Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
June 1993
R ose planned to hitchhike back to the Walden Estate. She felt like a rebel woman, a woman on the brink of the rest of her life, a woman who took risks. After all, she’d come all the way to Nantucket from Mississippi on a wing and a prayer. What was a bit of hitchhiking? It was nothing in comparison.
Rose was at the edge of the Nantucket Historic District with her thumb out. It was nearly ten in the evening, and she felt blurry with happiness and dizzy with freedom. She’d stayed out far longer than she’d planned for, but she hadn’t been able to resist window-shopping and people-watching and eating two ice cream cones so that her head felt fuzzy with sugar.
But it was the nineties, not the seventies. Did that mean people didn’t hitchhike anymore?
Rose watched with increasing despondency as tourists passed her by, ignoring her or giving her annoyed looks. Mothers seemed the cruelest of all, frowning when they passed or pressing their foot on the gas, as though Rose’s existence on this planet would soon corrupt their children. It was only a matter of time.
This gave Rose pause. What if one of those mothers was friendly with Mrs. Walden? What if they told Mrs. Walden what Rose was up to, and Rose lost her job?
But Rose didn’t have much time to consider the what-ifs. Suddenly, a car stopped on the side of the road—a nice car, Italian-made with tinted windows. Rose didn’t hesitate. She threw herself into the passenger seat and closed the door behind her.
Immediately, she recognized the man in the driver’s seat.
It was Oren Grayson.
It was the man who’d lost his wife, Natalie.
Rose’s mouth went dry with panic.
Oren pressed the gas and shifted his massive hands across the steering wheel. He wore a very expensive cologne that Rose wouldn’t have been able to name if her life was at stake. But even she—a Southern country girl with two dollars in her pocket—recognized it as remarkable. As something that startled you out of yourself. As something that made you acknowledge the wearer as powerful, mysterious, and handsome.
“Thank you,” Rose mustered because she hated how quiet the car was.
She eyed the radio and speaker system, and her fingers itched with urgency. She wanted to turn it on and blare it as loud as it could go.
“Didn’t anyone tell you it wasn’t safe to hitchhike?” Oren asked. His gruff voice was like nobody’s Rose had ever heard.
I’m so sorry about your wife, Rose wanted to say. And then she remembered that Zachary and Mrs. Walden had hinted that he’d started the fire himself.
So had he? Rose inspected his face, his expensive clothes, and his car. He didn’t seem like a murderer. Then again, she’d never been around any murderers. What did she know?
“It seems we’re staying at the same place,” Oren said.
Rose raised her chin. “You’re staying with the Waldens?”
“For now.”
Rose blinked several times. She’d thought the night of drinks was a one-time thing. Maybe they were perpetually in the lounge with cocktails, listening to records, telling stories, making sure not to say a thing about Natalie.
“It’s a beautiful place,” Rose said.
Oren made a strange noise in his throat. Rose couldn’t make sense of it.
For whatever reason—perhaps because she was a masochist or too curious for her own good, she decided to probe. “What do you mean?”
“The Walden Estate isn’t so nice.” Oren coughed.
“Compared to what?” Rose demanded.
Oren raised his eyebrows, and Rose felt his answer with startling clarity: not nice compared to the home that just burned down.
Rose bit her lower lip. Her pulse was frantic. She remembered the way his face had transformed when she’d said, I’m so sorry for your loss. Then she realized that Natalie had sat on the passenger side of this car probably hundreds of times. A chill came over her.
“I’m working for the Waldens,” Rose stuttered. “So you can let me know if you need anything.” She took a breath. “Okay?”
Oren’s eyes flickered over to her as he drove. Rose took a peek at the speedometer and saw they were going twenty-five over the speed limit. It was exhilarating. His wife had just died, but he was still eager to toy with death himself.
Rose thought, This is the most fascinating man I’ve ever met in my life.
They reached the Walden Estate at ten thirty. Oren parked and threw his keys at the on-hand valet and stalked into the night. Rose watched him go, wondering where he was going. The beach for a night swim? He had the kind of wild energy that made it difficult to know where he was off to or if you would ever see him again.
“Rose?”
Rose nearly leaped from her skin. Twisting around, she discovered Mrs. Walden at the edge of the veranda, peering down at her. A long and slender cigarette hung from between two of her fingers. In the moonlight, Mrs. Walden looked especially pale and thin, almost skeletal.
“Rose, will you come up here for a moment?” Mrs. Walden asked without waiting for Rose’s hello.
Rose hurried up the steps to the veranda to find Mrs. Walden sprawled out on a bench with her skirts flowing out on either side. Beside her was an empty glass that probably had very recently held one of Mrs. Walden’s favorite cocktails. Mrs. Walden’s eyes were glazed and half-open.
Rose dropped to her knees beside Mrs. Walden. Having grown up in a small town in the South, she wasn’t unfamiliar with the mannerisms of an alcoholic. But for whatever reason, Rose had assumed that only poor people could be alcoholics. It didn’t make sense that a woman with everything in the world she could ever want would drink away her blues. What kind of blues had Mrs. Walden ever had? Hadn’t her bills always been paid? Weren’t her children always fed? Didn’t she have the most gorgeous view from a veranda that she never had to leave if she didn’t want to?
Rose’s head thudded with questions.
“Mrs. Walden? Are you all right?” Rose muttered.
Mrs. Walden’s voice was just a rasp. “You need to be careful around him, Rose.”
Rose’s heart jumped into her throat. She searched the dark beach for some sign of Oren but couldn’t find him. Was he listening? Was he somewhere near, laughing about the show Mrs. Walden was putting on? Maybe they would both laugh later and say, That Rose is sure an idiot, isn’t she?
“You need to listen to me,” Mrs. Walden repeated as her eyes closed. “You have to watch it.”
Rose retreated inside to find another member of staff who was better equipped to bring Mrs. Walden to her bedroom. Rose wasn’t sure if she could have found Mr. and Mrs. Walden’s wing again if she searched for it herself. The house was too big, too meandering.
She was exhausted.
Rose hurried back to her bedroom, turned on the lights, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was slightly sunburnt, and her eyes echoed blissful happiness, proof that she was doing something with her life. Proof that it was all on her own terms.
But just before she drifted off to sleep, Rose remembered Natalie’s image in that newspaper, an obituary that stated her death at the age of twenty-six.
Why is the fire an enormous secret? She marveled in the darkness. What is everyone hiding?