Her Wicked Heart (5 page)

Lou —

I hope all is well with you. I returned from Chiang Mai last week. We finished our addition on the children’s home and are already in the planning stages for another on the other side of the region. I might go back in October. I haven’t decided yet.

I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I don’t wish to intrude, but I wanted to extend an apology. I didn’t handle things well between us. It never should have started in the first place (and I take full responsibility for that), but it also never should have ended the way it did. I apologize for everything. I’ve been looking into opportunities for reassignment with Cunningham Cares. If you wish to return to your position at the Chiang Mai division, I can make sure I won’t be there.

But Lou — maybe it’s inappropriate to say this, but I can’t just let it go. I can’t stop thinking about you. I told you that night that I loved you, and I thought those feelings would fade, but they haven’t. I’ve done a lot of thinking since you left. I told myself it was better for both of us to move on, and I’ve genuinely tried, but time and again my thoughts return to you. My feelings haven’t changed or faded.

If you want to cut ties completely, I understand. I will respect your wishes. But if there’s any part of you that wishes to see me again, if only to let me apologize in person… I don’t know if this is out of line, but I have some free time these days and I’m willing to travel to wherever you are. Please consider it. If you’ve already moved on, or if you’ve met someone else, then I wish both of you the best. Know that, Lou, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing—I want you to be happy.

I read through it four times just to make sure I haven’t gone completely insane. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Not an apology. Not more talk about love.

I’d rather have gotten anger. Hatred. I certainly deserve it. Instead,
he
’s apologizing to
me.
Like he was the one who’s done something wrong. He’s offering to give up his position—the work he was born to do—to make me comfortable. This—I don’t know what to do with this.

There he is, in my mind: my sweet, generous Ian, his arms open and his eyes full of forgiveness. He was always so quick to let things go, to see the good in people and forget the bad things they’ve done. Even when those people didn’t deserve it. We both know that I’m the awful one. The selfish one.

I slam my laptop closed and get off the bed. I don’t know how to deal with this right now. I don’t know what I could possibly reply to make this better, or if I should even reply at all. Maybe it’s better to ignore his message. To let him go, for his own sake.

God knows there’s no hope left for me.

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, I feel like there are a hundred tiny little men trying to break out of my skull with pickaxes.

I didn’t sleep at all the previous night. I spent a while pacing back and forth until my legs started to shake, and then I curled up by the window and pressed my cheek against the glass, staring out across the estate until the sky brightened with the light of pre-dawn.

I’m currently on my fourth coffee. I was able to finish my last few tasks in the gift shop before Ward showed up, and I’m more grateful for that than I want to admit. I don’t want to know how I would have responded if he’d made me another offer to continue our, ahem,
acquaintance
.

As usual, Mr. Haymore’s running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Edward Carolson and his family arrived late last night, and my boss wants everything to be ready for the luncheon at noon today. That means I’ve got my errand-girl hat on, but I’m more than happy with the busywork. It keeps me from thinking about Ian’s email. It also allows me to spend most of the morning willfully ignoring the knowledge that I’m about to meet Edward Carolson in person for the first time.

Only when I head with Mr. Haymore to the large formal dining room to prepare for the banquet does it sink in: I’m about to be face-to-face with the man responsible for turning my family’s home into this theme park. The one person I hate more than any other person on the planet.

Why couldn’t he have just moved in here and left it at that? Heck, why couldn’t he have torn this whole place down? Better than turning it into a product. A joke.

I rush around after Mr. Haymore, helping him straighten centerpieces and trying to keep him out of the way of the waitstaff. Thank God most of our full-time servers were already undergoing training this week, or we’d have had to call in people from an outside staffing company. The kitchen was able to wrangle a few extra hands to get all of the food prepared. We even had some fresh flowers brought in from a little company in Barberville.

Still, Haymore’s freaking out, and I’m not feeling much better. My hands are shaking, but I’m not sure whether that’s from the coffee or my nerves about meeting Carolson.

I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so worked up. Carolson’s just some businessman. And I’m supposed to be Addison, Mr. Haymore’s assistant. I need to calm down.

When Haymore runs off to say something to the kitchen manager, I move over to the wall, out of the hustle and bustle. For a moment, I just watch the people running to and fro and try to catch my breath. After a couple of minutes, though, I find my eyes being drawn up to the ceiling.

