Chapter Four
F or the rest of the day, I wander around the house, trying to amuse myself. It really does feel like Beauty and the Beast , like I’ve been given this entire playground to explore, with only the East Wing forbidden. I’m a poor substitute for Belle, though—not nearly as brave and with no father to defend. And it’s not like the cutlery here is going to start singing to me anytime soon.
At first, I try the library, in keeping with the fairytale theme. It’s beautiful, like it’s been professionally staged—and it probably has—with floor-to-ceiling bookcases stuffed full of elegantly bound tomes, gold bands on the spines, and not a single volume out of place. But as soon as I pull one off to examine it, I realize it’s a law textbook. Boring. The next few are equally dull. There are a couple of classics, but we’re talking, like, classic classics: Don Quixote and Pilgrim’s Progress—the stuff that’s so old and boring that only old and boring people read it, or people who want to look impressive.
I sulk in one of the massive armchairs, wishing there were a few trashy paperbacks to keep me company, or at least a phone that wasn’t smashed where I could get a library book. Probably the only thing I ever liked about Sherwood County was the library system.
Next, I go outside, where it’s beastly hot—the kind of sticky Virginia heat that feels like a honeyed kiss on your skin, and not in a good way: a stifling smooch from an aunt you don’t like more than something romantic. The gardens are beautiful: pearly pebbles, a few tasteful shrubs, and a little echinacea and catmint for color—nothing too gaudy or girly. There’s a garage, and my heart picks up as soon as I see it. Sure, the Rover wasn’t anything too exciting, but the guy seems like the type to have fancy cars. Maybe I grab the knob and rattle it, but it’s locked. Of course it is. Even if there were cars, he probably wouldn’t want me touching them.
When I wander back to the house, sweating no small amount in the clothes I’d run away in, I find myself face-to-face with Rosa at the kitchen door—my very own Mrs. Potts.
“Miss Maren,” she says and ducks her head. “I have some clothes for you, if you’d like.”
Oh, damn, that was fast. You can’t even get Amazon Prime here without a two-day wait. But I guess the guy’s one of those people who has connections. I straighten my shoulders, feeling the humid weight of my shirt sticking to my neck. A clean T-shirt sounds heavenly.
“Yes, thank you so much.”
She nods again. “ Por supuesto. ”
I slip into the kitchen past her, and I’m halfway to the hallway when she speaks up again.
“Oh, and Miss Maren—”
I stop and turn, trying to smile. If I’m unsure about what’s happening in my life and a little bit scared, Rosa is the opposite—entirely certain about where she is and terrified. I don’t need to add to that for her.
“Yes?” I say.
“Mr. Guy would like to see you for dinner at seven. He says you’ll know what to wear.”
Guy has much too high an opinion of my fashion savvy. These clothes are nice—nice in a way that doesn’t compute for me. Linen, cashmere, light fluffy fabrics, and pink—a lot of pink. I know that Jack said redheads could wear red, and I did look bang-up in that dress he got me to wear to the Fox Hunt Club, but I skim my fingertips over a folded blouse in front of me. Pink plus red hair? I just don’t think I get it.
I don’t quite know what to put on at first—none of it feels right, and I truly have no idea what I’m meant to wear—until finally, I come upon it: a slip dress in a deeper color. I guess you’d call it dusty rose or something, with thin straps and a liquid texture. It feels nice against the palm of my hand, I have to admit. But as I stand there dripping from the shower, with a towel wrapped under my armpits and my hair streaming loose over my shoulders, I think, It’s just not me.
And as soon as I think it, I feel really fucking stupid. When did I become a girl who says, It’s just not me about clothes—or about anything, really? I’ve been so used to surviving that my own personal tastes have never really mattered. I couldn’t let them. And now I’m here, staring at a dress that probably cost several hundred dollars, and I’m sticking my nose up at it. For some reason, I...
I sigh, bite a hangnail by my thumb, and drop my towel to put it on.
The material glides over my skin delicately, like mist, and the cool touch of it, combined with the chill of the post-shower air, sends a little shiver down my spine. When I look at myself in the full-length, gold-framed mirror, I have to admit—I look pretty. Not powerful, or sexy, or confident, like I felt in the new clothes I got back with Rob and Tuck and LJ and Will, but pretty. And I’ve never felt pretty.
