prank here and there to keep him on his toes. To ruffle that mustache of his. Salt in his morning coffee, maybe. Plastic wrap across his personal toilet. You know, the usual. Unfortunately, all of these stunts would point right back to me, and in spite of all the muddled things I’m feeling about this place, I’m not willing to get fired just yet. After all the work it took to pull off this charade—calling in some favors from some less-than-reputable old friends, charming my way through three interviews, and heck, just having the courage to step inside this house again—I’m not about to throw it all away. Even for the chance to pull one over on a grumpy old warthog like Mr. Haymore. A pity, though. I think it might have been good for him.