9. Nora
CHAPTER 9
NORA
I wake up with a headache the next morning.
Sunlight streams in through the curtained windows. The space is large, sumptuous. I didn’t get a proper look at it last night, after West dropped me off outside the door to my rooms. Plural.
I sit up slowly, my head throbbing. The bottle of champagne is still on the big dresser beside my bed where I left it. My bags are on the other side. Neatly stacked and waiting for me, just like West told me they would be.
The furniture in here is ornate, the dresser mahogany, the walls a light blue. There’s a nook on the other side with windows that open up to… is that?
I slide out of bed and walk over to pull the curtains back.
The windows open up to the large gardens on the back of the property. I can see parts of the terrace, where I chatted with Amber. The next level down is all green and hedges and a pool. Another staircase down the terraced gardens leads to a boathouse built on the shoreline.
And then there’s the ocean.
The expanse of blue stretches out past the edges of the property, waves softly roaring. The sky is a lighter shade of blue and dotted with clouds.
This nook might be the best thing about the entire room. I walk across the padded floor to the double doors. They open up to my own little sitting room, the first space in the “rooms” that are my own. Two couches, a TV, a desk. Decorated in the same classic, traditional blue colors. It’s understated and rich at the same time.
I head into the en suite and straight into the shower. It’s right next to a beautiful claw-foot tub that overlooks the ocean.
I’m going to have to try that one.
When I get out of the shower and look at the clock, it’s almost eleven, and I feel only marginally better.
And I’m in West’s house.
The knowledge feels like a splinter beneath my skin. He might be just a few rooms away. Right now. He’s close, and he’ll always be close.
But there’s no denying that I feel safer now, too. Maybe that’s what annoys me the most. My own fear after seeing that damn bouquet.
I haven’t been fighting West or Rafe because I’m not afraid. God, I wish I wasn’t. But because their concern makes me feel like I’m imposing on them.
Rafe especially, and my mother, who I have to call later today or she’ll freak out that it’s been twenty-four hours without contact. Managing everyone else’s feelings about my situation is like walking a tightrope, leaving no space for me to feel my own. My brother’s obsession with my safety started years before the stalker entered the picture. My mother’s paranoia, too. It dates back to over a decade ago, when the avalanche caught Rafe and Etienne in its claws and left me with one brother instead of two.
I rummage through my bags and find some clean clothes. I get dressed slowly, wincing when I bend down to pull on my socks. Yeah. I need water and food, and to never, ever indulge like that again.
I’m braiding my damp hair when a soft knock on the door to the sitting room makes me freeze.
“Um. Hello?”
“Miss? Mr. West asked me to check on you,” a male voice says. It has to be one of the staff.
“Just a moment.”
I pull on my favorite cardigan, sky blue with small embroidered roses, and open the door.
It’s the man I met last night. He’s slender and in his mid-fifties, perhaps, with his peppered hair brushed back.
“Good morning, Miss. We spoke briefly yesterday. My name is Ernest, and I’m the house manager here at Fairhaven. Would you like some breakfast this morning?”
“I’d love a glass of juice,” I say.
“Of course. I’ll be happy to show you around later today and help you settle in.”
“I’d love that, thank you.” Maybe I can ask him, too, if it’s okay if I move some things around in the little living room outside of my bedroom. I’ll need to buy a sewing machine and a working table.
Ernest leads me out of my rooms and down the grand staircase. I let my hand run along the polished wood banister. It’s smooth, worn from decades of use.
Fairhaven is a memory from the past.
It’s a testament to a kind of wealth that doesn’t exist anymore, to a time when America’s premier families made their fortunes in railroads, steel and stocks. When giant houses like these were erected along this shoreline, overlooking the ocean like bastions. A memory from a sliver of time that’s come and gone.
I saw so little of Fairhaven last night.
Ernest leads me down one of the curved stairs to the foyer, where we entered last night. The marble flooring and the wainscoting, the high ceilings, are all stunning.
I saw the outside of the house yesterday. The red brick and white columns make the house look as if it’s caught between the Old World and the New.
