Letter Six #4
In taking your birthday and using it against you, I’d crossed a line, even worse than before. This was probably it. The moment you decided to be done with me. “I know,” I whispered. “Will you forgive me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” You pushed the settee further down the wall, then we got to work, carrying your clothes downstairs and hanging them back in your closet.
When we finished, you ushered me out of your room. I barely flinched as you shut the door in my face.
The next day, we circled each other without speaking.
I watched you prepare coffee while I choked down the eggs you’d made for my breakfast. At lunch, you made us toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches—your version of a grilled cheese. Later that afternoon, I curled up with a book while you and Michael watched the Celtics play.
When you disappeared to make tea, I texted Tinsley to apologize for my behavior, confessing it wasn’t really about you—but control. About my dad moving you in without asking. About trying to take back what I’d lost. About Nic looking at you the way I wished he still looked at me.
Later that night, dinner passed in awkward silence as we ate at the island together. I left my plate in the sink, half-finished, then drifted to the Garland Room, where I stared at the TV, barely paying attention to the lame chick flick playing on the screen.
Eventually, you wandered in, stopped in front of me, and softly said, “I forgive you.”
People never forgave me, Casey, not after a stunt like the one I’d just pulled. Relief hit so hard my eyes burned. I stood fast, crashing my body to yours.
You stiffened right away, going so still I nearly pulled back. But then your arms circled me, squeezing so tight the steady beat of your heart thumped against my cheek, and I stayed.
“I’ve been dying to ask,” you said, chin moving against the crown of my head. “Who’s the creepy guy above the fireplace?”
I smiled against your sweater. “That’s Garland James Bancroft. My great-great-grandfather. He commissioned the portrait after he made his first million. He’s the one who started the firm.”
“Why does he look so…dissatisfied, then?” you asked as we drew apart.
I dropped down to the sofa. “My dad says that’s just the way he was.”
“I see,” you said, plopping down next to me. “So you really can’t help it, can you?”
“Help what?”
“The scowl. This trait’s been passed down through multiple generations of Bancrofts.”
Smiling, I knocked your knee with mine. “Want to know something cool? I’m the first girl born to a Bancroft in over a hundred years. I broke the Bancroft streak.”
“That’s very cool,” you said, mouth dropped in awe. “Makes you pretty special then, doesn’t it?”
What I wanted to say was: Not really. Mostly more of a letdown. Instead, I said, “I guess so.”
“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask,” you admitted. “How did you scare off your nannies?”
“Scared off a few by punishing my dolls.”
You quirked an eyebrow. “Punishing them?”
“Yeah. Ripping their heads off. Sticking them in the corner. Taping them to the walls.”
You blinked. “Taping them to the walls?”
“Yeah. I taped them upside down with a big X across their bodies. But I’d do other things, too, you know—to up the creepy factor. Stand in the middle of a room and stare into space. Act like Garland spoke to me—told me things he didn’t like about the nannies, things he wanted me to do to them.”
But of all the crazy stuff I did back then, what upset my dad most were the dolls—namely, how I taped them to the wall.
The big X across their bodies. I found him in my room one day, staring at the mess of matted doll hair and white masking tape before ripping it all down.
He’d turned to me, demanding, “Why? Why do you tape them like that?” And I’d only said, “I don’t know.
” Because I didn’t know. But he hadn’t seemed content with that answer.
In fact—and this is the worrisome thing, the thing I’ve never told anyone—my dad looked like he already knew why, and the answer frightened him.
“That’s…exceptionally creepy,” you said.
“Exactly,” I said with a smirk. “Got rid of some real bitches that way.” I swiped the remote off the sofa while you grabbed your book from the coffee table.
“Weird,” you muttered, flipping a page.
“What?”
“I keep finding these random bookmarks inside my books. A pamphlet from The Salem Witch Museum, then a maple leaf, and now this.” You held up a pink origami heart. “Know anything about it?”
“Maybe you keep propping your books face down, and someone finds it really annoying how close you are to losing your place.”
You lifted a brow. “Does that someone happen to be you?”
“Nope. Not me. Maybe Henriette? Or my dad?”
“Your dad makes origami hearts?” you asked, wearing a doubtful expression.
“Don’t let that man fool you. He’s very sentimental. He used to leave pink origami hearts for me everywhere—in my lunch, in new books, in birthday cards. There’s a jar on my bookcase full of them. I saved every one.”
I turned to face the TV, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught you smiling.
The following Monday, when I got home from school, you were back to waiting for me on the stairs.