Not to say that I never felt in my life like I looked good—sexy, even—but pretty? That was never for me. There was just a delicate quality to it that I never felt entitled to, that felt too fragile, too vulnerable. And now, with one stupid fucking party dress, I’m cracked wide open.
I scrub my hair with a towel and blot it dry. Fortunately, the central air keeps it from looking too poofy, and there are even a few clips and barrettes mixed in with the clothes that I use to pin the longer front pieces out of the way. There’s underwear too, which is embarrassing to realize, but I guess Rosa had my measurements. I walk my fingers over the options—nothing too sexy, not like before. But it’s not frumpy either. It’s just simple, useful pearl-pink fabrics and white lace.
After a moment’s hesitation, I select a pair of high-cut panties and shimmy them on under my dress, then smooth it down over my legs again. One glance in the mirror tells me it’s a no-go. The lumps and bumps of the lace are all too evident under the silk. I shuck them off, throw them on the floor, and try again, this time with a seafoam green pair of bikinis—simple, presumably smoother—but I have just as little luck this time. One glance at my ass, and there’s a visible panty line you could probably see on Google Maps.
“God damn it,” I mutter, peeling those off too. Am I seriously about to go commando?
The chime of the grandfather clock interrupts my thoughts. It’s just slightly out of tune, as if on cue. My stomach grumbles too. I look at myself in the mirror, knowing a bra would present the same problem, given that they’re all matching.
“Fucking fine,” I mutter.
I grab a peach-colored cardigan from the clothes and shrug it on, just in case it’s cold down there. The last thing I need is Guy staring at my tits.
One final adjustment to the pearl barrette, and I’m off down the stairs—but not without a small smile at myself in the mirror.
I’ve never felt pretty before, but I think I like it.
“DINNER IS SERVED.”
And fucking how. The dining room is spacious and elegant, absolutely packed to the gills with food. It’s a classic Southern feast—stewed greens, cornbread dressing, black-eyed peas—and my mouth waters as soon as the aromas hit me.
There are only two place settings, one at each end of the table, and the view is blocked by the massive floral arrangement in the middle. Still, Guy smiles and gets up from his seat when he sees me.
“Is this just for the two of us?” I blurt out.
Guy chuckles. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he says. “I wanted to make it up to you, and I realize you probably haven’t had a proper meal in days.” He glances at the spread. “Do you like shrimp?”
“I like anything that smells that fucking good,” I say before I can stop myself.
Guy smiles a wry smile. He’s dressed a little more businesslike in a white button-down, charcoal slacks, and polished shoes. The gleam of his watch catches the light as he sips from a bowl-like glass of wine. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that foul language from that pretty mouth.”
In spite of myself, I blush. Am I letting this guy charm me? He smashed my cell phone, I remind myself. He basically stalked me and had his guys chase me out of the garage the night I ran away from Uncle John.
Yes, but he also paid Uncle John off, another voice argues back, and that cell phone was given to you by literal criminals who were trying to imprison you and who—
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
“Penny for your thoughts, Maren,” Guy says, swirling his wine glass. “Oh, but I’m so rude. Are you drinking?”
“I don’t see why not,” I say. “I’m not on antibiotics or anything.”
Guy laughs. “I’ll pour you a glass.” He moves toward the bar cart, but I stop him and grab his elbow. I take the glass from his hand and pull it to my chest.
“I’ll take this one,” I say.
Guy smiles again. “Maren, I’m not going to poison you.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Can you blame me for being cautious after what I’ve been through?”
He pauses, frozen in place, then shakes his head. “I suppose I can’t.” He goes to the bar cart, pours himself a fresh glass, and hits a hidden button that sends soft jazz music playing through the dining room.
“I hate to be rude,” he says, “but I’m absolutely starving. So, if you don’t mind us getting to dinner...”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “Let’s eat.”
He pulls out my chair—because, of course, he does—and I sink into it. No sooner does my ass hit the cushion and my chair scooch forward than Rosa appears, ready to serve. Five seconds later, my plate is piled high with everything from every serving dish. As Guy watches carefully, there’s some sort of unspoken communication between them—a lift of the brow here, a slight nod of the head there—to indicate what should or shouldn’t end up on my plate and how much. But I just sip my wine and wait until it’s all finished so I can attack it with a fork.
