Chapter Two
A Woodhouse Party
On a beautiful Saturday afternoon in August, Fairchild was sitting in his well-worn leather chair reading when Flora emerged from her room.
She came down the step ladder that led to her loft, set a book on the table, and headed for the door.
“Where are you off to?” he asked, slightly suspicious.
Fairchild didn’t usually care where Flora went—she’d never been one to get into trouble—but he was concerned about one thing.
The Roman obsession had returned.
They’d had a brief break from it during college.
At this point, Fairchild worried it would never ever leave.
“Kitchen,” she replied, already halfway out the door.
Flora’s voice was soft and deep, English-scented from growing up with her father and the Woodhouses, mixed with the harsher edges of an American education. She enunciated her words, but they still had a strange softness to their edges.
“I’m hungry,” she added.
Fairchild knew she was not going to the kitchen but to the large and branchy sycamore tree that overlooked the garden and lawn where Mrs. Woodhouse’s parties were held.
At twenty-three, Flora lived in the past where it was much more acceptable to be climbing trees—which is what she’d done at nearly every Woodhouse party since she could climb.
At first, this had been a harmless, girlish ritual.
Now? Well, it was still girlish, but possibly harmful.
Harmful or not, she wanted to see the last party of the summer before she was shipped off to Europe.
Europe…
Mrs. Woodhouse had managed to get her a highly sought after internship with Vogue Paris. It was one in a million, but of course Flora wanted nothing to do with it. She just wanted to stay at the estate. She wanted to be close to Roman.
Roman wasn’t in Paris!
She had hemmed and hawed over the offer for the better part of two weeks before accepting it.
“Flora,” Fairchild said now, groaning. “You must put this aside. Roman has had plenty of chances to notice you and he keeps his nose elsewhere. As should you. Leave the dream and focus on something else. You’ve got an amazing degree from a highly respected school, and an internship in Paris!
Most people would be clamoring after this. ”
Flora gave him a look and whined, “Please, Dad, just one more time.”
“The full-time observation of Roman Woodhouse is not a recognized occupation, Flora. You cannot spend your life in a tree!”
“Dad… one last time, that’s all. I promise.”
He sighed and relented.
“Fine. But you come back early and pack.”
Flora nodded and disappeared down the steps before he could change his mind. Fairchild shook his head and turned his nose back to Crime and Punishment. Ironic, considering the circumstances.
The sun had set over Richardson Bay, so no one saw her climb the old sycamore.
She sat in the U-shaped branch, well-worn from all her visits over the years.
Her hand traced over where “F + R = <3” was carved into the trunk.
The engraving was from her sophomore year of high school, done with a buck knife.
She glanced out to the stretch of grass.
The party was in its beginning stages—thank goodness she hadn’t missed anything.
The orchestra was playing a rendition of Fly Me to the Moon, guests were mingling, Clara was bothered by the person who had brought their yapping dog.
Clara had never been a fan of house pets.
Flora’s eyes traced over the guests until she located him.
There he was. Roman Woodhouse.
Gosh, he’s gorgeous!
The light brown hair with blonde highlights grown out from summer, the mischievous blue eyes, the jawline—it was absurd really. And boy, did he know how to dress! Always like he stepped off some magazine cover.
Of course, he was talking to some blonde girl in a white sequin dress with red lipstick. It’s not as if Flora stood any chance at all. Though even if she had been better looking, these girls would have knocked her out of the water. She was going to work for Vogue—they were Vogue cover models.
She sighed and scanned for Finn. She always located Finn just for the fun of it. He was such a killjoy. And predictably, he was in a corner close to her tree lookout, on the phone, with one ear plugged, shouting over the music.
“Can you trade all of it?!”
Flora leaned to hear more.
“No—James, why would we be trading animals? I’m—I’m not a bloody poacher. I’m very anti-animal cruelty. Who do you think I am?” He was squinting, as if that would make the sound better. “Did you say Granimals? I can’t hear a thing over this silly music!”
Flora laughed and turned her attention back to Roman. She watched as he did his usual party stunt. He’d say something clever, ask the girl in the sparkly dress to dance, and then eventually he’d get two glasses of champagne and meet her at the bench that overlooked the mountain.
Yep. Simple.
And every single girl fell for it.
Flora knew he did this because every morning after the party there were two empty glasses left near the bottom of the tree. Flora had traced his patterns carefully. He was a creature of flirting habit.
“Come join the party, darling!”
Clara had zeroed in on Finn, waving her arms at him.
“You must put down the phone for three seconds and come meet the Yukitos.”
“Hold on, James—” He held his phone to his chest momentarily. “Are these the people here to test the VR headset?”
“No, these are visiting dignitaries from Japan.”
“Oh. I don’t care then,” he replied, turning back to his phone. “And turn down the orchestra, would you? I can’t hear a thing.”
Clara sort of stomped her foot, nearly on the yapping dog that was running around, and then turned. “Roman! Where’s Roman?”
Flora grinned. It was always a show.
“Blonde. Sparkly white dress worn in bad taste. Red lipstick bright enough to blind the sun,” Finn replied flatly, not looking up.
“Oh goodness sakes alive,” Clara said, putting her hand on her chest. “This has to stop. Roman!”
Roman had somehow foreseen Finn ratting on him and his mother chasing him.
He was already headed for the exit—a much earlier one than usual.
Two champagne glasses in hand, a wry smirk, and clever avoidance of several partygoers.
He ran toward the exit, glancing over his shoulder in a blind panic to get away before his mother caught up.
Flora sighed and hopped down from her perch in the tree. The show was already over. She’d hoped for a longer one tonight.
As she landed, she came face to face with Roman, who looked startled.
