Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
July 1993
T he stomach bug that attacked Rose on the morning of her day off in week two. It kept her locked in her bedroom, heaving and rolling around on the mattress. She could barely see the children through the window. Together with Miriam, the children walloped and ran around, their arms spread, their legs kicking and dancing. Balls soared through a cerulean sky. But Rose couldn’t even join them outside.
Rose was filled with dread and sorrow. It hadn’t been the plan to spend her second full day off like this. It was a waste of time.
I’m failing myself, she thought before nearly vomiting again.
Because Rose hadn’t been able to pack more than a couple of books, she’d already run out of things to read. She knew there was a library downstairs, an adult one that had nothing to do with the children’s book selection upstairs. But she also hadn’t specifically asked Mrs. Walden if she could dip into the library for her personal selection.
Why would it bother her? She wondered now but then remembered that for six full days a week, she was supposed to devote her entire life, mind and heart to the Walden children.
But that evening, through the window, Rose watched as Mr. and Mrs. Walden drove down the driveway and whizzed out of sight. If she wasn’t mistaken, Zachary and Oren were in the back seat. It meant they were headed somewhere, probably somewhere exquisite with divine cocktails and food with far more flavor and beauty than anything Rose would ever enjoy.
It meant Rose could tiptoe down the hallway, head downstairs, and select a few books before they returned.
Otherwise, I’ll die of boredom, she thought.
The children were dining downstairs with Miriam. As Rose crept, she heard Kate giggling and Evie talking with food in her mouth. Rose’s heart swelled with what could only be love for them. I’m a sap, she thought now. But she understood that caring for children every day inevitably brought about these sorts of feelings.
Sometimes, Rose wondered if this was proof she wanted children of her own one day. She imagined raising them in a home as immaculate as this: a home with mahogany floors, mid-century paintings, and furniture like chaise longues. She imagined her babies taking their first steps next to sculptures Rose had commissioned artists to make for her. She imagined saying things like Just throw it out. We don’t need it.
Rose reached the library and inhaled the soft and remarkable smell of thousands upon thousands of pages, stories written across centuries. The walls were lined with what had to be two or three thousand books, and the floor was a lush carpeting that she dug her toes into. There were lamps imported from Europe and thickly cushioned chairs and side tables upon which were stacked still more books. Rose wondered if those were specific piles Mrs. Walden had made for herself; maybe she meant to return to them later. It was better not to touch them, just in case she noticed anything amiss.
Mrs. Walden knows the innermost workings of the house. But she can’t possibly notice everything, she thought.
Rose felt like a character in a novel. She touched the golden-laced spine of books; she split books open to smell their pages; she took the heaviest one from the far shelf and tried to guess its weight. Twenty pounds? Thirty? Heaving it back on the shelf was difficult; her arms ached.
Rose hadn’t heard of most of the novels in the library. Back in Mississippi, she’d read whatever was around, most of which had been romance novels and mysteries. However, the Waldens enjoyed a higher class of literature. Rose wanted to understand what that was.
Suddenly, a sound came from the corner of the library. A creak. Rose whipped around and peered through the shadows to make out a figure in one of the red cushioned chairs. Her heartbeat thwacked in her ears.
Who is it?
Rose hadn’t heard anyone come in after her. Did that mean that whoever this was had been here the entire time? Watching her?
A staff member? A friend of the Waldens? Who?
Rose backed toward the doorway with her fingers spread. She finally mustered the strength to whisper, “Who’s there?”
Her eyes remained locked on the dark shadow in the corner. Her brain played still more tricks on her. Maybe nothing is there at all. Perhaps the illness is poisoning my brain.
“You don’t have to run,” the figure stated.
Rose stopped short and gaped at the dark shadow. The voice was Oren’s. She would have recognized it anywhere.
Suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Walden’s warning to stay away from him. Is he dangerous? Did he light his own house on fire? But why would someone do that?
