Chapter Ten. Rose
CHAPTER TEN
ROSE
After Grace excuses herself for the powder room—and takes the scotch with her—Ella stands. Barefoot, with her dark hair falling out of its curls and traces of tearstains on her cheeks, she reminds me of her sweet baby self. I could strangle anyone who’d hurt her.
The violence of my love takes me aback. There’s something about this place, out here in the middle of nowhere, that makes me feel slightly feral.
Like the prim polish of Miss Parker’s has worn away, revealing it was only a spit shine all along.
Perhaps I’m coming back to the real me: the dogged, bossy little truth-teller I was as a girl.
Ella and Anna and I, we were a team. Us against the world.
Until that world was obliterated by Anna’s illness and Father’s “cure.”
“I’m going up to bed,” Ella says, “but you take your time. I’ll check on Lou.”
I stand. “I’ll come with you. We can clean up in the morning.”
“No, stay.” Ella glances between me and Coop. Her voice is chilly—reserved—no longer the wavering, tear-soaked thing it was half an hour ago. “I’m awfully tired. I’ll fall right asleep.”
“Are you sure? Can I get you anything? Water? Aspirin? A cup of tea? We don’t have to talk. We could listen to the radio till you fall asleep.”
I’m pushing, I know. The more her posture telegraphs Leave me alone, the more desperately I want to help. But I don’t know how. It makes me feel sick with shame. When Anna went away, I promised I would take care of Ella, but it’s been years since I was the one to comfort her.
I wish I could phone Nanny and ask her what to do.
How pathetic. I can imagine Grace’s mocking. Poor lonely little rich girl.
“No, thanks. Really, I’m bushed.” Ella is already braiding her hair into one long plait.
She’s got her mother’s hair; it gleams rich and nearly black in the lamplight.
I used to brush Anna’s hair every night before bed.
I remember the heft and weight of it in my hands: a shining, crackling waterfall that plunged to her hips. Anna wasn’t vain, except for her hair.
“All right. Good night, then.” I try not to feel terribly rejected.
“Night. Night, Coop.” Ella gives him a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Coop opens his mouth to speak—to apologize for his sister, maybe—but in the end he only mutters, “Night.”
I look at the wreck we’ve made of the library: the beer bottles littered across the bookshelves, the girls’ lipstick-stained coupe glasses on the coffee table, Grace’s half-empty bottle of Coke abandoned on the mantel, hors d’oeuvres plates smeared with onion dip and potato chip crumbs, a cocktail weenie forgotten under one armchair. I should straighten up.
Instead, I sink down on the leather sofa next to Cooper.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess. “I hate not knowing what to do.”
“For Ella, you mean?”
I knot my hands together in my lap. “We hardly see each other at school. I’m not the one she comes to with her heartbreaks. I don’t even know if she’s had any heartbreaks. We aren’t close like you and Grace.”
Coop’s mouth twists, rueful. “Just ’cause I see Grace every day doesn’t mean I understand what goes on in her head.”
I hesitate. “She wasn’t foxed, was she? She was fed up.”
Beyond fed up. I’ve never seen a girl get mad like that. She was incandescent with it. If I hadn’t been worried for Ella—for the potential consequences of Stanley getting stabbed at a party we held while Auntie was out of town—I would’ve almost admired it. Grace was frightening—shocking—fearsome.
Girls aren’t allowed that kind of anger, warranted or not.
Was it warranted?
Coop scruffs a hand through his hair. “She never drinks much.”
“I was ready to punch Stanley in the nose myself,” I say hotly.
Coop grins. There’s a gap between his two front teeth. “I would’ve liked to see that.”
“He’s a Philistine. I don’t know what Grace sees in him.”
“They’ve been together since we were kids.
Stan was different then. I mean, he was never a great conversationalist.” Coop chuckles.
“Not much of a thinker, you know? But he used to treat Grace better. His buddy Vic was killed in France and Stan—he was right there. He took it hard. He’s been drinking ever since he came back …
I wish Grace would dump him, but Dad likes Stan.
