Huntwell Farm

Nathan Hunt didn't have a home.

Maybe it was a funny thing to admit, being a thirty-four-year-old doctor who couldn't call anyplace home. But what did "home" even mean, anyway?

He had a place to live, of course. A decently sized two-bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive. It was his first purchase after buying into Manhattan Surgery Associates. But that was just a place to sleep.

Home wasn't the string of apartments he'd rented while attending medical school, doing his residency, completing two fellowships, and becoming the youngest burn specialist in New York City.

Nor was it the dormitory at Duke or the house in Durham he kept his senior year.

Nor did it lie behind the twenty-foot doors he was poised to enter the day before Easter.

His parents loved Huntwell Farm, as had his grandparents, and their parents before them. The estate had been in the Hunt family since General James Hunt had been granted more than fifteen hundred acres for his service to George Washington himself and had built the stone mansion complete with two gatehouses, three servants' quarters, a trout-stocked lake, and the Doric columns framing the front entrance.

Nathan, Carrick, and Spencer had been regaled with outlandish tales of the estate's history since before they could walk. But where Nathan's family saw history, he only saw the people whose backs this wealth was built on. Shadows of enslaved peoples, war criminals, and exploited workers roamed these halls. And, of course, the echoes of the unhappy present.

Those echoes were too loud off the polished oak and black-and-white marble. The rooms were too empty, all of them dressed in damask and curling millwork, like belles waiting for music they'd never hear. And his family was too cold, too forbidding.

No, Huntwell never was and never would be Nathan's true home, whatever that even meant.

He suspected that honor only belonged to her. And now she was gone.

The front door opened a solid five minutes after Nathan rang the bell, and he was met by Holden, the butler/driver/all-around dogsbody who had to be as old as the house itself. The old man pushed back his last surviving tuft of white hair, then offered the same droll expression he might have given the postman.

"Dr. Hunt," he said with the barest hint of familiarity, then stepped aside so that Nathan could drop his suitcase in the foyer.

"Holden." Nathan dropped his suitcase in the foyer. "I'll take that up after I speak to my parents."

"As you wish, sir."

As Holden took his jacket, it occurred to Nathan, for likely the thousandth time, that the butler could reasonably use his given name. Just as it also occurred to him that Holden had no reason to guide him through the halls he'd grown up in or that meetings with his parents might be more comfortable if they were held in the family room or even the rec room rather than one of the formal parlors with stiff antique furniture.

But Nathan said nothing as he followed the butler down the black-and-white-marbled corridor, their footsteps echoing off the high ceilings and portrait-covered walls. Because this was just the way it was here. This was the routine.

Why question it?

They found Lillian and Radford sitting in the second parlor, a fire blazing in one of the house's thirty-four hearths, despite the fact that it was a balmy sixty-four degrees outside. Lillian was always cold, and Radford was always indifferent. Lillian was sipping her customary cup of afternoon coffee—decaf, of course—while Radford puffed at one of his favorite cigars as he paged through the Business section of the Washington Post.

"They still haven't made the announcement," he remarked to Lillian. "Damn Post. Knew I should have bought it when we had the chance."

"Carrick said they won't until Nathaniel confirms," Lillian replied. "And that stubborn boy refuses to take any of their calls."

"That's because I never accepted it," Nathan said, startling both of them enough that Radford ashed directly onto his cashmere cardigan, and Lillian spilled a bit of coffee onto her linen pants.

"Oh, shoot!" she cried, dabbing at the spot. "Holden!"

"I'll fetch a towel at once, ma'am," the butler said in his droll voice before disappearing into the hall.

"You might have warned us," Lillian said as Nathan entered the room.

She set her coffee on a side table and stood, hand placed on her still-narrow hips. His mother had always been petite, to the point where Nathan wondered if she didn't under-eat. It was common enough in his patients her age. Along with osteoporosis.

"I just arrived," he said.

There were no kisses.

Nathan looked around. "Where are they?"

Lillian and Radford exchanged looks that Nathan couldn't quite interpret. Still, they insisted on sharing these wordless moments together, as if they knew he couldn't participate in them. He never could.

