The Deception Dance (11 page)

“The tattoo?” She completes my sentence. “Because I
asked her. She told me, ‘it’s more than that, I did
something awful.’”

I huff out a breath of air. So she
did
drug me. I thought
maybe, just maybe, it could have been Horse-face, or just a random
evil-doer. Or even Mrs. Trandle's "he", even though that's…
crazy.

My shoulders slump so low, Linnie easily slings her arm around them.
“I asked Chauncey why she doesn’t just apologize.”
She presses her head to my temple. “She said, ‘it’s
too late for that. Even if I beg, I can’t take it back.’
And Raven, I know it’s hard to believe, but she started
sobbing.” Linnie brushes my hair behind my ear. “What
Chauncey did was wrong; she never should have left you. But believe
me, she feels awful about leaving, she just can’t admit it to
you.”

Because she did something dreadful, much more than you know.

Linnie gazes at me, “Do you think you could forgive her?”

Could I forgive her? Maybe, in a million years. Could I like her? I
doubt it. Could I trust her? Never. I sigh, “It sounds as if
she regrets what she did, so I can let it go.”

Linnie smiles, “Oh, Good. And look, our food.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. “Oh no!” I clap my hand
to my forehead. “I forgot to call dad!”

Linnie holds out her hand. “You carry up the food, I’ll
do damage control.”

I hand her the pulsating flip-phone and grab the two paper bags on
the counter.

We exit the restaurant and I leave Linnie chatting and gesticulating
on the street. The entrance at the bottom of the staircase is propped
open with a block of wood. I slip through the opening, laden with
fragrant curries. I adjust my grasp, as I walk up the stairs, tucking
a bag under each arm. The door at the end of the hall is also ajar
and I’m about to slip through, when Chauncey shouts, “...what
do you know, anyway?”

I stop. I shouldn’t listen, but I do. I
lean forward and stay silent.

Nicolas sounds serious when he responds; “I
know
that no
one has ever made a deal that has made him or her happy or even
content. I told you, it’ll be better for everyone if...”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” She
interrupts him; her voice is almost a growl. “I don’t
know what you’re doing or who you really are, but I’m not
going to...” She cuts off as Linnie enters the hall behind me
still chatting to my dad.

I spin to face Linnie.

She furrows her brow, asking ‘what are you doing,’ but
doesn’t pause her phone conversation.

I incline my head toward the door to tell her that I’m
eavesdropping, with a guilty grimace. When she catches up, she enters
first holding the door open.

Chauncey and Nicholas are on opposite sides of the spacious flat.
Nicholas stands behind a bar, in a teak and porcelain kitchen,
Chauncey reclines on a cream-colored couch, with horizontal white
stripes. Between them, are two bay windows and an oval table;
everything is light wood and cream-colored cushions.

My gaze snaps back to Chauncey; she looks stunning. Linnie might
think she’s depressed and brooding, but it has had no effect on
Chauncey’s complexion. She would look right on a modeling
shoot. I tear my gaze away from her, because I’m actually
gaping.

The apartment has three bedrooms and, that
night, I finally get to be alone with Linnie. I run to the bathroom
for my bed-time routine, then, rush back, excited to spill everything
that I’ve been keeping inside to her.

Linnie lies snoring, rolled in our blanket, on
half of the large bed.

Oh, well. I’m insisting that only us two
share a room in the castle. I settle in next to her and fall asleep.

Day Seven

“Oh yes,” Chauncey lowers her shades to peer at the
sleek, black Rolls Royce, parking in front of the harbor.

We took a ferry, I insisted, and are now in Helsingborg, Sweden.
Temperature-wise, the day is about what I expect from a summer at
home, but freezing, compared with Italy. The wind from the harbor
seeps through my thin sweater and I’m ready to be in the
controlled climate of the car.

I’m not immune to the Rolls’ attractions; the car is
magnificent. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can
appreciate this one. A man, who looks more like a bouncer for a
high-class nightclub than a chauffeur, opens the car doors for us. I
crawl in back with Linnie. The interior has an elm veneer and
cream-colored leather seats. My dad taught me about wood, as useless
as the knowledge has been, while making furniture, in his spare time.