Says he keeps her in line.” Coop makes a face, perhaps at the notion of anyone keeping Grace in line.
“I guess I’m in the same boat as you. I don’t know how to help my sister. ”
His brow rumples into a deep, worried V. His hand is on the sofa between us, his fingers long and freckled. Impulsively, I put my hand over his. “You did help. You were splendid, getting the knife away from her.”
He flushes. “You’re the one who talked her down. I was afraid she’d hurt somebody else this time.” He pulls his hand away and rubs it nervously over his blue-jeans-clad knee.
Oh. This isn’t the first time Grace has lost her temper and hurt him.
I catch his gaze with my own, full of questions. “‘This time’?”
The rain picks up again. The wind moans through the open window and sends a curl across my face.
Coop reaches out and tucks it behind my ear.
His fingers are warm, gentle on the curve of my neck.
His eyes—the light brown of tea with milk—are warm on my face.
For a moment, I think he’ll deflect with a kiss.
Do I want him to? I think I do.
I think kissing Cooper Harrow again could be awfully nice.
Instead, he gets up. Crosses the room and shoves the window shut.
It squeals. I lean back against the sofa, disappointed.
I shouldn’t have pried. Nanny says I’m nosy.
Miss O’Malley says writers should be curious.
But Clara says people don’t like to feel as though they’re being put through the Spanish Inquisition.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s—Grace hasn’t been herself the last couple months.” Coop collects the empty beer bottles, grouping them on the coffee table, as though he needs something to do with his hands.
“How so?” Surely he wants me to ask. I gather the girls’ coupe glasses onto the silver tray.
“She’s been angry. Reckless … There was an incident, back in March …
Dad was being rough with one of the girls.
Manhandling her.” Coop’s eyes flick down to the bottle in his hands.
“That’s not unusual. I don’t mean—it’s not right.
But we’ve seen it our whole lives. Grace knows better than to interfere …
I don’t know why this time was any different.
I heard the girl scream and Dad holler, so I came running.
Grace was swinging for Dad, scratching at him like a wildcat.
Cussing like a sailor, too. I got between them and she punched me right in the nose.
Broke it.” He rubs a hand over the crook in his nose.
“My God.” I’d assumed that was from a football tackle, not his sister!
“The girl—well, the baby started coming.” Coop blushes.
“While Dad went to phone the midwife, I got Grace away. Once she calmed down, she was real apologetic. But it was like tonight. She wanted to hurt Dad. She was one hundred percent focused on it. If I wasn’t there, I don’t know what might’ve happened. As it was—it was pretty bad.”
The words rush out of Coop like a river that’s been dammed up for too long. His shoulders are slumped, his mouth turned down, his brow furrowed with—worry? Frustration? Anger?
What would a man like Joe Harrow do to his daughter for attacking him?
What would Grace’s brother do in order to protect her?
I know better than to ask. Every family has its secrets.
“That must have been very frightening,” I say.
Coop’s stacking the little glass hors d’oeuvres plates. I reach across the coffee table and still his hands with a touch. I wish I could smooth the worried lines from his face.
He meets my eyes. Swallows. “Yeah. I was—well, I was pretty scared.”
It feels more intimate than a kiss.
The front door slams.
Grace? She’s been in the bathroom for ages.
Footsteps clomp down the hall. Stanley leans against the doorway.
“I dropped the damn keys! Can’t find ’em anywhere and it’s pourin’!”
A gracious hostess would invite him in to wait out the rain, but he’s done enough damage for one night. I don’t want him here. I look at Coop.
“I’ll drive you home,” he says. “You can get your truck tomorrow.”
“You’re a good man, Harrow.” Stanley glances between us. “Sorry for interruptin’. Guess you ain’t a fairy after all, huh?”
I draw in a breath. What an absolute jackass. I should have let Grace stab him.
