Chapter Thirty-Seven. Rose
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ROSE
It’s been one hell of a day, and it’s not over yet.
“Rosie!” Ella runs out of the library as we wheel Joe Harrow through the front door.
Rain pools around him, soaking his charcoal overcoat and wool trousers.
Blood mats his dark hair, trickling down his neck and staining his white dress shirt.
Grace tied his wrists together behind his back with twine.
She must have hit him awfully hard. He’s still out cold, despite the pouring rain and the way the wheelbarrow wobbled over the pea-gravel path.
I wish I could’ve seen her brain him with that shovel, but I was busy diving face-first into the mud. I bet she was magnificent.
“Oh my God, what happened?” Ella spies the hunting rifle in Coop’s hand and the makeshift sling I fashioned from Mrs. Harrow’s gardening apron.
We’re all sopping wet and covered in grass and grave dirt.
Grace’s lip is busted where Harrow hit her.
I’m limping because I tripped and twisted my ankle in what Grace said was a groundhog hole.
I would not trade my time here with my sisters and the Harrow twins for anything, but honestly, I’ve survived blackmail, vicious attacks on my character, and being shot at—and I was bested by a woodchuck?
“He tried to shoot Rose,” Coop says. “I dove in front of her, and I think I broke my arm.”
“Jackass,” Grace mutters.
“I’m fine,” I assure Ella, who’s on the verge of tears. “Coop was marvelous. And Grace bashed Harrow over the head with the shovel and probably saved my life.” I nod at the lumpen man in the wheelbarrow.
“Good.” Ella’s brown eyes are enormous in her thin face. “Did you find her? Daisy?”
Coop looks sick. “What’s left of her. He wrapped her in some old quilts and threw her in a trunk. It was buried out by the tennis court.”
“I’ve been playing out there every day,” Ella whispers. “She was so close the whole time.”
“How’s Lou?” I ask.
“Playing in her room with paper dolls. I told her to stay upstairs so she doesn’t give anyone her sniffles.
But I made her hot cocoa and let her borrow my record player, so she’s happy as a clam.
” Ella frowns. “Mr. Harrow came looking for you. I tried to distract him by asking about Maggie, but he stormed out. I was so afraid!”
She throws herself at me, and I squeeze her tight. “I’m all right. I promise.”
Will any of us ever be all right, ever again?
The twins have just learned that they were adopted in the most shocking fashion. Grace suspected, of course, but Coop … When the shock of it all and the pain of his injury wear off, how will he feel? What will it change for him?
“Is there a fire in the library? I’m so cold,” Grace says. We’re still standing in the lobby, dripping muddy water onto the refinished floor.
She wheels Harrow into the library and unceremoniously dumps him—and a not-insignificant amount of cold rainwater—onto the floor. He stirs but doesn’t wake.
“You really knocked him out cold, Gracie.” Coop places the hunting rifle on a high shelf of the bookcase. Then he collapses into one of the leather armchairs, letting out a pained hiss as he jostles his arm.
“Shall we fetch the scotch? It has medicinal properties, you know.” I smile, remembering the night of that ill-fated party, when he kissed me for the first time.
“I’ll get it!” Ella hurries from the room, eager to be useful.
“I’m trying to be manly, but it hurts like hell,” Coop admits.
I suspect it’s not just his arm that pains him.
“You poor thing. This is going to put a real dent in football season, I’m afraid.” I touch his good shoulder.
“I can’t believe Dad tried to shoot you,” Coop says.
“He’s not our dad.” Grace has thrown more logs onto the fire; now she huddles beside it.
Rain drips from her limp ponytail and the muddy hem of her skirt.
She’s clutching the fireplace poker, even though the fire is blazing.
I exchange a concerned glance with Coop.
I don’t entirely trust that she isn’t going to bash Harrow’s head in.
Not that I blame her.
It’s not every day a girl finds out the man who raised her is a cold-blooded killer.
“He’s tied up, Gracie. He can’t hurt you,” Coop says softly.
“He lied to us.” Grace is still facing the fire. “He and Ma both lied to us our whole lives. Aren’t you mad about that?”
Coop pauses to think. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. But we’re safe now. That’s what matters. He’ll go to jail for the rest of his miserable life. We’ll never have to see him again.”
“What if he wriggles out of it somehow?”
“He won’t,” I promise. “We’ll see to it. Auntie will help.”
I remember how Harrow called Daisy a nobody. He said no one missed her. But Daisy’s life shouldn’t be worth any less because she didn’t come from money. Because her father worked at a cannery instead of owning a string of fancy hotels.
Ella comes back with a bottle of scotch and some crystal tumblers. She pours Coop two fingers. “Down the hatch!” she says, then pours some for Grace and me.
