6. Swirling

Chapter 6

Swirling

H arper sat in silence at her elaborate dining room table. She twirled the glass stem between her thumb and forefinger, watching the red wine swirl. It wasn’t her first bottle of the evening, and she knew it certainly wouldn’t be her last. Harper drew the glass to her lips, savoring the musty red merlot.

Her attention was piqued as she heard Shepard’s designer loafers clacking down the marble staircase. She observed him dashing past the dining room to the front door, adjusting his tie as he went. Pausing as he caught a glimpse of himself in the foyer’s sizeable full-length mirror, he took the time to straighten his perfectly tailored steel gray suit and sweep his fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

Harper patiently picked at her nails as though she were sharpening her talons, allowing him ample time to primp.

It didn’t take long for her self-control to wear thin.

Clearing her throat loudly, she finally drew attention to her presence .

Shep sidestepped at the sound, peering into the dimly lit dining room.

“Yes?” he spat. His words were loaded with harsh resentment, fueled by their seemingly endless brawls.

“And where do you think you’re going tonight?” Harper challenged, her eyebrows lowering as she glared over the top of her wine glass.

His lip curled in disgust as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Out.”

Harper gave a resentful smirk, irritated to be again denied a proper answer. “As you know, Shepard, churches don’t look kindly on adultery,” she snapped, unwilling to show even the slightest restraint before she let the words fire off her tongue. “And they certainly don’t want to see their pastor in public with a whore on his arm.”

“Well, darling,” he countered, his words dripping scornfully. “They certainly didn’t mind you , now did they?”

Harper’s eyes saw red, and her knuckles went white as she gripped her wineglass. She slung her arm back and hurled the fine crystal at Shep, who calmly observed it smash against the wall beside him. The glass exploded, sending wine and shards raining on the white marble.

“Your aim's a bit off, dear,” Shep goaded. Sneering as he rocked back on his heels, he put his hand in his pocket and headed toward the lavish front doors. “Why don’t you have another glass of wine?”

He slammed the door behind him so hard that it caused the walls to tremble and the crystal chandelier to sway. Harper brought her hand down on the dining room table with a loud bang and crossed her arms defiantly to her chest. She was reminded of Delia’s words from earlier that day. They only had to keep the charade going long enough for the tide of public opinion to turn in their favor. When he wanted to, Shep had a knack for making people feel important and worthy. All he needed was another opportunity to win over his audience.

Plotting caused her rage to simmer ever so slightly.

She had once relied on her wits and strength alone to pull herself up from her bootstraps. If she had to, she would do it again.

Admittedly, her idiot husband was right about one thing — she could certainly use another glass of wine.

Longing for the days when the household staff wouldn’t have dared to allow her glass to run dry, Harper let out a long sigh of exasperation. “I guess I have to do everything myself,” she muttered to the empty room as she pushed her chair back and stood to her feet.

Taking a sloppy sidestep, she planted her hands on the table. When she had steadied herself, she tottered into the sizeable contemporary kitchen and flipped on the lights. Blinking her eyes rapidly, they finally focused on the bright, sharp corners of the white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances .

The kitchen was one room in the house that felt foreign to her, left entirely to their hired chef, who happened to be on the list of staff who had abandoned her just days before.

“No loyalty these days,” she slurred. She had sworn to pay them everything she owed for their months of service, it would just take a few more weeks. Each of her staff seemed to care more about their own needs rather than seeing the reality of her vision.

Selfish.

Now she was drinking on an empty stomach, and it was solely because of their small-mindedness. Her maid had at least been thoughtful enough to set aside a few essentials she could quickly locate. Unfortunately, her only wine glass was in a shattered pile on the dining room floor.

She swore under her breath as she flipped open the cabinet doors, feeling her impatience increasing. Finding anything in the expansive kitchen had always been a struggle, even when she was stone sober.

There were plates, platters, and teacups stored in preparation to host a multitude of guests at the formerly bustling estate. The elaborate house that had once been the envy of her social circle now felt like a dark, empty prison. Harper looked around at the oppressively quiet kitchen and couldn’t help but feel sorry for herself.

Even prisoners get visitors.

Focusing her blurry mind back on the problem at hand, she flung open an upper cabinet and found it full of coffee mugs. She hesitated, considering if it would be unbefitting to slosh wine into one of them and call it a day.

“Things aren’t that bad,” she mumbled.

Her fastidious snobbery soon paid off.

In the very next cabinet, she found the prize she was looking for. The delicate crystal stemware shimmered as she reached high on her bare toes to retrieve one. Running her fingers over the smooth glass, she relished the feel of the exquisite craftsmanship before setting it on the counter with a gentle clink.

There was one thing in the spacious kitchen she could locate without a hitch —the liquor cabinet.

She went to the beautifully custom-crafted red oak case. They had spared no expense on stocking it to the brim with a variety of fine wines and liquors. Pulling the door open, she ran her tongue over her lips as she studied her options. The collection of bottles was meant to be shared and flaunted to their high-profile guests who would frequent the estate. It was almost a shame to waste it on herself.