“You’re already familiar with your wing,” Ernest says, walking into the sitting room. Other people are there, cleaning, moving things. Resetting the place from the party. “I want to reiterate that no one will enter past the first door without your permission, with the exception of the scheduled cleaning.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
He walks me through the sitting room, the dining room, and into the butler’s kitchen. There’s a large family kitchen too, with a massive center island and French doors that open to the terrace.
“Lunch is available in the kitchen around one p.m. every day. It’s served to all guests at the manor and available for the staff. Nothing fancy,” he tells me, “but it’s good fare.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say.
Ernest leads me back through the kitchen and into a long hallway. “This wing houses the library and Mr. West’s study,” he explains, gesturing to a set of heavy wooden doors. “The library is open to all guests, but Mr. West’s office is private.”
I glance at the doors. Is he behind them right now? I haven’t seen him around, not since last night, when he dropped me off outside the door to my rooms. He silently handed me the champagne bottle and then disappeared down the stairs, back to the areas with the guests. To conquer, to talk. Had he spoken to those women his mother had brought in?
“And through here,” Ernest says, opening a large French door, “is the conservatory.”
We step into a bright, airy room filled with plants and wicker furniture. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling, warming the space. The scent of flowers and damp earth fills my nose.
“Oh,” I breathe. “This is beautiful.”
Ernest’s face softens. “Yes, it is. I was thinking we might have a seat here. I have some documents prepared for you.”
“Let’s.” I sit in a wicker chair, and Ernest takes the one opposite me. Documents? I’m as intrigued by Fairhaven as I am by the house manager himself.
“I prepared a guide for you here.” He hands me a booklet. “All the staff information and their on-call phone numbers are on the first few pages. Evelyn Greaves is head housekeeper; Melissa Durham is the chef. You’ve met Arthur Webb; he handles all transportation and manages the vehicles of the property. But,” he adds, his tone sharpening, “I am the house manager. If you’re unsure who to turn to, you can always contact me, and I will delegate.”
I look from the paper to him. “Thank you. This place is clearly run like a well-oiled machine.”
His frown lessens just a tad. “Yes. It is.”
“How long have you worked here?” I smile at him, warm and friendly.
“It will be twenty-five years next August.”
“That’s incredible. You must have known West almost his entire life.”
“Yes, I have.”
I smile down at the papers and flip through them. There are details here regarding laundry, emergency contacts, Wi-Fi, how to give a guest access to the front gate, historical anecdotes, overviews of everyone in the Calloway family, past and present…
This is a guide, but it’s also a love letter to an estate and a family.
“I’m looking forward to learning more about the house,” I say. “It’s truly stunning, and I’m very grateful to be living here.”
His frown disappears all together. I wonder how much notice he and the rest of the staff were given before my sudden arrival. An hour, perhaps? Two? And yet my rooms had been prepared and I have a personalized guide in front of me.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely. “For all of this, and for the tour. I appreciate it.”
Ernest’s lips quirk up. “Well. You’re very welcome. If you’d like more of a tour of the grounds, that can be arranged too. The apple orchard will soon bloom. And we have thirty-six different species of roses.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The first bushes already have buds, particularly the Margaret Merrils.” He clears his throat and looks past me to the hallway. “Your breakfast should soon be ready. I know that—Oh.”
I look over my shoulder, following his gaze.
West is standing in the doorway to the conservatory. His tall frame is silhouetted by the bright hallway behind him, and he looks every inch as put together as he did last night. His hands are in the pockets of his dark pants, and an off-white cable-knit sweater stretches across his broad chest.
“You’re awake,” he says. “I see Ernest is giving you a tour.”
Ernest stands. “We’ve finished with the most important parts.”
“Good. I’ll take it from here.”
Ernest nods and walks out of the room using another exit, leaving West and me alone in the conservatory.
He looks no worse for wear after last night, and I hate him a little for that. And for looking every inch as casually confident as I never, ever have.
He stops with a hand curved over the back of the chair Ernest just vacated. I catch sight of the signet ring on his finger, the same one my brother has worn for years.
The air feels heavier.
“Your brother and I just spoke,” he says. “You and I have more pretending to do.”