Chapter 5
Chapter Five
June 1994
R ose couldn’t help it. That night, long after she’d been dismissed to her bedroom upstairs, shivery from cocktails, she lay awake and stared through the dark, thinking about the mysterious Oren and the strange Mrs. Walden and the at-times vivacious Zachary, whose personality seemed to turn on a dime. Never had she encountered people like this in Mississippi. Never had she felt a sinister underbelly, as though the things people said could never be taken as the full truth.
The biggest curiosity, of course, was Oren and his “loss.” There had been mention of a funeral before Rose had said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and Oren had abandoned the lounge for the surging darkness outside. Rose guessed someone had died in the fire. It stood to reason nobody had told her. Her life was a steady stream of children’s needs. Her life was meant to fade into the background and do what needed to be done.
But two days later was Rose’s first day off.
Rose woke up that morning at the crack of dawn. Evie was sprawled out beside her, as usual, her thumb tucked between her lips, her face still chunky with baby fat, and her eyes shifting dreamily behind their lids. Rose decided to carry Evie back to her bedroom so she could get a head start on her day. It was the first day that belonged totally to her. She had yet to strategize. But she knew she didn’t want to spend a lick of time babysitting—not even to tend to Evie when she woke up.
Rose tucked Evie back into bed, then tiptoed down the hall to shower and change into a sundress with yellow flowers. When she emerged, the clock in the hall read seven ten. She decided to go downstairs to the staff kitchen to have coffee and maybe grab a snack. Maybe she’d see the housekeeper, Miriam, somewhere. Miriam was the stand-in babysitter today. Rose wanted to warn her about the rash on the back of Hogarth’s legs. She wanted to remind her that Kate’s complaints about her teeth had already been dealt with; Kate had a dentist’s appointment next week.
Downstairs, Rose sat outside with a mug of coffee and watched the waves roll onto the white sand. She felt relieved and free in a way she hadn’t since she’d arrived, as though she’d just gone through a great trial and emerged victorious on the other side. In the future, she told herself now, I’ll have so many days off. I’ll work for myself. I’ll be the one to say if I work or if I don’t.
This felt laughable, of course. Nobody in her class made their own schedules. They took what they could and made money as much as possible.
Miriam emerged with a stern smile and a nervous glint in her eye. “What are you going to do for your day off?”
Rose stretched her arms over her head. “I was just thinking about that.”
Miriam sipped her coffee. It was clear from the outset that she didn’t really like children, that she’d taken this “extra day with the kids” with disdain and annoyance. But she didn’t let that annoyance shake off on Rose, for which Rose felt grateful.
“I’d like to see more of the island,” Rose admitted. “Since I’m not allowed to leave the grounds during the workday.”
“Why don’t you ask Baxter to drive you in?” Miriam suggested, speaking of one of the staff members in the kitchen. “He’s headed to the market in fifteen minutes.”
“How will I get back?”
Miriam made a face as though getting back was beyond her.
Rose decided she didn’t care. She leaped up and hurried back to the kitchen to discover Baxter in his white apron, making a list of groceries on a pad of paper.
“Let me guess,” he said now with a warm smile. “You want a ride to town?”
“Am I so transparent?”
“All the babysitters want a ride to town every once in a while,” he said.
Rose’s heart sank. Does it mean he wants to say no?
“Count yourself lucky,” Baxter declared. “I didn’t like the last babysitter much. I didn’t always say yes. But you? You haven’t made me angry yet.”
Rose giggled, sensing he was teasing her. “Let me know how to stay on your good side. ”
“Just keep the Walden kids happy,” Baxter said. “If they’re happy, they’re out of my way.” He winked.
Rose sat in the passenger side of Baxter’s little pickup with her purse on her lap and her hair tied in a still-damp knot on her head. Baxter was still out in the driveway, having a conversation with a guy there who was supposed to repair one of the Waldens’ luxury vehicles. They chatted with each other like they knew each other.
Baxter cleared it up when he got in the car. “Tiny island,” he said. “We all know each other.”
Rose’s heart swelled. The idea of a tiny island where everyone looked out for each other spoke to her sentimental side.
“Do the Waldens know everyone, too?” she asked as the truck chugged down the road.
“Let’s put it this way. They only know the people they need to know,” Baxter said with a barking laugh. “Everything is about appearances with them.”
Baxter shot Rose a look that meant if you tell anyone I said that, you’re done for.
Reading his mind, Rose said, “Don’t worry. I don’t have anyone to tell.”
Baxter’s face broke into a smile, and he turned up the radio to play a song from the seventies, one that Rose’s father liked. She was pretty sure it was by Deep Purple. She felt a strange pang of homesickness, imagining that thick-as-milkshake Mississippi heat, the air conditioner that was never strong enough.
Baxter parked in the lot by the market. Rose considered asking him how she could get back but then reminded herself of Miriam’s eye roll and decided she’d figure it out herself.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “See you later?”
“Enjoy your first day off. The island can be a magical place. I hope it extends its arms to you,” Baxter said.
Rose hurried away from the market with the eagerness of Evie on the beach. It was just eight in the morning, but plenty of tourists were outside, sipping iced coffee, tilting their heads to catch morning rays, or reading newspapers.
Rose wandered to the edge of the harbor and watched the sailboats rock gently against the docks, clasping and unclasping her hands. She was vaguely hungry. She checked the cash in her wallet to discover just eight dollars. It was funny; she hadn’t been paid yet. But being in the confines of the Walden Estate meant never really considering that money was required to purchase things. The children’s food appeared in the cabinets and fridge. The children’s beds were stripped, and the sheets washed. Money was invisible and ever-present.