“Oi, Flora!” he said, eyes wide, putting his hand on his chest. “You’ve always been such a spook! You could be part bat. Gosh, I thought someone important was going to see me leaving.”
He looked up the tree, amused that she had obviously been in it as she had so many years ago, spying on them.
Flora felt her face going bright red. He had just compared her to a bat… things couldn’t get any worse.
“Roman!” Mrs. Woodhouse’s voice echoed past them.
Roman darted past Flora without another word and ran toward the path to the mountain bench.
“No… nobody important,” Flora whispered. “Just me.”
“Oh, Flora!” Mrs. Woodhouse stopped as she saw Flora standing there like a shadow. “You scared me. You’ve always had a way about you like a ghost. Have you seen Roman? I swore I saw him going this way.”
Flora shook her head, loyal to the end. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Goodness sakes alive that boy will kill us all before he’s twenty-five.”
Clara huffed to herself and took off down the path anyway, shaking her head as she went. She wasn’t sure if Flora truly hadn’t seen him or was misleading her purposely. The girl had a soft spot for her son that would undoubtedly lead to telling lies in his undeserving defense.
Flora leaned back on the tree for a few seconds to catch her breath. She was jittery from talking to Roman. He’d likened her to a bat, but he’d at least seen her. That was an improvement.
She paused now as Finn walked past on his phone still.
“Hi, Flora,” he said.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t look surprised. Just kept walking, phone to his ear, as if finding her under a tree was the most normal thing in the world.
“—no, I just don’t feel like buying anymore social networks this year, they’re all terrible,” he said as he hurried down the path towards his car. He was also looking over his shoulder for his mother, but for a much different reason than Roman.
Flora watched as he disappeared down the rose-dotted lane.
Finn was taller than Roman, sharper somehow—quieter, colder. His hair darker and longer, his skin paler. His jaw was severe, his expression almost always unreadable, and though he rarely smiled, his eyes—a strange shade of dark blue—had something restless in them that didn’t match the rest of him.
Roman was the opposite. Sun-tanned, playful, careless. Always on the verge of smiling, always cracking a joke. His eyes held no restlessness, only mischief.
The lane was quiet now—just the din of the party behind her.
As she stood there, she suddenly felt sick.
A wave of heat, red cheeks, the flush of disappointment and adrenaline.
Roman would never notice her.
Why was it hitting her right now?
The daydream she escaped into over and over again was just that—a dream.
Why was it so much easier to live in dreams?
She contemplated the injustice of it all, why she couldn’t have been prettier, and then heaved a sigh. It’s not as if she could do something about it. She was who she was. The girl who looked like a shepherdess hundreds of years too late.
“I would have been a real catch in the Biblical era…”
She walked back to the studio and began to pack, much to her father’s excitement and approval, and to her own surreal dismay.
However, the lasting effect of Roman’s indifference was not very good because about an hour after she finished throwing everything into a suitcase, she found herself scribbling her phone number in Paris on a note. She wanted to slip it under Roman’s door.
What if he decided he wanted to give her a call sometime?
She turned it over in her hand a few times.
+93 3424 345
Flora Fairchild
She peered down to the living room doing reconnaissance. As she suspected, her dad was asleep. The Dostoevsky reading and the slow lull of the band was enough to knock anyone out.
With the coast clear, Flora darted out the door, down the steps, across the lawn, and up the stairs to Roman’s room.
What if he got curious about where she’d gone off to?
Maybe he’d come to Paris and let her know.
It couldn’t hurt to try, right?
Her stomach was turning repeatedly as she walked down the hall. She wasn’t even supposed to be on this side of the house. This was crazy but she would never forgive herself if she didn’t try.
She listened carefully as she approached the door. There was some rattling inside, but there was no way he was back yet. After a deep breath that went down to her toes, she knelt to slip the note under the door…
when it opened.
And to her shock and horror, Finn stood there.
He nearly jumped out of his skin at the crouched figure by his feet—a figure that, at first glance, could have been mistaken for a shag carpet.
Flora Fairchild.
He was holding one of Roman’s ties in his hand—raiding his brother’s useless work closet—looking at her with interest and confusion, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing.
Flora stood up, gasping loudly.
The gasp probably echoed down to the kitchen.
She grabbed the paper, crumpling it in her fist. Her face burned red, and the embarrassment was strong enough to knock the delusion down. She knew she’d let her imagination take her much too far on this occasion.
Her feet carried her backwards, as they had done when she was a child.
The look on her face was one Finn had become very familiar with—the one of pure terror of what he might do or say. He knew she was still afraid of him, even after all these years. Even with the quiet, almost imperceptible signs that she’d grown up at all.
Before he could even ask what she was doing, Flora was gone.
Her figure was a ghost down the hall, only the echoes of her feet evidence of where she’d been.
However, he didn’t need her to answer the question of what she’d been doing. He had the answer.
It was no secret that Flora had been in love with Roman for a long time and that the crush had been purely one-sided. Roman thought she was odd. He’d said as much once when they’d seen her trailing down a hill like a cow.
“She’s so weird,” Roman muttered. “It’s like having a ghost haunt the place.
But the ghost is a twenty-something-year-old girl who moonlights as a grave digger milkmaid.
Has she not thought to dress differently?
I’m not trying to be rude, but I’ve never seen a girl dress like that.
It’s the most unbecoming outfit anyone could ever imagine.
Look at that. She’s wearing a muumuu and Doc Martens… and… is that a wicker basket?”
“Roman…” Finn said warningly, “she’s a nice girl. She’s actually very pretty.”
“Well, you can’t tell.”
And that was what Roman thought. He wouldn’t have noticed if she disappeared. He didn’t care.
Finn glanced down the empty hall one more time. He had no clue what had been written on the paper, but he thought it best she took the paper—and the crush—with her to Paris.
And that’s exactly what she did.