When Rosa is done serving me, she does the same for Guy, assembling a plate that I can’t help but notice is considerably heftier in its portions. I survey my setting and remember to use the outermost utensils first. Thank you for that, Titanic, and I shake the napkin into my lap. I’m about to dig in when I notice that Guy has his head bowed at the other end of the table.
“If you don’t mind,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, feeling like an asshole. “Sure.”
I’m not much for religion. We never were growing up. The church in Sherwood was always more of a place to gossip than to do anything spiritual, and Daddy and Mama knew that more than anyone. But I figure it never hurts to ask anyone who might be able to help. So I bow my head and interlace my fingers all the same.
At the other end of the table, Guy mutters something I can’t hear or distinguish until he says, “Amen.”
“Amen,” I say, wondering what I’ve just co-signed in prayer.
His head snaps up, and he lifts his fork. “Dig in,” he says with a smile.
It’s incredible. I hate to speak ill of Tuck’s cooking, even after everything that happened, but this is next level. The shrimp is buttery and briny. The collard greens are chewy and seasoned with just the right amount of spice and bacon, and the black-eyed peas are so good I almost want to cry.
“You like it?” Guy says from the other end of the table.
I glance down at my plate and see that I’ve already demolished half of what I was served. “It’s not bad,” I say, shielding my full mouth with my hand.
“Good.” Guy smiles and sips his wine. “I trust that the clothes are all to your liking, that they fit properly and everything?”
“Oh.” I glance down at my dress, at the cardigan, and finger the hem of the angora. “Yes.” It’s basically tailor-made. “But you really didn’t have to get all this—”
“I won’t hear a word of it,” he interjects. “It was the least I could do. These are the sort of things you should have had all along.”
I shovel another forkful into my mouth and nod. I can’t deny that he’s...probably correct, on a technical level. In another life, in a distant alternate universe where Daddy wasn’t an addict and never crashed headlong into a telephone pole, killing him and Mama, I would be exactly this—a Southern debutante in fancy clothes being wooed by Sherwood’s most eligible bachelor. It isn’t me, not the me I’ve accustomed myself to being for so long, but maybe...
Maybe...
Well, fuck it. Maybe it’s the wine, but maybe it’s where I belonged all along.
I’ve never really belonged anywhere, so who’s to say?
I take another swig of wine and chase it with shrimp for good measure.
“I have to say,” Guy goes on around a bite of his salad, “you might be the first woman I’ve bought underwear for.” He laughs softly. “So I hope I did it right. I don’t have a ton of experience in that area. It’s quite a...personal purchase.”
My cheeks get hot in spite of myself, and I shift in my seat, my thighs rubbing against one another. Can he tell that I’m not wearing any? The thought sends a quick squeeze to my stomach and further down. No, I won’t think about that.
“It’s all great,” I say stupidly. “Thank you again.”
“Believe me, it’s the least I can do,” Guy says. “You came here with nothing but the clothes on your back after being...” He sighs and pauses—pauses so long that I have to look up and wonder what he’s about to say.
“After being...?” I prompt him. I stuff another few bites of the cornbread dressing into my mouth. God, but it’s good, and God, but it’s been a while since I’ve had something proper to eat.
“Well, after being trafficked, essentially,” he says, his eyes downcast at his plate. “I don’t mean to use such harsh terms. Especially as an attorney, I know better than to be imprecise when accusing of such things.” He pats his lips with his napkin. “But I really don’t see why that wouldn’t apply in this case.”
Something in my chest seizes. Was I trafficked? I didn’t even think about that. I wouldn’t have said yes—not at first, anyway—but then the fact that they wouldn’t let me leave, that there was such a huge secret they were concealing from me, that I honestly had no idea what their plans were for me... Well, maybe he’s right.
“At any rate...” Guy clears his throat. “I want to let you know that I won’t keep you here, but you are welcome to stay as long as you like. I know you may not have anywhere else to go.”
“Thank you,” I say, interrupting. I’m not sure that I will stay. I wouldn’t if I had anywhere else to go, but I don’t, and I don’t quite know if I can truly say he’s not trustworthy. I wish I had better women’s intuition. Wish I had had a less crappy upbringing and were better trained to understand whether people had it in for me or not. But as it is, my exposures to male generosity have been pretty conflicting, to say the least. I don’t even really know that much about Guy.