“I thought you went to town with the Waldens,” Rose stuttered. She sounded like a child.
Oren stood and walked toward her so that the gray light of the evening filtered through the window and illuminated him. His eyes glinted.
Rose had the strangest sensation that he was a spider, and she’d just walked into his web.
Oren held a book in his right hand. Rose squinted to make out the title: Jane Eyre.
“What is that?” Rose asked because the silence was killing her.
Oren raised the book and marked his page. “You don’t know it?”
Rose’s cheeks flushed. Was she supposed to?
“It’s quite old. Written by one of the Bront? sisters,” Oren said. His tone was soft and easy. He took a small step and extended his arm to pass the book over. “It was my mother’s favorite.”
Rose was intrigued. She took the book and studied it, noting the gold-lined pages, the yellowed edges, and the sturdy spine. “Did this copy belong to your mother?”
“No,” Oren said. “I found it here.”
Rose raised her chin and felt a surge of fear. Had Oren’s mother’s copy been lost in the fire along with his wife? That house on the other side of the forest feels like a black hole, she thought.
“How many times have you read it?” she asked.
“Two or three,” Oren said. “But I’m really surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
Rose was surprised not to hear a hint of malice in Oren’s tone. Mrs. Walden probably would have made her feel really stupid for not having read the book. She might have made a joke about the “failing nature of the American education system in the South.” Northern superiority.
“I think I saw another copy,” Oren said. “Come on.”
Oren led Rose to the opposite side of the library and removed a different version of Jane Eyre, one that seemed to have been printed much later than the one in his hands. It seemed less mystical. Rose trusted herself with it more.
“You came here to get a book?” Oren asked.
Rose nodded and pressed the book against her chest. Her stomach continued to roil, but she didn’t know if it was due to sickness or nerves.
“I imagined you would leave the house today. Imagined you’d traipse through the island and hitchhike home again,” Oren said. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”
Rose was surprised that Oren knew anything about her schedule. Perhaps Mrs. Walden had let something slip. Or maybe Mrs. Walden had complained about Rose in some capacity. Rich women always complained about the hired help, Rose assumed.
“I’ve been sick today,” Rose explained.
Oren squinted as though he wanted a better look at her. “You look a little pale.”
Rose considered telling him that she’d spent the entire day tossing and turning in bed, sweating and cursing and wishing she was back home in Mississippi. Not that that would fix anything.
“Do you want a nightcap?” Oren suggested.
“I beg your pardon?”
Oren’s smile lifted. “A little drink before you go back upstairs. What do you say?”
Rose’s blood pressure spiked. It had been nearly two weeks since the fire, which meant this man was nearly two weeks into grieving the death of his wife. What could she possibly say to him to help him on this journey?
But she knew she couldn’t say no.
There was too much urgency in his eyes.
Besides, she’d had such a nothing, painful, black day. Maybe a nightcap would do her soul some good.
Oren led her up a back staircase to an area of the house she’d never seen before. A statue of a stoic man in a soldier’s uniform stood guard at the staircase landing, and a stuffed bird stretched its wings maniacally in mock flight. Rose’s hand flinched with the sudden desire to sweep through Oren’s.
It felt inevitable that I would come up here with him, she thought. Even from the first moment I saw him, I sensed something would happen.
How had she known?
Oren had three rooms to himself: a sitting room, an office with a mahogany desk and impressionist paintings, and a bedroom with a view of the Nantucket Sound. The furnishings were ornate and antique. Rose’s first thought was that the children would destroy them if they were here.
Oren entered his study and cracked open a bottle of something thick and brown. Maybe it was whiskey or scotch. Whatever it was, it was nothing Rose’s parents had ever enjoyed in the shadows of their reeking living room back in Mississippi. They’d always smoked cigarettes inside. Mrs. Walden smoked, too; Rose had seen her. But they had plenty of maids to clear out the stench.
