Chapter 1 Helena #2
“New York isn’t Cambridge, darling. You should know that by now.
” She exhaled, and five seconds later she was Blake Weston again, unflappable co-ruler of the empire my father’s predecessors had built.
My mother wasn’t your typical society wife—hanging off a wealthy man’s arm, raising his kids, and running interference—as some people assumed when they first met her.
Half an hour with her and her sharp intellect, though, and they were cured of that notion.
“So where is everybody?” I asked. “We always have brunch together on Sundays.” Even if my older brother didn’t live at home anymore, he was always there for brunch, all the same.
“I’m sorry you came home early for it.” My mom finally came over to me and gave me a hug, albeit a brief one. “But I have an appointment at the memorial society, and your father is on business in Washington until Tuesday. There’s no brunch today.”
Only today? Judging by the look on her face, there was more to it than that. But perhaps I’d just gotten too used to focusing on nonverbal cues, facial expressions, and body language over the last few months. It was part of the preparation for my plan—a plan that would begin first thing tomorrow.
“Okay—next week, then,” I said, trying to read her reaction, but she was inscrutable. Or she was when it came to brunch, anyway; the look she leveled at my long, dark ponytail was pretty unequivocal.
“You need a haircut, sharpish. I’ll make an appointment with Cara tomorrow.
And what is this you’re wearing?” With a frown, she fingered the leather jacket I’d bought a few months ago at a little store in Cambridge.
If I told her it was secondhand, she’d probably jump straight into a bath full of disinfectant, memorial society be damned.
“It’s vintage. It’s what they’re wearing across the pond.”
“Not over here, though,” she stressed. “I don’t want anyone in this city to see you in that getup. Get rid of it as soon as possible, please.”
Over my dead body, I thought.
“Sure,” I said, with a smile for good measure. “Where’s Vincent, by the way? I’d like to say hi.”
“He’s in Chicago for a while—his sister is ill. We don’t know when he’s coming back yet. Or even if he will.”
I’d had no idea. Why hadn’t they mentioned it? The butler was part of our family, after all.
“And the rest of the staff?”
“We didn’t think anybody would be home, so they have the day off.
” My mother reached for her coat and handbag.
“I have to go. Why don’t you get yourself unpacked first, okay?
It’s good to have you back.” She stroked my cheek, her words sounding more like Please don’t make me regret going against your father on this.
He would much rather I’d stayed in England for the rest of college. Or even the rest of my life.
I nodded, still smiling. But no sooner had the door closed shut behind her, leaving me completely alone in the entrance hall, than I felt the full weight of disappointment in my empty stomach.
I’d imagined my homecoming very differently.
Ever since I’d been sent to boarding school in England against my will, I’d looked forward to this day with all my heart.
The day I’d be allowed back, no longer the good little girl who’d been forced to sit idly by after she lost her sister, but a determined young woman who would restore Valerie’s reputation.
That time had come… so why did it feel so awful?
I crossed to the staircase and started to climb, but I didn’t even manage the first step.
My and Valerie’s rooms were at the top, and I was so scared of what it would do to me to go in there and be hit by the full force of all the memories.
A part of me wanted to be surrounded by my sister’s things, to feel her presence again—everything that had made her special, everything she’d been to me.
But fear won out. I swerved the stairs and went into the living room instead.
Not much had changed since I’d been here last. There were the same antiques, the brocade wallpaper, the leather Chesterfields and heavy rugs—and, of course, fresh-cut flowers everywhere.
The huge painting in the dining room was new, a gloomy battle scene by some old master.
I hadn’t missed my parents’ preference for Baroque artwork.
I had totally different taste—there was a reason a trip to MoMA was top of my list of things to do in the city.
I’d written that list two years ago, when I realized I wouldn’t be coming back to the States as soon as I’d thought.
My parents hadn’t even let me come home for Christmas; instead the whole family had flown to England. They’d been so afraid I’d end up like Valerie, they’d done everything in their power to keep me away from New York City.
Whatever that even meant, end up like her. Happy? Fulfilled? In love? She’d been all of those things when she died, after all.
The lump in my throat was back, and I swallowed it down again. There was no one home anyway, so I decided to get out of there.
Home is where the heart is? It didn’t feel like that right now. Maybe my heart just needed a jump start and getting out of the house would help. After all, home wasn’t just in here—it was out there. More than anything, my home was New York City.
I steeled myself and went back into the hallway, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.
Time to get some fresh air.