Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nolan
I haven’t told Harriet about the compass.
I intended to tell her tonight, but then she opened her door wrapped in that deep purple dress, looking a devastating combination of hopeful and wounded, and I couldn’t.
You won’t be the only one who will bear the consequences.
Consequences. Timelines. Memories and mysteries and magic gone rogue. Things are changing. I should be seizing this opportunity with both hands, hell-bent on being somewhere—anywhere—other than here.
But instead, I’m wandering down a neatly curved brick path toward a faintly glowing colonial estate, Christmas music drifting from the open doorway.
I’ve decided to be selfish tonight. I’m giving myself this night with Harriet.
I won’t worry about the implications hanging heavy over my head.
Tonight, I want to pretend. I want to be with her.
Car tires crunch across the gravel drive and Harriet’s heels click against the walkway.
“You could walk next to me, you know,” she says over her shoulder, shooting me a knowing look. It’s a marked change from the frown she wore for the duration of the drive over here, her shoulders steadily winding tighter and tighter until she resembled something carved out of stone.
I let my gaze trail appreciatively down the curve of her ass. “I like the view from back here.”
She laughs and then reaches behind her, looping her fingers around my wrist and tugging.
We’re close enough to the water for a light breeze to lift the edge of her coat, wrapped around her like cotton-candy-colored armor.
She insisted on parking at the small church down the street, joking about a quick getaway, instead of waiting for the valet.
But then her jaw had gone tight and she got that glassy, faraway look in her eyes and I don’t think it was a joke.
The rest of the drive was spent in silence.
I fall into step next to her, settling my hand at the base of her spine. “All right?” I ask.
She nods silently, watching her feet as she ascends the wide porch steps. She offers a strained smile to one of the attendants standing by the door, then steps to the side. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares out at the dark estate grounds.
A pier extends out over the water, twinkle lights wrapped around the docking posts that bob up and down with the tide.
Weeping willows drift lazily around a glowing white tent, the catering staff coming and going with trays balanced on their upturned palms. A man dressed like a high-end Santa smokes a cigarette behind a short fence, and two Rockette-clad reindeer adjust their stockings.
Ridiculous. All of it.
“I just need a minute,” Harriet tells me, shifting on her deadly looking shoes. Her breath explodes out of her in a cloud of white. “One more second, and I’ll be ready.”
I want to gather her in my arms and disappear down a garden path with just the stars and a bottle of champagne for company. If she wants a quick getaway, I have more than a few ideas.
“I’m in no rush,” I tell her easily, shoving my hands in my pockets. I’m not used to wearing formal wear. I don’t think I’ve put on anything more complicated than a raincoat in close to three decades. “Take as much time as you need.”
An older woman in a white fur wrap gives us an inquisitive look as she passes. I summon all my ghostly energy and glare at her until she pales, rushing forward into the manor.
Harriet shakes out her hands, mumbling something under her breath. I catch a few words: you’ ll be fine and just one night and not alone this time.
My stomach hollows. She’s not alone this time, but it’s likely she will be the next.
And the time after that, and the time after that until—until there’s another man standing in my place.
Someone else who will hold her hand and kiss her up against the wall of her tiny, cluttered house.
Someone who will keep his pockets full of candy canes, just in case.
The thought fills me with barely banked panic, imagining someone else in all the places Harriet has allowed me to be.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to move forward, and now I’m hesitating. I’m unsure, wavering. I hate the idea of leaving Harriet here alone almost as much as I hate the idea of spending any more time in this place. Maybe more.
Another couple enters behind us and Harriet fixes a plastic-looking smile on her face. I hate that most of all.
“Harriet.” I duck closer so most of her body is blocked by mine, her big brown eyes blinking up at me like I’m her lifeline. “Listen to me.”
I tangle our fingers together and give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“We’re going to go inside,” I tell her, keeping my voice low, mindful of the attendants behind us and the steady stream of guests flitting in and out of the manor.
“We’re going to drink the fancy champagne.
We’ll eat some of the tiny appetizers. And then we’re going to dance. ”
Her eyes spark in interest. “You’ll dance with me?”
I get that balloon-in-my-chest feeling again and I squeeze her fingers harder. “Aye. I’ll dance with you. And I’ll whisper inappropriate things in your ear and make sweeping judgments about the people around us.”
She smiles. “And you won’t leave me alone? Not even for a second?”
I shake my head. My heart aches. “I won’t. I promise. Not unless you wish it. We’ll do this together, yeah?”
“Together,” she repeats. The barest hint of a smile appears. “Okay.” She nods. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”
“Not quite yet.” There’s been something bothering me since I showed up at her home a couple of hours ago, fire in my veins and desperation in my belly.
I settle my hand around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the hair at her nape. It disrupts the smooth, tidy bun she’s pulled it into.
“What are you doing?” She tugs at my hand. “You’re going to mess up my hair.”
“I know.”
My magic flares to life in my palms and she stills against me.
Golden sparks slowly weave their way through her hair, uncoiling it from the harsh bun she’s forced it into.
She lets out a small sound of relief as it drapes across her shoulders, the straight strands twisting back into the curls I have an unhealthy fascination with.
I drag my thumb over the curve of her ear and holly berries appear, nestled in a comb of gold.