But I bet if I ask him, he’ll tell me more.
“So, what’s your deal?” I say, instantly wishing I’d come up with a better way to phrase it. “I mean, tell me about yourself.”
“About myself?” Guy smiles. “I don’t know that there’s that much to tell. You want my SAT scores, my golf handicap, my—”
“Why aren’t you married?” I cut him off.
At that, he laughs out loud, a rich, vibrant sound that rings against the paneled walls of the dining room. “You sound like my mother,” he says.
I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “I just mean...” I trail off. What do I mean, anyway? “I mean, you have so much to offer someone, I guess,” I finish lamely, looking around at the elaborate dining room for emphasis. “It just seems like—”
“I’m married to the job,” Guy says. “I’ve always been very focused on my career, first and foremost. Not that family isn’t important to me, but I knew I needed to get through my education and the first years of my profession before I made any serious moves in that direction. Of course, then my mom...” He falls silent, the only sound the soft strains of Miles Davis and the scrape of the tines of his fork against his plate.
I’ve touched a nerve, and I didn’t even mean to. “Your mom?” I prompt.
He purses his lips. “Well, she’s a wonderful woman.” He gives a little cough. “ Was . Had cancer. It was so sudden, aggressive—stage four. I moved heaven and earth to get her every treatment I could, drove her up to Johns Hopkins, enrolled her in any trial that would take her—the whole works. But it wasn’t enough.” He lets out a long, controlled exhale.
And I feel it. I feel the grief of losing someone before their time, someone who was your rock, who was always there for you, to give you advice, to comfort you, to reassure you that the world made sense and that good people would prevail, even if in this moment, the bad guys and bullies were getting the upper hand.
“She would always quote that line,” he says. “You know, about how whenever God closes a door, He opens a window. And I took that to heart. Now, I’m just not sure if it’s true.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “She sounds like an incredible woman.”
“Oh, she was,” Guy says. For the first time all evening—maybe since I’ve been here—he relaxes. He seems less like a polished Southern gentleman robot and more like a human being. He leans back in his chair and pushes up his sleeves a little. “She liked her bourbon neat and could swear a blue streak once she’d had a few in her. She was a wicked Volunteers fan, and you can imagine how that rubbed my daddy the wrong way. God rest his soul. She’d get righteously angry whenever they lost the quarterfinal, and then get mad when Daddy would tell her not to make such a big deal out of it.”
I snort. “I can appreciate that.”
“Indeed,” Guy says. He lets out a long, slow exhale. “Well, so that’s why I ended up back here, to be honest. It put things in perspective. I came back here to get her affairs in order, and I just found...I never left. I got a job in the district attorney’s office, and, well, it just stuck. It’s not exactly what I wanted to do, but—”
“Because you have to work with people like the sheriff,” I finish for him.
I’ve cleaned my plate and am ready for seconds, but Rosa is nowhere to be found. I chew my lip, wondering if it would be too rude to just grab a serving spoon and dump more of this cornbread dressing onto my plate.
“Well, that’s part of it,” Guy says. “You sure are a straight shooter, Maren—never miss a target.”
I snort before I can stop myself. He doesn’t know how right he is. Literally, the last person I hit with an arrow was Rob, and I goddamn meant to.
“I could have gone private,” Guy says. “Kept up the family law firm, taken a lot of cushy cases, charged $350 an hour, and just lived my life that way. But I didn’t like that for myself. Seeing what’s going on in Sherwood, getting the lay of the land here—I just felt something had to change.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say.
“You’re right,” Guy says, nodding at me. “A lot has to change. Maybe everything has to change. That’s what I’m hoping to do one day.” But he trails off, tapping a finger to his chin. “Hey, what do you say to some champagne?”
“What?” I straighten in my seat. “What for?”
He smiles and reaches for a little bell I didn’t see before. The tinkling sound draws Rosa in from the kitchen. She nods. “Mister Guy?”
“For the two of us,” he says. “The Grand Cru, 2009. I think it’s time.”
I only understand the year from that sentence, but it’s enough for me to know that it’s fancy and expensive.
