Chapter 3
Chapter Three
June 1993
R ose soon discovered that babysitting for a wealthy family like the Waldens was akin to isolating yourself from the outside world.
That first night, after the children went to bed, Rose sat by the window of her bedroom and gazed through the darkness, trying to make out some semblance of smoke from the other side of the forest. But the helicopter had come and gone; the fire had been put out. All the chaos of the early evening had faded. Even the floors in the Walden mansion beneath her were quiet, presumably with Mr. and Mrs. Walden hidden away somewhere, enjoying very expensive cocktails and preparing for bed. Did they still love each other? Rose wondered. Had they ever loved each other? It was sometimes hard for Rose to imagine that very wealthy people loved anything but the money they currently had and the money they planned to one day earn.
Rose had more or less concluded she would never have money. The only wealthy lifestyle she would ever enjoy was like this—as a babysitter or a maid or some other assistant to a wealthy person. She would always be wealthy-adjacent or just plain poor on her own.
But that was okay. Especially now as she slid herself beneath the comforter of the gorgeous double bed upon sheets thicker and lusher than anything she’d ever slept on. She remembered an expression she’d heard once. Five hundred-count sheets? One thousand-count sheets? She didn’t know what any of it meant, but she assumed that was what she dealt with now. A status of sleep that the poor were never allowed to understand.
She drifted off to sleep immediately and woke up at three thirty. Evie was at her door complaining of nightmares, and then Evie was in her bed, sprawling across her, rotating back and forth.
It amazed Rose that Evie had already trusted her enough to get into bed with her for comfort. Then again, Rose assumed that Evie had always known not to bother her parents with anything like that.
But what had Evie done before Rose got there? Had she forced herself through her fears alone—at the age of four?
Rose had known not to bother her parents with that kind of thing, too.. The little ones weren’t welcome in bed with Mom and Dad; they took refuge with Rose. But Rose had never taken refuge in anyone.
Rose wasn’t even sure if her parents really loved her. Maybe there wasn’t enough love to go around when you had so many children and so little money.
It was easy to make excuses for her parents. Maybe that meant she loved them. Perhaps it meant she was foolish.
Sometimes she believed that having so many children and so little money was selfish. But that was a topic for another day.
The first full day at the Walden Estate meant throwing herself through the set schedules of the four children and trying—and usually failing—to keep up. Evie was quite needy and sleepy; Hogarth was braggadocious and eager to regale her with the facts he’d learned from his various tutors; Kate wanted to do her makeup and paint her fingernails; and Hamilton just wanted to run, run, run as far down the beach as he could. Rose struggled to keep up with him yet respected his frantic energy, deciding that he was an eight-year-old in the way of all eight-year-olds. It didn’t matter that he was wealthy. He wanted to get dirty. He wanted to be wild and get into scrapes.
But that first night left Rose exhausted and homesick. After a shower, she sat in her bedroom and tried to write in her diary. That was when she realized she hadn’t asked about her phone privileges. When would she have a chance to ask Mrs. Walden about calling home? She hardly saw her. It seemed clear that invading her and Mr. Walden’s personal space was a no-go. This was based only on her hunch and the facial expression of Zachary, who’d caught her spying that first night and decided not to tell.
Why? Rose was left to wonder. Were the Waldens so notoriously cruel that it was better not to open a can of worms when they were around?
Once or twice, Rose allowed herself to wonder, Why me? Why did they pluck a girl from Mississippi and bring her here?
It was Rose’s fourth afternoon at the Walden Estate. Hogarth’s tennis teacher had come and gone, and she and the four children were spread out on the beach, their hair flapping, salt water drying and leaving crystals across their tanned arms and legs. Evie shot up and down the beach, her feet flying so that white sand flashed out behind her, and Hamilton threw stone after stone into the water and watched them splash.
That was when Rose heard the voices coming down the walkway.
Rose turned to peer out at Mr. and Mrs. Walden plus two men who looked so similar they had to be related. Rose’s stomach twisted with the realization that one of them was Zachary—the man who hadn’t told on her for spying. The other one was his brother, then. The one who was involved in the fire.
The four of them evoked wealth and prosperity. They evoked summering in Europe and skiing and eating oysters or whatever else rich people did. They had nothing to do with Rose’s entire existence, which made them like an entirely different species to her.
Evie went mad with excitement. “Mommy!” She rushed for Mrs. Walden and threw her arms around her. Mrs. Walden’s smile was difficult to read. Was she pleased to see her children? Or was she acting pleased in front of the brothers?