“There.” I study my handiwork, pleased. “That’s better.”
Harriet’s cherry-red lips curve in amusement. “Was that necessary?”
“Very much so.” I reach for her hand and start tugging her toward the entrance. The sooner we get inside, the sooner we can leave. “Now you look like you.”
“As opposed to—”
I pull off my wool coat as soon as we’re through the doors, handing it off to an attendant standing to our left.
I intercept him before he can help Harriet with hers, unwrapping the heavy sash from around her middle.
I tug her coat from her shoulders and she shivers lightly as I drag my thumb down the length of her exposed spine.
I brush a quick kiss to the back of her head, then duck down to whisper in her ear.
“As opposed to the woman who lets others twist her into something smaller. Remember who you are, Harriet. And remember you’re not alone.” I hand over her coat, then guide her forward. “Let’s find some drinks.”
Harriet exhales a sharp breath. “Let’s do that.”
Her mother finds us before the champagne does.
She greets Harriet with two air kisses on either side of her cheeks, her mouth etched in a polite-looking smile. She looks like she’s barely aged since that first memory. There’s not a single strand of gray in her dark blond hair, nor a wrinkle to be found across her forehead.
Her eyes are the only thing that give her away. Her eyes look tired. “Harriet,” she says, her smile polite and distant. Her gaze flicks down and then up. “You’re wearing purple.”
Not hello. Not happy holidays. A criticism, handed over like one of the paper Christmas crowns my mother used to make out of old fishing ledgers.
A surge of fierce protectiveness rushes through me, twisting with my magic. But Harriet doesn’t wilt or fold. She smiles. “I am.” Her eyes find mine. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
I’m so damned proud of her. I give her a quick wink. “I believe I specified navy,” her mother says.
“You did,” Harriet replies, turning back, her voice calm. The only concession to her nerves is the slight tremble in her hand. “You look beautiful, Mom. Everything looks beautiful. You’ve done a wonderful job with the venue.”
Her mother ignores the compliment. “And your hair.”
Harriet’s smile falters. “Yes?”
“It’s … different.”
“This is how I normally wear it,” Harriet says. She touches the bunch of mistletoe nestled behind her ear. “Well. A little fancier than usual.”
Her mother’s mouth twists. “A little fancier,” she repeats, her voice dry.
I step closer and press my palm to the small of Harriet’s back. “I think she looks beautiful.”
I say it like a threat. In the same tone of voice I’d probably say I hope you choke on your cranberry martini, or You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, or The napkins you selected hardly match the silverware for this ostentatious show of wealth.
The full force of Donna York’s attention is oddly intimidating. She’d do well in the office of Poltergeists, should she find herself in need of an occupation in the afterlife.
“And who is this?” she asks.
Harriet leans into my touch. “This is Nolan. He’s a friend.”
“A friend who didn’t RSVP.” Her face pinches, souring in increments. “You failed to mention him when we discussed optics on the phone the other day.”
“It was a last-minute decision. I wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to make it.”
“It seems you made a few of those.”” Her top lip curls into a faint sneer before her etiquette lessons kick in and she smooths her features. I’ve seen statues with more warmth in their expression.
This woman. Harriet’s memories of her have been far too kind—lit with the glow of Harriet’s ingrained optimism. The reality of Donna York is like wiping a layer of dust off an old mirror and finally getting a good look. I see all of her imperfections.
I drum my fingers against Harriet’s back as the three of us stand in an awkward silence.
In absolutely no hurry to fill it, I scan the room for the server with the champagne.
Harriet taps along to the beat of “Little Drummer Boy” played by the string quartet in the corner.
Donna studies me out of the corner of her eye and I keep my features impassive.
I have no desire to win her approval or acceptance, and she seems to know it.
“What is it you do, Nolan?”
“I work in auditing,” I answer with a shit-eating grin.
Harriet snorts.
“Oh? Is the shop in some sort of trouble?” Donna sounds far too gleeful at the prospect.
Harriet’s amusement vanishes and my hand creeps up higher, my thumb easing over the bare skin just above the smooth cut of her dress.
“Not in the least,” I say smoothly. “What Harriet has done with the shop is remarkable. You should be proud of her achievements.”
I deliver that last bit with a little too much venom.
Harriet holds her breath next to me, bracing for whatever vitriol is about to spill from her mother’s mouth.
But either Donna York didn’t hear me, or she’s decided to take a vow of silence in the past three minutes, because she drifts off without another word, a polite smile fixed on her face as she greets a bleached-blond couple draped in silk and pearls.
It’s the best response she could have had, I suppose.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Harriet says, flagging down a waiter for a glass of champagne. “I could win the Nobel Peace Prize and the Daytona 500 in the same year, and my mother would still find something to be disappointed in.”
“What’s the Daytona 500?”
“It’s a car race,” she explains. “You really haven’t heard of it?”
I shrug. I could not care any less. “Can’t say I’m invested enough.”
“Well.” Her gaze trips around the room, taking in the finery. The oversize oil paintings on the walls and the gold, glimmering plates.
The pretty people in their pretty clothes, rotten to the core. “Are you invested enough to dance with me?”
“Now that is something I can muster some enthusiasm for.” I thread my fingers through hers. “Off we go.”