Oren poured two stiff glasses and gestured for her to sit in the ocher leather chair across from him. She did. He didn’t bother with clicking his glass with hers, as though he was beyond those sort of childish celebrations. He lost his wife. He’ll never celebrate again.
There was a massive golden sculpture of an eagle behind him. It was ostentatious.
Oren caught her looking at it. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
Rose sucked in her breath. What did she know about design or artistry? Back home, her parents’ idea of decor had been fifteen American flags positioned around the yard and house, stitched upon pillows and bedspreads.
“It’s something,” she said, hoping she struck the right tone.
Oren got up and looked the golden eagle in the eye with the air of a man preparing to fight it. “The way the Waldens decorate this place boils my blood,” he muttered.
Rose snorted with surprise.
“Tell me,” he said, gesturing. “Tell me how you would have decorated this room.”
Rose tried to envision what she might have added to an empty room. What paint colors might she have chosen? What fabric for the furniture? But being poor meant not knowing the full potential of anything. It meant seeing nothing but boundaries.
Too much silence passed. Rose’s cheeks were hot with embarrassment. He’s going to regret inviting me up here. He’s going to think I’m stupid.
But Oren seemed to have forgotten his request. He collapsed back on the sofa and propped his feet up on a table that probably cost more than Rose’s parents’ entire home. His face was intense, stitched together with wrinkles that aged him far more than his twenty-seven years. Was that because of the fire, too? Rose wanted to reach out and trace the lines.
“I’m tired, Rose,” Oren muttered now. His eyes glinted as though tears were about to fall. “I can’t go anywhere across the island without hearing how heinous I am.” His gaze sharpened. “You don’t believe what they’re saying, do you?”
Rose was seized with the realization that she had to carry this man’s sorrow for him. But she was well-practiced in that. She’d done it for her father, for her mother, for her siblings.
“I don’t know what they’re saying,” she lied. “I’m always here at the Walden Estate.”
“But when you go into town,” he said. “You must hear them talking about how I burned the place down. How I killed her.”
A knot formed in Rose’s throat. She filled her mouth with whiskey and stopped herself from coughing everything up.
“It’s ridiculous,” Oren muttered, his eyes on the window. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Rose felt meek. She had the sense that Oren would have asked anyone into his study tonight. He wanted to talk. He didn’t want to be alone.
“It’s like this,” Oren said. “You fall in love, and you do everything you can to stay in love. But sometimes, it slips through your fingers.”
Rose had never been in love. She couldn’t fully imagine it. It didn’t seem to suit the nature of the world in which she’d been raised. Love in this cruel world? No. Maybe it doesn’t exist.
“Natalie was the kind of woman who always felt misunderstood, no matter what,” Oren said. “No matter how hard I tried or how eager I was to please her, she always found fault in me.” Oren’s voice warbled.
Rose thought, This man is broken beyond repair.
“We were doing our best to come back together,” Oren whispered. “We went to therapy. We talked and talked till all hours of the night. We tried to make sense of each other. We tried to make sense of our lives.” He wrung out his hands. “We were so close, Rose. So close. And that’s what I think about the most.” Tears drained from his eyes and lined his cheeks. “I can’t believe she died in agony like that. I can’t believe that’s how our marriage had to end.”
The room began to spin. Rose was reminded of her illness, of her body and its betrayal. She reached out to him without thinking, and he slid his hand onto hers and squeezed it. A jolt of electricity went through her.
“It’s the first time I’ve been able to talk about this,” Oren murmured. “Thank you. Thank you for listening.”
Rose said, “Any time. I’m here for you any time.”
Her voice was hardly a whisper. Yet what she said seemed like a dense, weighted promise that would drag her under if she wasn’t careful.
We have to be there for each other, she thought of humankind. Oren has no one but me.
Nothing else happened that first night. It was just two weeks after Natalie left the world behind.
But Rose felt the air between them. It was heavy with expectation. It felt as though their story had already been written. She couldn’t wait to turn the page.