I peer out the window. A small crowd has
gathered around the car. No, I’m wrong; they’re all men,
gathered around Chauncey. No wonder: she looks like a movie star,
standing there. Chauncey programs a tall blond man’s phone
number into her phone, before crossing to the passenger seat, where
the chauffeur waits.

The chauffeur alters his aloof expression to
give Chauncey a poorly disguised once-over.

After loading our luggage, the beefy chauffeur accepts some money
from Nicholas and heads away from the car. At the curb, the chauffeur
hails a taxi… strange. His actions make sense when Nicholas
climbs into the driver’s seat and says, over his shoulder, “I
thought you ladies would appreciate the room.”

And we do.

After driving a few minutes through a small city, we are surrounded
by countryside pastures. The fields spread up to each cottage and
quaint house, looking as if the whole landscape could have popped out
of a postcard. We wind around so many grassy meadows, the fields
could be one continuous pasture. I take Linnie’s hand and lean
back. We select the houses we would live in, pointing to more than
not.

After less than an hour, Nicholas stops at a gate, connecting a tall
hedge that runs along the road for some distance on each side. The
hedge is tall and wide enough to be unusual, in this area where all
other houses are either surrounded by a small wood fence or nothing
at all.

The hedge and the large wood gate block out any view of the castle
from the road. The old fashioned feel of the scene is lost when
Nicholas opens a box by his driver-side window and presses his thumb
to a key-pad.

“We will have to scan your prints into the system,”
Nicholas calls back.

I gulp at the prospect; I’m not sure why.

The gate swings back, giving us a full view of Leijonskjöld
Castle. Nicholas was right; the castle is more like a big house, or
more like three big houses. The long driveway cuts a straight path
through a large green pasture, interrupted by thin trees, and
enclosed by a long stone wall. The hedge must have disguised the
cobblestone wall, but the stone enclosure continues from both sides
of the gate, out to farther than my gaze can see.

The house was reduced by distance, but as we approach and drive up to
the pillar-encircled doorway, I rethink ‘big house.’
Leijonskjöld Castle is more like a large hotel, flanked by two
mansions. And, I should have guessed, the whole complex is cream
color. Long white pillars stripe the main house’s façade
and a roof slopes down two stories. All three houses are in a style I
would call colonial, if we weren’t in Sweden. The flanking
mansions are two-story miniatures of the main house.

Nicholas points to the one on the left, “This house is for you
ladies. My Grandfather does not let unmarried women sleep in the main
house, to tempt us impressionable boys.”

Chauncey steps out of the passenger seat, “I think an
impressionable boy is headed this way.”

I don’t know about ‘impressionable’ or ‘boy,’
but someone heads our way. He’s huge: looks a bit like Thor,
the thunder god (or how I imagine Thor). He’s as casual as
Nicholas is formal, wearing an outfit I wouldn’t be surprised
to catch my dad in, when he’s carving wood. He approaches
Nicholas, speaking another language, presumably Swedish, and grins.
Even with the outfit, being twice Nicolas’ girth, and his
plethora of gruff blond facial hair, the man is obviously a relation.

He stops a few feet from Nicholas, not noticing us, standing by the
car. When the man’s Swedish continues streaming, Nicholas
laughs, “English, Albert, English,” and holds an arm out
toward us.

Albert glances over, and then makes a face at Nicholas. He puffs out
his chest and claps Nicholas on the back, “You bring back
women, good boy.” His accent is not-so-slight. He chuckles.
"Let me guess ...” he points to Chauncey, "looks,"
to Linnie, "personality," to me, "and attitude."

Nicholas says, "We haven't been here five minutes and you've
already scared and offended our guests; I think this might be a new
record."

Though I’m far from offended, I huddle near the car with
Chauncey and Linnie. We peer at each other, while the men laugh. I
don’t think any of us knows what to say to the big, hairy guy.

“I am sorry,” Albert says. “I was just joking with
you ladies.” He holds up his hands, and then stretches one out
to Linnie. “I am Albert, one of Nicholas’s older
brothers.”

Linnie gives a tight grin, for once seeming cowed, and shakes
Albert’s huge hand. “Linnet, but everyone calls me
Linnie,” she murmurs.