Except with Joni. He knew all of the emotions on her incredibly expressive face and had spent months studying them well before she'd ever visited the clinic. Had a list fifteen pages long in his notebook documenting them. And when, if by some chance, a new expression appeared, she had always told him what it meant. Always.

No one had ever been that transparent. Certainly not these two.

"Nathan, sit down and visit," his mother called. "Don't be rude."

"I didn't come here to visit." He glanced between his parents, daring them to argue. "I've done everything you asked for. I took a sabbatical from my practice, shadowed the interim CEO for the last two months, and learned the business like you wanted. In return, you said you would make things right. So where are they?"

He wasn't exaggerating. He wouldn't have come here at all if it hadn't been for one thing: Joni Zola was nowhere to be found. Until his parents had called last week and said Carrick's contact had finally had some success.

It had been two months since he'd walked away from her in the planetarium; the image of her tear-streaked face burned into his brain. Less than twenty minutes later, right after his father had opened his mouth in front of two thousand wealthy donors to the Mt. Sinai Children's Hospital and announced that he was nominating Nathan to be the next CEO of Huntwell, Nathan had marched back out of the room to find Joni and take her home, only to discover she was already gone.

And he hadn't seen her since.

He'd been angry, yes. But it hadn't taken long before he realized his anger was displaced. It was true that she had withheld damning information and refused to trust him. But obviously, the horrific video that existed of her having sexual relations with another man wasn't consensual.

No, if anything, he was angry at the people who had forced her into that situation and used it to control her, just the same as his parents used Isla to control him. He was angry at Carrick for sharing it with everyone else. And he was angry with himself for how he'd behaved toward her about it. He was angry that he'd left her alone.

And so, Nathan had forced himself to watch it again, if only to verify that, yes, she was clearly under the influence of some kind of drug. Clearly, very young—she couldn't have been older than sixteen. Clearly in a state of distress.

He'd destroyed his phone in a fit of rage he hadn't experienced in well over a decade. Then he had personally gone to every one of his family members to make sure all of them had deleted the incriminating video as well.

It was still floating around out there. But before he could deal with that, he needed to find her first.

The following day, he'd bought a new phone and called her, intending to bring her back from wherever she'd taken shelter for the night.

The call had gone straight to voicemail.

He'd waited another day before calling again. Texting. Another day. Another day.

On the fourth, he'd canceled his surgeries to drive to her sister's auto shop in Belmont. Had seen first-hand the dingy breakroom where Joni had been sleeping before she'd come to stay with him.

Lea had called him a bum and threatened to sic her husband on him, but not before telling him that Joni had left New York.

Boston. She had a brother in Boston.

Another dead end, and one that came with more threats of violence.

The Zolas clearly knew where their sister was and weren't worried, and that fact alone gave him some comfort.

So, he continued to leave messages. And waited.

Nothing.

In the end, he'd finally spoken to Carrick again, if only to ask him to get help from his contacts at the FBI and the CIA to find her. Which he would…so long as he made a deal with their parents to get them off Carrick's back. Sabbatical. Huntwell. The two months passed.

Then two days ago, his parents had said Joni was found. And that they would bring her here, along with Isla, to make things right between them all again, if he would come too.

Now, his parents shared that queer look he didn't understand.

"What does that look mean?" he asked. "What are you saying to each other?"

His mother rose to place her hands on his shoulders. Her skin was almost as pale as the white roses planted on the grounds outside but touched with unnatural pink across the cheeks; she pressed it lightly to his. A pantomime of a kiss, scented with Chanel No. 5.

"Now, Nathaniel, don't go getting all upset, sugar," she said. "But things aren't exactly like we said."

His hands balled into fists at his side. "What do you mean?"

"Lillian, just tell the boy and get it over with," his father barked, still poring over the fucking newspaper. Smoke wafted across the room toward him, and Nathan wrinkled his nose. He'd always hated the way those things smelled. Not to mention the cancerous effects of secondhand smoke.

"Isla's upstairs in the nursery," Lillian said. "She's eager to see you. So says her companion, anyway."

"That girl is never eager to see anyone," Radford grumbled.

Nathan frowned. "And Joni?"

Another shared glance. This one felt like it dropped a hammer through his chest.

"She's not here," his mother allowed.

"Where. Is. She?" Nathan could barely get the words out through his teeth.