The mural is still there—the beautiful pastoral scene my grandparents commissioned after a trip to Italy. Unlike the cherubs they’ve painted throughout the rest of the house, there’s a beauty, a grace to this piece. And it brings back so many memories, both big and small, that I have to close my eyes.

There, in the pit of my stomach, is the hollowness again. I reach for it, calling it up, letting it slowly fill me until the memories are gone. Until everything is gone but that dark, gaping hole. Until everything’s been replaced with numbness.

When Mr. Haymore finds me again, I’m calm. My hands are no longer shaking, and I follow his orders with mechanical efficiency.

Finally, he grabs my arm and says, “He’s here.”

He expects me to follow him to the doorway, and I do. My steps are heavy, but I don’t feel the need to tug nervously at my hair or talk myself up. Carolson is just a man, after all, and I’m past caring today.

I spot Carolson right away. I’ve seen photos of him before, and he looks exactly like he does in pictures. Today, he’s wearing a blue suit that probably cost more than that beat-up car of mine sitting in the employee parking lot. His salt-and-pepper hair is clipped short and straight, and he has a wide politician’s smile that he flashes when he catches sight of Mr. Haymore.

“Charles,” he says, “you’ve outdone yourself.” He sounds like a politician, too. His voice is bright but controlled.

Mr. Haymore looks pleased at the compliment. “I hope you enjoy the menu they’re preparing, sir.”

They fall into talking, and I find my eyes wandering to the people behind Carolson. I recognize them, too. There’s Laura, Carolson’s wife, talking to a younger woman in a dark suit who’s probably one of the family’s personal assistants. Laura has bottle-blond hair and wears a strand of pearls with a pale pink sheath dress. She looks like the classic executive’s wife.

And there, just past her, are the couple’s two children. They’re as well-dressed and polished as their parents. Their son, Troy, is about my age, and if someone said “former prep school crew captain,” he’s exactly the picture that comes to mind. A life-sized Ken doll. Their daughter, Rebecca, is a couple
of years younger. She takes after her mother, though her hair is still naturally blond.

It’s strange. It’s like the Stepford version of my family. Except with both parents still alive. And the children still speaking to each other. It doesn’t feel right, having them in my
house.

Their
house.

I close my eyes, falling back into the numbness. After a moment, I can breathe again, and by the time I open my eyes, Mr. Haymore’s already leading the family to the table at the front of the room. He turns to me.

“Sit at the table next to ours,” he says. “I want you close in case we need something. Talk to their assistants, if you can. See if you can pick up on anything for me.” And then he turns and shows the Carolsons to their seats.

And that’s it. After all the nerves, after building it up in my head, Carolson and his family never even spared me a glance. I might as well have been invisible.

I’m more okay with that than I should be. Maybe it’s just the emptiness eating away at me, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling right now.

I take my seat at the table Haymore mentioned. Other staff members are slowly filing in, taking places at tables around the room. Most are smiling and chatting with each other. Probably excited to have an extra-long catered lunch break today. I’ve never seen this many people in this room before. Even when I was younger, when we still had a full staff on the estate, they never reached these numbers. And this is just the start—when the press gets here next week, the numbers will jump up again. And when the doors open for the grand opening…

I blink once, twice, letting that thought slip away into the void.

My mind fades more or less out of blankness as the crowd settles and people take their seats. After a moment, Mr. Haymore rises and welcomes everyone. I think Carolson gives a brief greeting as well, but honestly, I don’t really listen to either of them. I just don’t care. Eventually, someone gives the signal, and the waitstaff pours in with the salad course.

The meal goes by in a blur. I’m sure the food is delicious, but I hardly touch it. I’m not hungry. Sometimes someone else at the table will ask me a question, and I answer as briefly and politely as I can. If Mr. Haymore wants special insights about Carolson and Co., he’s going to have to find them on his own.

We make it to the dessert course before Carolson stands again. I only notice because a hush settles over the room, and I force myself to glance up from my lap.

Carolson’s wearing that smile again. He gives a little wave before clearing his throat.

“I hope all of you have been enjoying lunch,” he says. “I must say, I’m delighted by the welcome I’ve received here. And by the progress you all have made with this place since the last time I dropped in. If I’m being honest, there were times I questioned this investment. Times I wondered if it would all come together the way I always pictured it. And I want you to know that you have far exceeded my expectations.”

His little speech receives a round of applause, and I find my gaze floating away from him, out across the room. Whatever my feelings about the man, his employees seem to like his words.