She terrifies me, Rose thought now.
Rose had to assume Evie’s sandy exterior wasn’t entirely pleasing for Mrs. Walden, who always dressed immaculately. She watched Mrs. Walden do her best to brush the sand from her dress. She had no success.
But all at once, the four “adults” were on the beach with them. Mrs. Walden gathered her children in a line so that they could greet the brothers properly. They all knew them, but not well.
“You’ve grown like a bean!” Zachery said to Hogarth.
Hogarth beamed proudly.
“When was the last time you saw them?” Mrs. Walden asked.
“It must have been last summer,” Zachary said. “The barbecue?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Walden said, clasping her hands. She flinched when she caught Rose’s eye. “I nearly forgot. This is our new babysitter, Rose. She’s from Mississippi.”
“Mississippi!” Zachary’s eyebrows went straight up.
“We thought it would be nice to introduce the children to different sorts of people,” Mrs. Walden said.
Rose stung with resentment. I’m a different sort of person. I’m poor. I’m an experiment for them.
But then she reminded herself of where she stood now: this gorgeous landscape, the frothing ocean, the delicious food she ate all day long. This is an experiment for me, too.
“How do you like it up here?” Zachary asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Rose answered.
“Quite different, no?” Zachary said.
Rose smiled wider and turned her attention to Zachary’s brother, who’d remained quiet. There was a strange intensity behind his eyes, an anger Rose guessed was related to the fire. His dark hair hung in glossy curls, and his large hands were in his pockets. He was maybe six-two or six-three and towered above his brother. Rose guessed he was slightly older.
“My name is Zachary,” Zachary said, sticking his hand out, “and this is my brother, Oren.”
Rose hadn’t expected such a wealthy man to want to shake her hand. It was clear they’d come to the beach to meet the children, not the help. But she slid her hand into his and was surprised to find his grip firm and respectful.
Oren didn’t stick out his hand to shake. But he caught her eye and gazed so intently that Rose’s eyes filled with tears. She refused to look away. It turned into a game shortly after, with Rose eventually losing when Mrs. Walden asked her a question about Hogarth’s lessons. Rose explained everything that had happened at tennis lessons, sparing details that made Hogarth look worse at tennis than Mrs. Walden wanted to believe. Rose already knew that being rich meant keeping some things to yourself. It was all about image.
“Who wants a cocktail?” Mrs. Walden suggested, clasping her hands together.
“We never turn down a good cocktail,” Zachary answered. “What about it, Rose? Will you be joining us?”
Rose took a breath. Mrs. Walden’s face transformed. One second, it belonged to a beautiful and very good hostess, and the next, it belonged to a violent monster. But soon, she smiled and said, “What a wonderful idea. Yes, Rose. Why don’t you join us after you put the children to bed? I imagine you have all sorts of stories from Mississippi to share.”
“We’ve never been there,” Zachary affirmed. “We’d love to know more.”
It felt nonsensical that Zachary wanted Rose to spend time with them. Rose tried to figure out his selfish reasons as she ran through her chores that night: reading two stories to Evie and Hamilton, making sure Kate brushed her teeth, and listening to Hogarth practice his French dialect as he drifted off. Ultimately, she decided that Zachary was the kind of rich person who wanted to manipulate situations and see how far his power could go.
But Rose was curious.
Rose’s heart pounded. She returned to her bedroom to see if she had anything appropriate to wear but discovered nothing but a boring black dress she’d bought secondhand during a spontaneous trip to Jackson last year with her cousin. She’d spent no more than seven dollars on it and knew Mrs. Walden would see all the way through it, right down to its cheap details and bad stitching. But it was all Rose had. She buttoned it to her chin and brushed her hair, remembering the fire and ache behind Oren’s eyes. Oren hadn’t said a word. She wondered if he was mute. Or perhaps something had happened in the fire. Something that had affected his mental state so sensationally that he could no longer bring himself to say anything at all.
Rose discovered Mr. and Mrs. Walden with Zachary and Oren in the lounge. A vinyl turned and turned on the record player, and the speakers crackled with The Doors. The four of them were in separate chairs—Mrs. Walden on the chaise lounge, Mr. Walden in a black leather chair, Zachary on an identical leather chair directly opposite, and Oren all by himself on the sofa. The spot beside him was all there was available. Rose’s blood pressure spiked at the idea of sitting so close to him. She’d have preferred Zachary, who seemed so kind, so eager.
Rose remembered Mr. and Mrs. Walden’s sharp questions that first night. Had they thought Oren was involved in the fire somehow? That he’d caused it?
