Chapter 4

four

R owan

Briar’s loose, red French braid cascades down past her shoulders, the end of it done in an orange flower, like a signpost directing my gaze to her plump bottom that swings as she marches to the craft tent.

I follow her, completely setting aside my duty to the farm-animal-portrait booth.

What choice do I have but to follow her everywhere?

She approached her friend with a strangely harried, maternal energy.

“I really hope I can fit all of that in my car.”

Her friend seems to not notice Briar’s stress level.

“I’m gonna be taking a knitting class!” her friend replies.

“That’s great,” Briar says, “I can arrange that. Which day would you like to do that? Maybe after your spa treatment next week?”

Her friend shakes her head.

One of the women, Billie Jean, who owns the yarn store in town, nods in agreement. “Class is about to begin in five minutes.”

Briar looks at her phone. “How long is the class? It’s already 6 p.m., and we have to make it home for dinner at seven.”

Her friend’s smile is unwavering, and so is her will. “Psssh. Frye will get over it. Besides, he’s probably already on his way to the airport, and who is going to snitch on me?”

I watch this exchange in fascination. Briar is younger, yet she seems to be in charge of the older one. It almost feels like a babysitting situation, but that can’t be right.

“If you’re hungry, there’s plenty of chili, not to mention food trucks. And later at the bonfire, we’ll be roasting hotdogs and bratwurst.”

Briar’s friend’s face lights up. “I’ve never had chili! Or hotdogs! Let’s stay for both of those things; it sounds amazing!”

I thrill at the suggestion. “That sounds like a fun night to me.”

Briar turns to me with a severe look in her eye, but I can’t help but notice the tiny smile.

“The both of you are going to get me fired.”

“No one is going to fire you, Briar. Not without me pitching a fit, and no one wants that,” the one called Esme says.

Billie Jean shoos us out of the tent. “Come back for your friend in an hour. I have a feeling she’s gonna be knitting up a storm by the end of the festival.”

I look at Briar’s friend pointedly and assure her that I’ll have Briar back in an hour to meet her. “Take your time. I’m happy to keep her company until you’re finished.”

I dare to put a hand on Briar’s back, between her shoulder blades, and lead her away from the crafting tent. “But I’m not supposed to take my eyes off of her,” she protests.

Leading her toward the donut booth, my stomach is rolling with hunger and excitement. “She’s in good hands. People here will look out for her. Meanwhile, you look like you could use a break.”

Briar’s shoulders finally come down from her ears when she inhales the scent of cider donuts. I order two helpings and some coffee, then lead the way toward the gazebo, where we can sit, talk, and eat.

“You don’t have to do this.”

I sip my coffee and smile at her. “I don’t have to do what?”

“Keep me company.”

With a wink, I reply, “Every babysitter needs a respite.”

She leans away from me, studying my face. “What makes you think I’m a babysitter?”

I shrug and shove a donut in my mouth. After I chew it up and swallow it down, I say, “It seems to me like you’re looking after somebody who just got out of prison and doesn’t know what to do first.”

Briar snorts adorably and takes a bite of her donut. “Oh my god, this is incredible.”

I nod and shove another one into my face.

“So what’s the story? Why are you following her around like a nanny?”

She looks at me sideways. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Girl, I’m so good at keeping secrets that I can almost guarantee that I will instantly forget everything you wanna tell me.”

“I’m a senior history major at IU,” she says finally. “I’m spending the next few months working at the Bryant estate.”

She stares at me, and I look back at her blankly. I feel like she thinks I’m supposed to know what that all means.

I stall. “The Bryant estate?”

She nods. “You know. Bryant Castle? George Bryant? Railroad baron? Media tycoon?”

It rings a bell, I guess, but it doesn’t mean much to me.

“I’m not, what you would say, informed about rich people stuff. Or history. Or castles.”

This all sounds like a weird fairytale that she is making up.

If it is? So be it. It’s not a lie that’s gonna hurt anybody.

Briar goes on to explain without any of the condescension that I would typically get from someone who knows things I don’t know. The Bryant family bought up hundreds of acres in the woods right in the small southeast corner of Ohio that brushes up against Kentucky and West Virginia. They fell in love with the area and decided to build a protected sanctuary. George and his wife, Elinor, had three children. Esme, his great-great-granddaughter, is the last of the clan. She is 28, and she spent some time modeling in Europe. But then she returned home abruptly and went straight to her room. She didn’t come out for weeks and never told anybody what happened to her in Europe that caused her to come home so suddenly. People say she hasn’t been the same since.

“So she lives up at the house, all by herself?”

Briar smiles at me knowingly. “Not anymore. At least not for the next season or two. She has an intern.”

She waits for me to pull the pieces together.

“Wait a minute.”

She smiles when she sees that I’ve got it. “You’re the intern.” I point at the tent across the square. “That’s her? The heiress?”

She nods.

“She doesn’t seem loopy to me.”

Briar shrugs. “I think all she really needs is a friend. And to get out more.”

“Then it looks to me like you’re doing a good job already.”

She sighs and stares into her coffee. Her bottom lip juts out, putting the kind of thought into my head that seems inappropriate at the moment. “The house manager, whom I report to, says I’m not supposed to take my eyes off her or let her leave. But she’s very persuasive, and I feel sorry for her.”

“You said she’s 28? Yeah, she can do whatever she wants. Screw that house manager.”

She laughs. “Yeah, screw him.”

“Screw anybody who wants to keep someone in a cage.”

Briar lifts her cup of coffee and taps mine. “You said a mouthful, friend.”

She drinks her coffee and looks across the square, something haunted in her eyes.

Her reddish eyebrows are drawn together as she’s remembering something. I know that look. I’ve seen it a dozen times on a dozen calls in my short career as a firefighter. I’ve seen it in a mirror.

“So what did they do to you?” I ask.

I may not be college-educated, but I know people. If I’m way off base, Briar will ask me what the hell I’m talking about.

Instead, her eyes cut to me and then look down.

“How did you know?”

“My dad caught me sneaking out of the house when I was 12. So, he made me move all my shit into the shed out back, saying that if I hated living under his roof, then I could live outside.”

I examine her reaction closely. She doesn’t look shocked. Only sad.

After a long sigh, Briar says, “My mom was worried that I would run and tell the neighbors whenever she was on a bender. So, when her boyfriend would come over on Friday nights with her little treats, as she called them, I got to spend weekends in her walk-in closet, eating rice krispie treats and watching movies on my iPad.”

I stare a little too hard. She quickly adds, “It had a light. Her boyfriend would let me out to use the bathroom, and then he’d forget to lock the door when I’d go back in the closet. After a while, I preferred the closet to being around her.”

Without thinking, my fingers curl tightly around my coffee cup. The half-drunk hot beverage crumples in my hand, hot coffee splashing on my fingers. “Shit!” Briar shrieks, her eyes wide when she looks at my hand.

I feel the pain of having scared her before I feel the burn of the hot coffee.

I follow her gaze to my hand. It’s already red from the burn.

“Damn,” I hiss.

“Where’s the first aid tent?” Briar asks.

“Uh, it’s fine.”

“You are entirely too calm. I see it. Let’s go.”