“I’ve only had the chance to see a little of the improvements since my arrival,” he continues, “but Charles has promised me a tour after we’re done here today. As you know, we only have a few days before we open our doors to the world, and we need everything to be perfect. We all have a busy week ahead of us, but I trust that all of you will make a commitment to making Huntington Manor all that it can be.”

That gets another scattering of applause. My eyes continue to drift across the room, taking in the excitement, the pride in everyone’s eyes. Carolson seems to know exactly what to say to inspire his employees.

But then I see him: the only person in the whole room who’s not buying into this. The only one looking at Carolson with something akin to anger—no,
disgust.
I almost don’t recognize him at first. He looks so different in that white button-down, but that red-brown hair is unmistakable, even across the room. None of the humor I saw in his face yesterday is there. Ward’s back is stiff, and he’s gripping his fork so tightly that it looks like he’s about to drive it right through the table.

“I had a vision, the first time I saw this place,” I hear Carolson say, as if from far away. “A vision of beauty and luxury. And I knew I had to do everything in my power to bring that vision to life. Most people in this world aren’t born blessed. Most people in this world must fight for every penny they have, and even if they fight for every single day of their life, they might never have the chance to live like this. I wanted to give them that chance. I wanted to give them the opportunity to experience life in a place like this, even if it’s only for a week or a night or an hour. And it’s our job to give them that experience. We have a responsibility to this house to bring it back to life, and a responsibility to the people who stay here to make their lives a little brighter, too. Everyone who sets foot in Huntington Manor will be treated like the master of the house.”

It’s a pretty speech, and the applause that follows is furious. People are eating this stuff up—everyone except Ward, whose jaw is tight and who looks like he’s about to leap up and punch something.

Around the room, people have started to rise, showing their support for Carolson with a standing ovation. Ward rises, too, jerking to his feet and throwing his napkin down on the table, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to do it—that he’s actually going to storm across the room and sock Carolson in the face. Instead, he turns and stalks out of the room. A couple of the other people at his table glance questioningly after him, but most of the employees don’t even notice. They’re too focused on the charismatic, well-spoken man in front of them.

Carolson says a few more words, but I don’t hear them. I’m too curious about Ward’s reaction. I consider slipping out and going after him—at this point, I’m not sure I care whether half the room sees me walk out—but I have no idea where he would have gone. So I sit there, full plate in front of me, letting the noise of the room wash over me.

I don’t really notice when C
arolson sits down. I don’t notice much of anything until someone taps me on the arm, and I look up to find Mr. Haymore just behind me.

“I’ve been calling you, Ms. Thomas,” he says. His mustache twitches, and I know he’s only suppressing his temper because Carolson’s sitting ten feet behind us.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say numbly. “I was just thinking about what Mr. Carolson said. It was very inspiring.”

It was the right thing to say. Mr. Haymore’s eyes soften slightly, and he gives a nod of approval.

“I need you to run to my office and fetch the schedule for next week. The revised one. With my notes.”

“Of course,” I say, rising.

I feel a little lighter when I leave the room. Enough that I take my time walking down the hall. It’s funny—with all of the employees currently back in the dining room, with none of the usual hustle and bustle of preparation going on around me, I can almost pretend that all of the renovations are just part of a bad dream. That nothing has changed since I was a teenager, and I’m just back for a visit after an extended trip overseas. The garish decorating job is all wrong, of course, but I can ignore that if I close my eyes. I don’t need to see to know my way around here. I stop and take off my heels, letting my toes sink down into the carpet. I never wore shoes as a kid, and the softness of the carpet against my bare soles completes the illusion.

And just like that—eyes closed, feet bare, arms spread wide—I stroll down the hall. Pretending I’m young again. Pretending I never left home in the first place.

For a few minutes, at least. As I near my father’s old study, the hammering starts again, pulling me right back into the present.

I open my eyes. The hammering is coming from down the hall—from the direction of the Welcome Center.

It’s not much of a mystery who it is. And instead of turning into Haymore’s office, I find myself continuing down the hall toward the sound. Sure enough, when I reach the door to the Welcome Center, I find Ward inside, hard at work on the window.

He’s still angry. It’s obvious without even seeing his face. There’s frustration in every line of his body. He’s cast aside the ill-fitting button-down. The shirt’s in a pile in the corner, and his torso’s completely bare. I try not to notice the way the muscles of his back contract as he holds a piece of wood in place. Or the way that tattoo across his bicep moves with every swing of his arm.