Albert takes her hand and spins her as if they’re dancing.

Linnie laughs and gives him an exaggerated curtsy. “Your
brother dragged us here, kicking and screaming.”

“Of course,” he says, with an equally exaggerated bow.

Then Albert’s gaze drifts to Chauncey and me, still leaning
against the car. Just for an instant, he glances back at Nicholas
with no trace of smile, but, when he turns back to us, he looks
happy. He holds his hand out to Chauncey and gives her hand one
brusque shake before he turns to me.

Chauncey lets her glasses slip down her nose and whispers in a
babyish voice, “Don’t I get spun?”

Albert doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t acknowledge her.
Strange, since this morning, every other guy nearly wets his pants
when she smiles.

I stretch out my hand and say, “Raven.”

He looks a little unsure, as his mitt-sized hand clasps mine. “Nice
to meet you, Raven.” What a change: so welcoming to Linnie and
so cold with me and Chauncey. Chauncey looks a little less peeved,
seeing I didn’t get spun, either. “I’m glad you’re
here,” Albert adds my way, lessening my unease.

Nicholas coughs, then claps Albert on the shoulder.

Albert winces and curses something in Swedish (at least, whatever he
said sounds like a curse).

Nicholas asks, “Are you coming inside?”

“But of course,” Albert replies, elbowing Nicholas in the
ribs, “I wouldn’t miss this.”

One of Nicholas’s hands rubs his side, while the other gestures
us toward the house; when we walk, he and Albert follow. The front
door is propped open and we file in.

I gaze around at the foyer, which is about three times the size of my
living room and adorned with multiple chandeliers. The space is two
stories high and has a couple of staircases leading to a landing
encircling the room. Everything is pine: the paneled walls, ceiling,
stairs, and railings along the walkways, except the carpeted floor,
which is navy with an intricate white and black design.

On the landing, between the rounding
staircases, three men in suits stand talking; two of them turn as we
enter. The youngest of the three looks out of place with his
companions, he isn’t wearing a jacket and, though his back is
to us, I can tell his tie is loose. He stands with the posture I
associate with the guys in high school who think they could have any
girl, and usually could. He pivots. I’m not sure what, from his
profile, but, there’s something weird about his face.

The other two men stand as stiff as the old English Lords in their
portraits. The older man is seventy, or so. The younger, who I assume
is Nicholas’s eldest brother, has his nose tilted so high, I
have a perfect view into his nostrils. Both have the exact same
short-cropped haircut, though the younger has blond (not white) hair,
and matching choke-neck tailored suits.

All three turn as we approach and separate to descend the left fork
of the staircase. The casual man takes the stairs two at a time and
is at the bottom before the other two are halfway down.

The elderly man descends the way I'd imagine the characters from Jane
Austin's books would, stiffly and -

He catches me staring and halts. The old man's eyes are blue, sharp
shards of ice and I can’t tear my gaze away.

My stomach clenches and I wrap my arms around my middle. He is so
familiar, as if I’ve known him all my life, but I’m
positive I’ve never seen him before. He has no expression, not
irritation or anything else, but I can’t help taking a step
back. I’m like an orchid withering in frost; the chill emits
from his glare.

An arm wraps around my shoulders and jolts me back to reality. I
glance to see the arm belongs to Nicholas.

He too watches the old man; the tilt of Nicholas’s nose and
arch of his eyebrows could only be described as defiant.

I glance back to check his grandfather's reaction: the old man slits
his eyelids over icy pupils and shakes his head. He wheels around on
his heel and marches up the stairs. His younger clone makes to
follow, but, the old man barks, “Nej,” and the younger
stops.

We are all silent for a collective intake of breath. The words,
‘I
didn’t want to come here in the first place!’
Fight
to burst out of my lips, but he’s already gone.

“Don’t mind my grandfather,” Nicholas whispers,
“He’s just stuck on the past.”

I think the phrase is ‘stuck in the past’
but I’m concentrating too hard on forcing a pleasant expression
to correct him. I smooth down my despicably cheap sweater and keep my
breathing even. What’s gotten into me?