“Good evening!” Zachary was on his feet to greet her.
“Hello, darling,” Mrs. Walden said. Her cheeks were flushed from cocktails. “We were just talking about you.”
“Were your ears burning?” Mr. Walden asked.
Rose laughed nervously. Zachary crossed the room to mix a cocktail for her, something he said was straight from the Amalfi Coast and to die for.
“The girl doesn’t know where the Amalfi Coast is,” Mrs. Walden said. Her voice was syrupy.
Zachary gave Rose a sharp look, then said, “She knows where the Amalfi Coast is. Who doesn’t?” He laughed. “Don’t discredit this one. She’s sharp as a tack. Look at her.”
Rose offered a nervous smile, grateful that Zachary had decided to assume she knew where the coast was. In actuality, she had no idea. Geography hadn’t been covered well at her high school. She could list most of the state capitals, and that was about it.
From where Rose sat with her cocktail, she tried to gauge Oren to figure out what he was doing there and what he’d been through that week. But Oren seemed uninterested in giving himself away. He hardly spoke. He hardly drank. Mr. and Mrs. Walden and Zachary were drunk at this point, gesticulating wildly through their stories. It felt as though Oren refused to play along.
“Tell us about Mississippi,” Zachary urged when Rose was halfway through her cocktail. “We need to know about your life before Nantucket.”
Mrs. Walden scoffed as though she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to know about such a heinous place.
Rose stuttered and considered what she could possibly say.
“What was your house like?” Zachary pressed it. “What are your parents like?”
Rose imagined what her parents were doing right at that moment. It was nearly eleven, which probably meant they were drinking domestic beer and watching reruns on television. They’d probably gotten into some kind of argument that had mounted to such decibels that the windows had shaken in their panes and the little kids had wept in their beds. But they refused to get divorced. They couldn’t afford it, for one. And for two, they probably knew they were two peas in a pod. Who else could stand them?
“My house at home is nothing like this house,” Rose began, her voice shaking. “You could call them direct opposites, in fact.”
“We had a private investigator take photos of the house,” Mrs. Walden said, her words slurring together. “I can show them to you if you like.”
Rose’s jaw dropped with surprise. She imagined herself on the front porch with her little siblings, wrangling them and cleaning things up as a hot-shot private investigator circled the house with a hot-shot camera. How dare they? Rose thought.
Mrs. Walden giggled. “You can see how hot and bothered she is about it, can’t you?” She put her hand on Mr. Walden’s knee. “But how else could we trust someone with our babies?”
“We couldn’t,” Mr. Walden affirmed. “It was out of the question.”
Zachary raised his eyebrows with surprise and glanced at Oren. “I wonder if Mother and Father ever did that with our governesses,” he said quietly. “You must remember them, Oren. Don’t you? The plump one who ran off with the plumber? The pretty young one who always made-up silly voices for our stories? What about the other one—the one who could ride horses?”
Oren looked genuinely uncomfortable. Suddenly, he was on his feet, with his hand over his chest and his eyes on the veranda stretching along the mansion's top level. He bucked for the door and opened it to walk outside, where he hung himself over the side of the veranda railing and gazed out at the black horizon of the Nantucket Sound.
Mrs. Walden got up swiftly to close the door behind him with a fluid motion, then turned to clasp her hands together and look at Zachary.
“He’s been through a lot,” Zachary reminded her. “Just this week, he’s lost everything.”
It took Mrs. Walden several seconds to fix her face, as though this deep into the night and into the cocktails, she’d lost full control.
“Of course,” Mrs. Walden said. “I can’t imagine how awful it’s been.”
“Can’t imagine,” Mr. Walden agreed, tossing back some of his cocktail. “You’ll let us know when the funeral is, won’t you? We really do want to support your family.”
Rose furrowed her brow with surprise. Before she could stop herself, she breathed, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Zachary’s face broke into a strange smile. “Thank you, my dear. I’m sure that will mean a lot to Oren if he ever gets back inside and faces himself.”
But there was no mention of who had died. Mrs. Walden changed the subject, and Zachary dove immediately into iconic tales that had transpired in faraway lands. There was no way of knowing if any of the stories were true. Rose allowed herself to drop into them anyway, imagining herself somewhere in the backdrop, on an Asian mountaintop or floating on a crystalline sea.
Not long after that, Mrs. Walden indicated it was time for Rose to return to her bedroom. They were done with her.
Throughout that time, Oren didn’t flinch. His eyes remained on the horizon. He’d lost everything.