15. Daisy
15
DAISY
A fter calming down the chef and replating the grilled lamb, I cut off a large slice of the apricot torte the chef had prepared for dessert and put it on a tray with a cup of herbal tea. Then I walked through the house in search of Emily.
When the six missing young women had been rescued, along with their sons, I, like many gothic mystery and true crime obsessed, had been glued to the internet.
Trapped for eleven years, forced to give birth—the news cycle ran twenty-four-seven for months, carting in various experts and child development specialists, everyone speculating on the future of the rescued girls and the six Richmond brothers.
Reese and I had spent hours on the internet, searching up history, spying on Google Maps, reading conspiracy theories and wondering about how they had actually lived all crammed down there. What were the boys like? How would someone with Stuart Richmond as a father function in normal society?
From the safety of my sunlit bedroom with my books and frilly white bedspread and balcony out to the ocean and my own mini fridge and my loving parents, the story was more like one of the gothic novels I enjoyed reading.
It didn’t seem real that such a tragedy could befall actual live people.
But then one day, Aaron appeared next door.
My mother had sat my siblings and me down and reminded us that we represented the Coleman family and were not under any circumstances to make Aaron and his mother, who would be visiting next door, feel anything other than welcome.
Suddenly, I felt horribly guilty for the way I’d treated Aaron all those years ago, throwing his past back in his face at school. Shoot, I couldn’t even blame it on being a shitty teenager, because hadn’t I done it just the other day?
The family dynamics were excruciating.
I felt almost sorry for him.
No.
He deserved it.
He started it. I had always been more than nice to him, and he betrayed me.
Emily was surrounded by her parents in the drawing room.
I knocked softly on the wooden doorframe.
“I brought cake and some tea. I could make you a sandwich, too, Emily, if you want something more substantial.”
“You’re such a lovely girl, just like your mother. She is always a gracious host.” Michelle waved me over, moving aside a book on the coffee table.
I set the tray down in front of Emily.
Her mouth turned down.
It was funny. Everyone said that the Richmond brothers were carbon copies of their monstrous kidnapper father, but Aaron scowled just like his mother.
I knew better than to say that out loud, though.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering to try and ingratiate yourself in this family,” Emily hissed at me as I handed her the cup of herbal tea. “My son would never fall in love with a girl like you. You’re not good enough for him. You drag him down. You trapped him, and now he has to tolerate you.”
“Oh, Emily.” Her mother patted her daughter’s hair. “Don’t work yourself up.”
“He doesn’t love you and never will.”
We rode through the middle of a summer storm back to the dark Ragnor mansion in silence.
I was dying to prod Aaron with questions. Maybe if things had gone differently that summer before freshman year, we might have still been friends, and I could ask him. Could have that kind of deep late-night conversation only best friends and lovers had.
But he just ignored me and stared out the window while I longed to call Reese and debrief.
When the car let us off under the portico, Aaron disappeared into his study.
Immediately, I called Reese.
“…Um, that is literally the most insane thing I have ever heard.”
“Right?” I whispered. I had shut myself up in one of the unused guest rooms and settled down on the floor before calling her. “It was so fucked up.”
“I kinda feel bad for the guy,” Reese said around the gummy worms she was eating.
“Okay, don’t rub it in,” I grumbled. “I feel awful. I wonder if part of it was my fault. I mean, his mom hates me.”
“Don’t all moms who are that enmeshed with their sons hate every girl they bring home?” Reese mused.
“I bet she’d love Aurora,” I said darkly.
“You don’t like Aaron, remember?” Reese sighed.
“Right. Yeah.”
A pause.
“She said I wasn’t good enough for him,” I admitted.
“Wrong, he’s not good enough for you. Once you finally divorce the guy, we’re going to Aruba to celebrate. Beach. Sun. All-you-can-drink cocktails.”
After the call ended, I stood up, stretching my legs and staring at the rain that ran down the windows.
“You’re just a tease,” I told the storm. “Making me wish it was cozy fall.”
I peered through the window.
New York City was never truly dark. There were always streetlamps and lights from buildings, headlights from passing cars.
In the dimly lit back terrace, a familiar figure stood in the rain, clothes soaked, hair plastered to his head, arms slightly held away from his body. He looked bigger than the last time, muscular under the white shirt plastered to his broad back.
Aaron slowly lifted his head, giving me déjà vu of the very first time I’d seen him.
My mom had forbidden me from going over to the Ragnors’ Hampton house to introduce myself-slash-spy on the strange boy who’d moved in next door. I’d woken up in the middle of the night at the crack of thunder and had a feeling, and there he’d been.
I had watched Aaron for hours from my dark window as he’d stood in the rain like he was being baptized.
The guilt hit again.
Aaron was a dick, but he wasn’t here for my amusement.
Maybe he was right, and I was a spoiled little princess.
“The chef doesn’t work Fridays,” Jared called to me when I wandered into the kitchen.
“Why? Oh, right, because Aaron’s usually gone.”
“Every Friday night.” Jared nodded.
He had to deal with that every Friday night?
My husband was still out on the terrace, his head bowed.
For the first time in my life, I looked at a rich white man and thought, There but for the grace of God go I .
“I can try my hand at something,” Jared offered.
“Don’t let me ruin your off evening. My mom is a chef,” I said. “I didn’t get too many of her foodie genes, but I can probably whip something up.”
Aaron hadn’t eaten much of the rich food at his grandparents’ house. I’d had dinner with him every evening this week, and he ate a lot at mealtimes. He must be starving.
What to make him?
Something wholesome. Filling. Hash browns. Fried ham, mushrooms, onions, and peppers. Yummy, creamy gravy. A runny egg. Thick-cut toast.
“I should get Aaron some chickens,” I decided as I fried up the food. I’d ask my mom where she’d bought her heritage hens.
Aaron needed a pet, and he could not argue with one that produced food.
Clutching the hot plate with a towel, I hovered in the door out to the backyard. Aaron was just sitting there now that the rain was subsiding.
I hesitated, not sure if I should call out.
Instead, I left the meal with Jared.
“Give that to him when he comes inside.”