As Rosa disappears, I stare at him down the length of the table. “What for? Are we celebrating something?”
“Well, I was hoping to keep it a surprise, but I suppose now’s as good a time as ever,” he says. Rosa swings back in through the door with a silver bucket of ice and a green bottle with a dusty-looking label.
“Part of my mission,” Guy says, getting to his feet, “is busting out everything that’s rotten in Sherwood from the inside, and I do mean everything.” He nods at Rosa, dismissing her, and takes the bottle from her hand with a strong grip. He holds the neck in one hand and throws a towel over the cork. “I don’t like the way things have been run around here. That’s why I think I was drawn to the public sector instead of practicing privately.” With a deft twist of his hand, he loosens the cork a little.
I frown at him. “Oh?
“Yes. Yes, indeed, Miss Maren. And I’m sorry to tangle you up in this, but you’re a part of that project.” With one broad hand, he grips the bottom of the champagne bottle, and in a single twist, he pops the cork. A few spatters of foam hit the floor, just as Rosa reappears with two coupe glasses.
“I’m not going to lie,” I say, “I’m not following.”
Guy takes the coupes from Rosa in a single hand and fills them both easily from the spurting bottle. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. “I’ve had John Lackland arrested.”
My heart squeezes. “What?” I say, almost involuntarily. I scooch back in my chair. Uncle John arrested? I don’t even know where to start. I’m sure he’s done all kinds of illegal things, but...
“The evidence was in plain sight,” Guy says. “Fraud, racketeering...all the things the RICO fellows will have a field day with. The sorts of thing your father would have had a field day with.” He takes a few steps toward me, bearing both glasses.
I stare up at him as he draws closer, the champagne fizzing and popping in his hands. I hate that I’m feeling so vulnerable. I hate that this is all winning me over, but it’s all that I ever wanted, in a way. I wanted Daddy’s work to catch the bad guys, to be continued. I wanted Uncle John to rot in prison for everything he did to me and to everyone else, and I wanted to be free, to be beautiful, to be valued, to be treated better than I was, to be treated well.
“Here you go, Maren,” Guy says, handing me my glass. “Santé.”
“Sláinte,” I say, and tip the glass into my mouth before I can think. A trickle of champagne escapes the corner of my mouth at the same time a faint tear escapes the corner of my eye.
I set the empty glass on the table and moved to stand, but it all hits me at once. I’m just a little dizzy,
Guy catches me by the elbow, ever so suave. “It’s been an incredibly long few days for you, Maren,” he whispers in my ear. “You should get to bed.” I nod, and he lets me go, with Rosa swooping in before I can offer a second word.
“I know it’s just a first step,” he says, “but I hope you know what this means on a larger scale for you. He can’t get to you anymore—your family, your money. You’re free, Maren.”
You’re free.
I’ve never had anyone say those words to me before, and I have to say, they sound fucking beautiful.
HOURS LATER, I’M TOSSING and turning in the massive bed, clad in a new pair of smooth, buttery-soft pajamas. In spite of myself, I can’t sleep. I punch the pillow and turn over, my hair cascading into my face as I do. If John’s arrested and in custody, that means he can’t get to my money, even as my guardian, even with Guy having paid him off. There’s no way, and if he can’t get to it, that means...
That means I can.
I flop onto my back, my mind racing as I stare at the ceiling. If there is something my parents left me, if I do have a college fund or a trust or anything, then it’s mine by right now, free and clear. But I have to claim it somehow, and I don’t have what I’d need to do that. I don’t have a driver’s license for obvious reasons, due to my so-called epilepsy, and I don’t even have my birth certificate. I’m sure I can’t just go into every branch of every bank in town and demand they give me my money. Richard de Mornay’s daughter or not, I’m going to have to track that down somehow and get all the documentation I need. Someone who has access to all the systems—like Tuck, I think, my heart squeezing as I remember the sweet, tousle-headed computer nerd back at Rob’s house—but that’s not an option anymore.
What do I have at my disposal now? I think. I don’t even have a phone. But I do have whatever’s here, I suppose, and maybe somehow I can make that work.
I flop to my other side, still restless, and close my eyes. A breeze rustles through the window and stirs the curtains.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I hear a wolf howling in the distance.