Almost.

Shame was something Harper refused to dwell on as she nabbed what she knew was the most expensive bottle of merlot. Knowing Shep would be absolutely furious when he found out made it all the more delectable. He had his own stockpile of bourbons hidden away in his office. The rare collection was his pride and joy. She felt a burning, resentful smile edge on her lips as she considered the satisfaction of methodically smashing every last one of them.

Setting the bottle on the counter, she realized through her foggy, wine-soaked thoughts that she still had the burden of locating a corkscrew.

Harper scanned the seemingly endless row of drawers.

“C’mon!” she exclaimed, her frustration echoing across the marble.

Reaching for the first drawer, she yanked it open and found it full of their finest silverware.

“This will do,” she announced, selecting a butter knife. It felt hefty in her hand as she jammed it into the tan cork.

Using all of her strength, she twisted and manipulated the knife into place. She recalled the meticulous, gloved auctioneer who had presented them with the wine. If he could only see her now, treating the bottle as though it were two buck chuck.

Harper could feel her temper rising.

She wrenched the knife, causing the soft cork to crumble under the pressure. Stepping again on her toes, she pressed down on the neck of the bottle, exerting all of her force.

There came a loud pop.

Catching herself on the counter, she felt the sharp sting of broken glass slice into her fingers. The red merlot streamed off the counter and onto the floor as she clutched her wounded hands to her chest. Gathering the courage to examine her injuries, she eyed the deep gouges .

There was blood, and she felt the pulsing throb of pain through her fingertips.

The room began to spin, and a dark tunnel formed in her vision. Stepping back to gather herself, she felt her bare feet slip on the slick, wet tile.

When her eyes fluttered open, she saw a flash of light in her vision and felt a blast of searing pain across her temples. Pushing through her discomfort, she attempted to orient herself to her surroundings.

The floor beneath her was cold, and the bright white marble reflected the glaring lights above her.

I’m on the kitchen floor.

She clutched her forehead as her head began to pound. Now noticing the pool of pungent crimson merlot, she felt a rush of panic.

Is that my blood?

Propping herself on her elbows, she felt the razor-sharp shards of glass pierce her palms and the burn of the wine in her deep cuts.

“It’s wine,” she quickly reassured herself, the memory of the accident flooding back. Running her hands through her hair, she felt the back of her head.

She winced .

Her entire body felt tender and sore. Sweeping her hands around her, she carefully swished the wine and glass in gentle waves in an attempt to locate her phone. Finally catching sight of the device, she groaned in dismay. Amid the chaotic accident, her phone had slipped from her pocket and been hurled across the kitchen floor.

It would take more than that to defeat Harper Davenport.

Every muscle in her body tensed as she slid across the smooth marble. The pain that clawed through her body was telling her that she was more injured than she wanted to admit. Pressing on, she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t be remembered as the wealthy woman who was found perished in a pool of wine —

Although she knew many would have declared it a fitting end to her legacy.

Not today.

She wouldn’t grant them the satisfaction.

Stretching as far as her injuries would allow, she felt the phone flip over her fingertip. She lunged again, feeling every muscle tense as she caught a corner of the case. Edging into a sitting position, she leaned against the cabinets, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her blurry vision.

She scrolled through her contacts, running her fingers across her brow. She was unsure of who exactly she could call for help.

Paisley ?

Even though they weren’t on the best terms, Harper couldn’t imagine that her own daughter wouldn’t pick up in an emergency.

It rang twice before going to voicemail.

Delia?

The pang of embarrassment gave her a moment of pause before she tapped send.

Before the call even had the chance to connect, Harper’s phone buzzed in her hand with a notification.

Delia — typing

About to board a plane, dear.

Harper sighed.

Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her pounding head on her folded arms. Desperation drove her as she searched through her contacts again, noticing her vision becoming even more distorted.

Shep, you idiot. Please pick up.

A moment later, her phone chimed with a profanity-laden voice memo listing the many horrible things that he hoped would happen to her.

If only he knew that his wish might just come true.

She scrolled haphazardly up and down through her contacts. She watched as Oakleigh’s name slid across her screen and back again. Biting her lip, she allowed her finger to hover over her eldest daughter’s name. Even her dire circumstances couldn’t quell the surge of pride that held her hostage.

“I should have deleted her number ages ago,” she declared. She flicked her thumb, sending the names scrolling downward until she reached the top.

Her double vision barely made out the name —

Assistant, Clara.

She had fired Clara in a blind rage. Although she would never voice it out loud, there had been more than one instance when she had second guessed her hot-headed decision to let her go. Clara was a spitfire, and Harper had found she respected the young woman’s grit in calling her out when she was wrong. The stack of nondisclosures Clara had to sign when they parted ways had been extensive. Harper had admittedly been petty, legally barring her from working for anyone in their tight-knit circle who loved to swoop up discarded help.

