Chapter Five #2
Saoirse unwrapped her mother’s gift next—a long velvet box with the necklace in it—and she gasped.
Unlike her father, her mother was not sentimental or affectionate.
Saoirse wasn’t even sure if her mother really liked her.
She remembered with a particular cutting clarity one summer afternoon when she was ten and her mother had thrown a garden party for her book club.
Saoirse had been roller-skating on the terrace, and she’d spent all morning mastering the backward skate.
When she’d finally gotten it down, she had skated over to the landing and waved at her mother below to get her attention.
Birdie was standing in a huddle of women in her white linen pantsuit and designer shades, daintily holding a martini.
Saoirse called out to her, and just as her mother turned to look at her, Saoirse lost her footing and fell—all the way down the stone steps, landing in a tangled heap at the bottom in front of her mother and all her friends.
It was one of the other women who helped her up, calling her “poor dear,” brushing off her dirtied pedal pushers, exclaiming over her skinned elbows, while Birdie, still holding her martini, shielded her eyes from the sun and looked past her, up the stairs, her lips pursed in displeasure.
“Where’s Mrs. Talbot?” Birdie asked.
When Tabby appeared at the top of the stairs, two lemonades in hand, and saw what had happened, she’d run down the steps as quickly as her legs could carry her, sloshing ice and sticky sugared water over the edges.
She’d pulled Saoirse into her arms and let out a gasp of relief when she saw there were just scrapes and bruises and no broken bones.
“You have to keep a closer eye on her,” Birdie scolded. “She’s always getting into things.”
But perhaps somehow, Saoirse had misunderstood her.
Every gesture of her mother’s that she’d read as aloof or inattentive, every word she’d interpreted as blatant dislike, had really been something else.
Here, this necklace—its inscription—was proof of what her mother really felt toward her but, for whatever reason, could never say out loud, could never show her.
Saoirse slipped the necklace on, and even now, she rarely took it off, even in the bath.
Saoirse sat up reluctantly. She had better get out and get ready for the day.
Breakfast would be over soon, and Tabby was always so strict about sticking to a schedule.
Saoirse’s stomach was still queasy after her dream.
She didn’t know if she could eat, but she would have some coffee at least, to get her through her morning lessons.
She gripped both sides of the tub and stood.
Saoirse heard them before she saw them—a woman’s laugh and a man’s voice, low and rumbling as he told some story.
As she rounded the doorway to the dining room, she saw them—Salvador, with the girl from yesterday.
Ava or Alice or Abigail—Saoirse couldn’t remember which.
She hadn’t given her another thought, really, after she’d left her sleeping nearly naked on the beach.
She’d thought surely that would be the last time she’d ever see her.
But here she was, looking fresh and cheery and completely unruffled as she ate her breakfast, Salvador next to her.
The girl’s eyes sparkled with something as Saoirse entered the room.
With what, Saoirse couldn’t say, exactly—bravado?
Smugness? Whatever it was, Saoirse didn’t like it.
“Good morning, Saoirse,” the girl said brightly, smiling up at her from the table. “We were about to send in the cavalry to wake you. You almost missed breakfast.”
Saoirse didn’t say anything.
“The cook made a lovely omelet this morning,” the girl said. “Shall I ask him to make you one?”
Saoirse glanced down at the remnants of egg and bacon and potatoes on the girl’s plate. She thought of her dream, and her stomach squirmed. She pressed her lips together tightly so she wouldn’t throw up.
“I’ll pass,” Saoirse said. “Just coffee.”
The girl went to the sideboard and retrieved an empty mug. “How do you take it?” the girl asked. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black,” Saoirse said dryly, “like my heart.”
The girl smiled at her little joke. She filled the mug from a carafe and then walked back over to the table and handed it to Saoirse. “Salvador was just telling me about the natural history museum down in Morro Bay,” the girl said. “Have you been?”
Salvador? Saoirse thought. Not Mr. Santos? Why were they so chummy?
“I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Saoirse said.
“Oh, yes, Salvador and I are old friends,” the girl said.
“We met yesterday,” Salvador said, by way of explanation, “on the road.”
“Ah,” Saoirse said. “I see.”
“The museum is right near the estuary,” the girl went on, “with a great view of Morro Rock. Might be something to see, if you have any interest?”
“I don’t generally find rocks very interesting,” Saoirse said, sipping her coffee.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Salvador pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“I suppose I should head upstairs and prepare for today’s lessons,” he said.
“Saoirse, I’ll see you in a few minutes.
” He looked over at the girl sitting next to him and nodded.
“Ana, it was lovely having breakfast with you.”
Ana. Saoirse clocked her name as she nursed her coffee.
She supposed she would have to remember it now, at least temporarily.
She had stopped bothering to remember their names weeks ago.
What was the point, when they all left with such haste?
She had found it was best to get rid of them quickly.
Saoirse had made the mistake with the first one of being too subtle: itching powder in the woman’s cold cream on the first night.
The woman had simply thought she had allergies and hadn’t put two and two together that she’d been purposely sabotaged.
Then the next day, Saoirse had dyed all her garments a vibrant shade of pink.
Again, the woman thought the maids had simply made a laundry blunder.
It was starting to vex Saoirse at that point, this woman’s benevolent view of the world, that any misfortune she might encounter was purely coincidental.
It wasn’t until Saoirse had put dye in her toothpaste to stain her teeth green that the woman finally understood she wasn’t welcome and packed her bags.
With the others, Saoirse had made grander opening overtures and they, swifter exits.
All the others had been older, middle-aged, cherry-picked by Tabby for their years of service.
Most of them had been hospice workers or had been employed at long-term care facilities.
They’d spent their days cleaning bedpans and giving sponge baths and holding old, webbed hands as souls passed from this world to the next.
They wore sturdy, practical shoes and dour expressions, their hair pulled back from their faces.
But this girl was different. Saoirse studied her adversary sitting across from her at the dining table.
Ana sipped her own coffee and looked back at her, unbothered by her stare or the silence.
She was younger than the others by a couple of decades but also .
. . softer, somehow. Saoirse wondered at her brother’s choice in bringing her here.
She would have thought he would have sent a seasoned, stalwart mercenary to crack the whip. A worthy opponent.
But maybe Saoirse had underestimated the girl. She was, after all, still here.
Ana checked her watch. “Shall we go up?” she asked. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Yes,” Saoirse said. She tilted her head back and drained what was left of her cup. “Let’s get on with it.”
She set her cup down hard on the table.
This girl, if Saoirse had anything to say about it, wouldn’t last the week.