I’ve barely sipped mine when someone pounds on the front door.
“Maybe that’s Ma.” Coop seems apprehensive.
Mrs. Harrow wouldn’t hammer on the front door like that.
Unless she’s come with bad news about Maggie. I go to the door and throw it open, expecting to find Mrs. Harrow in a headscarf. Instead, it’s—
My father?
And a woman I’ve never seen before, whom I can only presume is his new wife.
“Hullo, Rosie!” He presses past me into the lobby.
“What—what are you doing here?”
He looks well: twinkling blue eyes, generous mouth, and prominent ears in a ruddy face.
His wavy brown hair is parted on the side and curled back from his forehead.
When people want to flatter him, they say he looks like Spencer Tracy, and it’s not such a leap.
He’s wearing chocolate trousers and a camel sports coat with a brown plaid tie.
The lobby seems dwarfed and drab with him in it. He has that way about him.
“We wanted to surprise you!” Father says. “Where are my other girls?”
“We thought you were in Vienna.” I can’t believe he’s here. In America, on the Eastern Shore, in our hotel. I’m suddenly very conscious of the puddles on the floor. And the mud all over my trousers.
It never fails. In his presence, I always feel too much or not enough.
“After we heard about the recent unpleasantness, Lena suggested we cut our honeymoon short.” Father wraps an arm around his new bride and gives her a smacking kiss on the cheek.
I assume by unpleasantness, he’s referring to Stanley’s death.
“We got back to Washington yesterday and she insisted we come to see you girls right away, through hell or high water!”
“Did she?” I eye the newest Mrs. Thorpe.
Despite their perilous drive through the storm, she’s spotless, and elegant as a film star.
She’s easily ten years younger than Father.
She wears her dark hair in soft, shoulder-length curls like Vivien Leigh.
Her dress is a smart kelly green with a Queen Anne neckline and ruched elbow-length sleeves.
And she’s tall. She towers over me as she leans in and air-kisses my cheek.
“Rose. It’s lovely to finally meet you.”
There’s something familiar about her. It tugs at me. “Charmed. How on earth did you make it through the storm? I thought the bridge into town was flooded. Is—did Milt drive you?” Can we send him to fetch the sheriff?
“No, I drove. It’s only rain in Washington. Joanie warned me it would be worse out here, but once I get an idea in my head…” Father’s unswayable. Stubborn as a mule.
“Auntie knew you were coming? She didn’t breathe a word!” The traitor. But then I remember her hints at breakfast yesterday about a special delivery that might be delayed because of the storm. I hope Lou won’t be too disappointed that Father isn’t an Indian elephant.
I’d rather have the puppy, I think.
Father grins at me. “We wanted it to be a surprise.”
I paste an answering smile on my face. “Well, it most certainly is.”
“I drove onto a flooded road up around Elkton. A farmer helped me fish the Caddy out and loaned me his truck. Cost a pretty penny, but the thing’s an absolute tank,” Father says. “We made good time after that. Now, where are my other girls?”
“Ella!” I shout. “Come see who’s come home from Europe very early!”
“Don’t holler like a fishwife, Rose. Go and get her,” Father chides. “Where are your manners? And why do you look like you’ve been wrestling a pig?”
I flush. “I’m sorry. There’s been some trouble with—”
“Is the electricity out?” he interrupts, glancing around the dim lobby.
“It is. And the phone lines are down,” I explain, as Ella and the twins troop out into the lobby, mud and blood and busted lip and all.
“Daddy! Thank God you’re here!” Ella throws her arms around his sturdy shoulders. Her smile sours. “And you must be our new mummy. Hello.”
Lena smirks. She takes in Ella, waifish in her pink romper. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ella.” She air-kisses her cheek. “And you must be the Harrow twins. Aren’t you tall and blond and terribly grown-up!”
“Thank you?” Coop says. Grace only stares.
There’s a thump from the library.
“What was that?” Father asks. “Where’s Joanie? And Lou? Lulu!”
I hope Lou won’t hear him over the record player and the storm.
“Lou’s got the sniffles,” I explain. “She’s playing in her room upstairs. Auntie’s down at the cottage helping to deliver a baby. We’ve had an awful—”
I’m interrupted by another thump. Grace bolts to the library. Coop and I dash after her. Mr. Harrow has woken up and wormed his way into a sitting position, his back propped against a bookshelf. Grace snatches up the fireplace poker. She clearly feels safer armed.
“Am I in Hell?” Harrow groans.
“No, but if there’s any justice, that’s where you’ll go,” Grace snaps.
“What on earth is going on here?” Father turns to Cooper. Of course he would turn to the only man in the room. “Is Harrow—good God, is he tied up?”