His mother sighed. "Do you really?—"

"Where the fuck is my girlfriend?" Nathan didn't yell. He almost never yelled—not since he was a child and used to immediately regret the consequences at the expense of his father's backhand.

But he did snap. And at moments like these, he wasn't interested in holding it in.

"Girlfriend? Can you still even call her that?" His mother's tone was playful. Joking. Like the students who used to tease him as a child when he didn't understand knock-knock jokes.

"Where?" Nathan demanded as he smacked his hand on the door loud enough to make both his parents jump.

"She's in Paris," his mother fairly spat out. "With her sister, staying in some little hovel near the river. Though I'm sure I don't know why you're so fixated on the girl. She's nothing but a?—"

"Stop right there," Nathan interrupted, already spinning to leave the room. "Especially if you want me to come back."

He marched out without listening for a reply, already tapping in a search for flights to Paris from DC as he took the yawning staircase two steps at a time. At least he had a direction. Now, he had to take care of the other item on his agenda.

He knocked on the door of the nursery, which had barely been touched since he was a child. The walls were still painted sky blue with antique Victorian children's books framed around the room. Two children's beds remained at the far end, perfectly made up as if the ghosts of his and Carrick's childhoods still slept in them every night.

It was an odd room for them to put a seventeen-year-old girl, but it was the only one Isla had ever liked in the big, cold house. So, at least his parents had been considerate enough there.

Isla was sitting on one of the old rocking chairs near the big bay window, looking out onto the back grounds, speaking quickly to the woman sitting next to her, whom Nathan recognized as Mary Brennan, the full-time occupational therapist he had hired when Isla had entered high school.

Mary smiled and stood. "Dr. Hunt, hello. It's wonderful to see you. Isla, Nathan's here. Would you like to say hello?"

Isla stood and turned to Nathan almost immediately, completely unaware of the way the sunlight caught on the ridges of the heavy scarring painting her face. She was dressed in one of the countless pairs of blue ponte pants and shirts she preferred, tailored to be rid of seams. They covered the worst of the scars on her arms and legs, but there were still a few that wrinkled her left hand, permanently curled from the damage.

"Hello, Nathan," Isla said. "Mary said you would be arriving ten minutes ago. You're late. We've been waiting twenty-seven minutes."

He smiled. A greeting. One that included his name. It was quite an improvement from the last time when she hadn't wanted to stop working on a drawing of a horse. She was, however, holding a book with a horse on the front now. Some things hadn't changed at all. He hoped they never would.

"Hello, Isla," he greeted her back. No hugs. She didn't like them, and he couldn't say he blamed her. He only liked them himself from a few people. "What are you reading?"

"Horse Brain, Human Brain," Isla told him. "Spencer recommended it to me when we arrived yesterday. He was out at the stables and said I could see the new stallion, which is black with a white spot on its head like Black Beauty, except Black Beauty wasn't a stallion, he was a gelding, which is unfortunate because he probably would have made lovely foals with a mare. Anyway, your new stallion will probably make a lot of foals." She turned to Mary, who was watching the interaction kindly. "That was technically three sentences, right? Even though the middle was a run-on."

Mary smiled kindly. "Yes, Isla, it was. And they were very good sentence too. Would you like to ask Nathan any questions back?"

Isla seemed to think on that for a moment, then looked up. "Do you know when I'm going back to school, Nathan?"

Nathan nodded. "After the break. Easter's on Sunday, and then the campus is open again."

Isla pinched her cheek lightly as she nodded in the exact same way he just had. "Good. I don't like it when we have to leave."

"I know you don't," Nathan said. "I'm sorry for that. I know it's disruptive. But you seem to be doing well."

"They have a lot of horses there." Which was as close to Isla's agreement as he would get. "My favorite's name is Aurora. She's a gray mare and very gentle. I get to ride her on Tuesdays, so long as I finish my math homework on time. I don't like algebra."

Nathan nodded. The school for autistic children Isla had attended since age twelve included an equine therapy center. It was one of the reasons for the girl's obsession with horses and had been a major motivator in some of her social skills development. Even just a few years ago, holding a full conversation with Isla in this way would have been unthinkable.

He was also glad they had something they could share.

"Are you interested in riding this weekend?" he asked. "I'm sure Spencer would take you out."