Anger flickers over Coop’s face. “Guess not,” he says shortly. “Get in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Sure, sure.” Stanley gives us a knowing leer and lumbers off.
Coop shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You needn’t apologize for him.”
“It isn’t true.” He stares at his tennis shoes.
“I wouldn’t think less of you if it were.” I’ve no room to judge, after all.
I’m not scandalized, exactly. But the thought that he might prefer to kiss boys—that the kiss between us, and the way he looked at me—the way I thought he looked at me—might have been just for show—
Well, it stings more than I’d like.
He glances up. “You won’t say anything, will you? About Grace, I mean.”
I smile. “No. Of course not.”
Coop shuffles his feet. “One of the guys is having a weenie roast tomorrow. Would you like to go? With me? I know it’s kinda last minute. If you’ve got plans…”
I’m too tired to play coy. “I don’t,” I blurt. “I’d love to go with you.”
He gives me a quick grin. “Great. Look, Stan’s an ass, but I’ve got to get him home. In this state, he’s liable to drive himself straight into a tree.” His eyes fall on Grace’s rain jacket and pocketbook, tucked in the corner. “Could you check on her for me? I’ll come back to walk her home.”
“Of course.”
I watch him head out into the rain. Then I take the silver tray laden with empty bottles and glasses and deposit them in the kitchen.
The door to the powder room off the lobby is ajar.
I peek inside, but Grace isn’t there. I make another trip for the hors d’oeuvres plates and serving dishes.
The library could use a good hoovering; the new floors are covered in crumbs. But that can wait till tomorrow.
Grace still isn’t back. I’m loath to go hunting for her—I know she won’t want to see me—but I told Coop I’d check on her.
She isn’t in the library, the parlor, or the kitchen.
Not in the dining room or the breakfast room.
I walk through the dark, skeletal guest rooms, calling her name.
Softly at first, then louder, till I’m almost shouting.
There’s no answer. I wonder if she slipped out the back.
I didn’t hear anything, but I was pretty wrapped up in Coop.
If she went home, she left her pocketbook and her rain jacket behind, and she’s made off with Father’s good scotch.
It doesn’t seem like her, but what do I really know about Grace?
Would she have gone upstairs? To her old room?
I don’t think she’d make any trouble for Ella, but—
A frisson of doubt runs through me. Grace is volatile. Unstable, maybe.
I take the stairs at a run.
My sisters’ bedroom doors are both shut tight. The door to the attic is open, though. A cold draft swirls down the hall. A dim pool of light falls from the single bulb at the top of the staircase. What could Grace be doing up there? I set one foot on the bottom step, and it creaks ominously.
The stairs lead up to an enormous attic; it must stretch the entirety of the central wing.
Sheet-covered furniture looms up before me like hulking ghosts.
Old twin bedframes lean against the sloped walls.
Dust rises at my footsteps. I sneeze, then hear a faint scurrying.
I close my eyes in horror. When I reopen them, I notice footsteps in the dust ahead of me, a little bigger than mine.
They lead around an old armoire to a trapdoor with a pull-down ladder. It must go to the widow’s walk.
I stand at the bottom. Above me is the cloudy night sky. Raindrops fall on my upturned face.
What is Grace doing up there in the rain?
Stargazing? There are no stars.
I remember Magnolia’s story of the wayward girl who threw herself from the roof.
No. Grace can’t think—
I kick off my wedge heels and clutch the rickety ladder with both hands. I don’t care for heights, but it can’t be helped.
As soon as my head pops above the slate roof, I spot her. Grace is standing at the railing, peering out. Her blond ponytail is dripping, her white blouse sheer enough that I can make out the brassiere beneath. Father’s bottle of scotch lies at her feet.
“Grace! Don’t!” I shout, climbing faster.
She startles, whirling around so fast that she loses her balance on the wet roof. She reaches for the railing to steady herself, but it gives way. Rotted wood tumbles from her touch.
I watch, helpless—horrified—as Grace begins to fall.