Did Rose really need money to have a good day off? She decided she didn’t.
She started at the beach because it felt appropriate. She’d packed a book and laid out in her swimsuit, reading and eavesdropping on the tourists around her. A husband and wife had recently married, arguing about whether they should move to the suburbs of New York City or remain in the city.
“I told you from the beginning,” the wife was saying, “I want children.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to abandon our entire life,” the husband blurted. “We have friends in Manhattan. We have a gorgeous apartment. We have the parks and the studio and the…”
“We need to think about our baby’s future,” the wife shot back. “You weren’t raised in a city. Neither was I!”
Rose soon tired of the fighting and decided to walk farther down the beach.
That was when she heard the wife declare, “Look! You made such a scene. You’re ruining the beach for everyone else.”
“I didn’t start this conversation,” the husband pointed out. “You did.”
The beaches near the Nantucket Historic District weren’t as beautiful as the beach at the Walden Estate. But Rose had that kind of beauty to look at every single day of the week. Now, she indulged in people-watching, in smelling fried fish and french fries and churning ice cream. Time was moving too quickly; she wanted to grab onto it and own it. It was already noon when she decided to sit down for a coffee and a sandwich for four dollars—half of what she had.
She’d selected a little diner just off the main strip of the beach. It sold easy and quick fare for cheap prices, mostly to locals who didn’t want anything to do with the tourists. The locals were not wealthy like the Waldens. Based on the few conversations Rose overheard, she guessed they were fishermen, restaurant owners, shop owners, or tour guides. A few of them spoke about the “approaching big tourist season” with the air of a coming hurricane.
It intrigued Rose. It made her understand the density of this island. It housed so many different types of people.
There was an abandoned newspaper at the table beside Rose. She decided to grab it and read a little about the local news as she nibbled on her sandwich.
Local sports were just the same as in Mississippi: essential to the tapestry of the community. A style section showed photographs of tourists and locals alike in outfits that “showed their personalities and suited the 1993 style.” There were wedding and graduation announcements, and announcements were made that various eighteen-year-olds were off to Yale, Harvard, or Princeton. Rose inspected the photographs of these handsome and beautiful and wealthy children, wondering what it was like to be born and have the world handed to you. Evie, Hamilton, Kate, and Hogarth had that, too. Their futures were bright. When they reached the pinnacle of their successes, nobody would be around to share the stories of Evie crawling into Rose’s bed after a nightmare or Hamilton kicking and screaming when Rose told him he couldn’t have any more dessert.
Kids are the same everywhere, she thought now.
That was when she saw the obituary.
NATALIE GRAYSON: May 11, 1967 - June 16, 1993
Alarm bells rang in Rose’s ears. She died in the fire.
The photograph beside the obituary featured a beautiful woman with soft and ethereal hair and big and dreamy eyes. She wore a black dress with a high collar.
The obituary was simple. It read:
Natalie Grayson (née Quinne) passed away last week on the island of Nantucket. She is survived by her husband, Oren; her brother-in-law, Zachary; her parents, Hannah and Peter Quinne; and her brother, Dean. A private memorial service will be held June 24 at the Nantucket Angelic Gardens. In lieu of flowers, please donate funds to Natalie’s favorite charity, The Children’s Cancer Research Association.
Rose read and reread the obituary and leaned back against the cushion with her arms crossed over her chest. Oren had lost his wife; Zachary had lost his sister-in-law.
But why had Mrs. Walden, Mr. Walden, and Zachary spoken as though Oren had set the fire himself?
And why had Oren agreed to stay with the Waldens during this time of grief?
Rose was stumped.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” The fifty-something server with the ketchup-stained apron returned to refill her coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”
Rose coveted the pie in the rotating glass case but wasn’t sure she wanted to give up her precious money quite yet. The day was still young.
Rose pointed at Natalie's photograph. “Do you know what happened?”
The server’s face transformed and turned the color of paper. Her eyes flashed back and forth.
“You don’t know?” the server asked.
“I’m just visiting the island,” Rose said, searching for a lie that would get her more information. “But I used to know Natalie back in high school.”
The server’s eyes welled with tears. “You poor darling!”
A few other regulars tilted their heads and bodies, eager to get in on the conversation.
“She says she knew Natalie?” a fisherman asked, adjusting his black salt-encrusted hat.
The server nodded furiously.
“We were close when we were teenagers,” Rose offered, her face flushed. “We lost touch. I had no idea she was in Nantucket in the first place.”
“You want my opinion?” the server muttered. “I think her husband had something to do with it.”
A few others in the restaurant bowed their head in agreement.
The fisherman said, “I met her when she first got to the island. Beautiful girl. So smiley and happy. But the next time I saw her, she looked through me like I wasn’t there at all. It was like he’d done something to her. Poisoned her.”
Rose remembered Oren's dark face; those penetrating eyes seemed to see through her.
“Why would somebody burn his own house down?” Rose asked.
The server laughed nervously and wiped her palms on her apron. She looked at Rose as though she were the most innocent of all God’s creatures.
“Oh, honey,” the server said. “You have a great deal to learn about the wealthy, don’t you?”
“Don’t let her learn,” the fisherman barked. “Nothing good comes from that kind of learning.”
A family of four entered the diner after that, and conversation about the chance of murder in Nantucket filtered out. Rose was left to ponder alone. But a few minutes later, the server brought her a pie with ice cream “on the house,” smiling sadly, reminding Rose that she’d just lost her friend, Natalie.
“Take care of yourself, honey,” the server told her after she left that afternoon. “There’s no telling what big, bad wolves are out there waiting for you.”