That seemed to get Isla's attention. Her gray eyes, so like her mother's, flashed at him before quickly moving away as she reached up to pinch her cheek again. "Why aren't you riding?"

Nathan sighed. "I have to leave tonight. I'm going to Paris."

"To get your girlfriend?"

Nathan peered at Mary, who shrugged, then back at Isla. "How did you know I have a girlfriend?"

"People talk a lot here when I'm around. They act like I don't listen, but I do. Especially when it's about you. They don't like your girlfriend, though. Why don't they like your girlfriend?"

Isla was tapping her fingers on her book now. A clear sign that she was agitated.

"I don't know," Nathan said honestly. "They don't know her very well."

"Do you think I would like her?"

Nathan nodded. "I think you would. She's very nice, talkative, and open with others."

"Why do you like her?"

That was easy. Nathan had spent more than one evening cataloging exactly that on too many pages in his little black notebook. The list was very long, but most of the items could be condensed into a few key traits.

"She's honest," he said. "She is who she is, and she doesn't try to be anything different. And she appreciates the same in me and anyone else."

"Is that all?" Isla didn't seem satisfied. "That doesn't seem like very much to like. Does she have any other interests? Does she like horses too? What kind? Has she ever ridden a thoroughbred?"

"I don't know. But there's a lot more," Nathan said. "Too many things to list right now."

Things like the way her green eyes sparkled when she made him smile. Or how she tried extremely hard at everything she did, even if she didn't succeed. Or her abject loyalty to the people she cared about, even when they didn't always return the favor.

Too many things to explain to himself, much less a seventeen-year-old.

"Do you love her?" Isla wanted to know.

Nathan blinked. It wasn't often he was taken off guard by Isla's brutal bluntness, but it did happen. Like it had right now.

Particularly when she was asking something like this. Since when had Isla cared about the concept of love? Or even thought about it?

She really was making progress.

"What do you think love is?" Isla pressed on. "I read about it in the Life Lessons from the Heart of Horses, which was really less about horses than I thought it would be, but the concept is always confusing. Is it a thing or a verb? I know it can be used as both. But how do you know what it is? How do you know which one you are feeling? Or which one someone else is feeling?"

Nathan thought about that for a moment. "I don't know. It's difficult to identify."

Isla nodded. "I mean, I love horses. I love learning about them, I love riding them, I love drawing them, and I love everything about them. I'm going to go to college first to get a degree in zoology, and then I'm going to become a big animal vet just so I can continue taking care of them until I'm old. But I don't think that's the same thing as loving a person, is it?" She looked at Mary. "That was four, and then I stopped. But I don't think the first one counted."

Nathan found himself smiling as she spoke. He'd always enjoyed this about Isla—her unabashed dedication to whatever she found interesting. She had the typical fixations of people on the autism spectrum, but there was joy in that kind of attention that a lot of people could learn from.

"I don't think so," he said. "But maybe there are some things in common. Your interest and passion, for instance, might be a feeling you have for a person too."

"What else?" Isla said. "In case I ever feel that way."

"It's hard to define," Nathan said. "I'm learning about it myself. But I think it has to go beyond that. Love is about how you communicate with someone else. More than anything, I think love is honest. It's when you can be completely yourself with another person, and they can be completely themselves with you. And when you care for exactly what each other is, and maybe even care about them as much as you care for yourself…maybe that's love."

Isla looked to Mary. "That was seven sentences. He should have stopped talking."

Mary shrugged. "No one's perfect. I think Nathan may feel as strongly about this topic as you do about horses."

Isla turned back to him. "Is that true? Are you obsessed with love like I am with horses?"

Nathan looked around the room as if searching for an answer. It was then he realized that love wasn't necessarily the same emotion every time, which was probably why it was so unquantifiable. It didn't fit into a rubric, wasn't a clearly described syndrome in the DSM-5, nor could it be diagnosed with a list of symptoms.

But he knew what it was because of the people who inspired it in him.

"No," he answered finally. "But maybe I am a little obsessed with the people I feel love for."

People like the girl in this room, whose blunt manner still charmed him as much when she was seventeen as when she was four.

And people like the woman waiting for him in Paris. The one who still had no idea how he felt.