No matter how guilty she felt, self-preservation always came first.

She dialed Clara.

Much to her relief, she picked up. There was a flurry of rustling, and Harper heard the deep tenor of a man’s voice in the background.

“Why are you answering that?” he asked. “You don’t work for her anymore.”

Clara’s voice was muffled as though she were covering the phone with her palm. “I just feel sorry for her, okay?”

If it hadn’t ached so severely, Harper would have rolled her eyes at how incredibly pathetic she felt. Collecting herself as best as she could, she donned her usual authoritative tone. “Hello? Clara?”

“Harper, yes,” Clara answered. “I’m here.”

“I’ve had a little bit—” she struggled to find the words that would salvage the crumbling remains of her dignity. “Well, I’ve had a bit of an accident.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Hello?” Harper stammered, feeling her anxiety swell.

“Yes,” Clara stated. “I’m here.”

Harper glanced at the ceiling, pulling her knees together with a wince as she steadied herself. “Clara, I need your help.”

“Harper,” Clara replied, sounding hesitant. “You fired me, remember?”

“I—” Harper sighed, feeling her chest tighten. “I just don’t have anyone else.”

There was another long pause before Clara finally broke the tense silence.

“I’ll be right over.”

Harper waited on the kitchen floor for what felt like an eternity. After a while, she decided she had waited long enough.

I can do this .

She stretched her hand upward, taking a firm grasp on the glossy countertop. Using all her strength to hoist herself, she stopped short. The seizing pain sent her back to the hard marble floor with a thud.

“Maybe not,” she groaned. Before she could accept defeat, her phone chimed. Tapping the screen, she watched the security camera footage. The ornate white and gold gate swung wide and Clara’s sedan parked in front of the estate. The camera captured Clara approaching the front door.

Even though she wanted to scream, Harper kept her tone even while she spoke into her phone. “The door is unlocked, Clara. I’m in the kitchen.”

A moment later, Clara came through the door. Covering her mouth with her palm, her eyes widened at the chaotic scene before her.

“Harper,” she gasped.

“Don’t say another word,” Harper snapped. “Just help me up already.”

Clara went to the edge of the spilled wine and stooped to eye level. “You know, Harper,” she responded calmly. “I didn’t have to come at all.”

Harper knew she was at the mercy of the young woman with the audacity to speak her mind. She simply nodded, letting her silence be as much of an apology as she was capable of offering.

Clara leaned forward and grabbed her outstretched hands. The firm grasp on her gashed fingers caused Harper to grimace. She hated being touched at all, even in the best of circumstances.

Clara looked down at her hands at the red smears left by Harper’s wounds. “Is this blood?”

Harper sighed, giving her another nod. She felt hit by a sudden wave of dizziness and steadied herself on the kitchen island.

“All right,” Clara ordered, pointing toward the door, “Let’s go, I’m driving.”

“To where?” Harper scoffed. “The only place I’m going is to bed.” Even as she said it, her legs buckled. Grasping desperately to the tall kitchen island chair, it toppled over and clattered to the ground.

“You’re going to the emergency room,” Clara announced, taking Harper by the arm before she had the opportunity to injure herself again.

Harper was too disoriented to even request changing out of her wine-stained clothes. She allowed Clara to help her to the driveway, eyeing what she considered Clara’s crummy little car.

“Let’s take the Mercedes,” she suggested, then immediately second-guessed. “Wait, no. I don’t want to ruin the seats — all this blood and wine.”

Clara’s mouth gaped. “Well, I don’t want to get blood on my seats either.” With a shake of her head, she mumbled what sounded like a memorized affirmation, “Be the bigger person, Clara. ”

She helped Harper into the passenger side of her sedan. Climbing in the driver’s seat, she steered down the long driveway, taking Pacific Coast Highway to the nearest beachside hospital.

“What if—” Harper’s fretful words trailed off.

Clara arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“You know.” Harper confided, “What if someone recognizes me?’

“Something tells me you’re not going to have that problem,” Clara replied, keeping her eyes straight forward on the road.

After another long, uncomfortable silence, Harper ventured again for casual small talk. Familiarity from their formerly close working relationship began to get the best of her, which was something she rarely allowed. “Do you ever see anyone from Pacific Crest?” Harper asked.

Clara gave a calloused chortle. “I haven’t gone to church since — everything,” she admitted.

“And why’s that?” Harper inquired, raising a sharp eyebrow.

“I suppose,” Clara hesitated as though she were gauging the safety of the conversation. “I always wanted to be useful,” she breathed out, “—and I guess, I just thought the dynamic would be different.” Her response was clearly a well-constructed, carefully rehearsed explanation that she had woven around the oppressive Davenport Ministries’ legal contracts .

Looking away out the passenger window, Harper propped her chin on her fist. “Pity, young people these days. Leaving the church in droves,” she remarked. “No loyalty.”

Between the darkness in the car and her groggy mind, she thought she caught Clara rolling her eyes ever so slightly.

The trip to the little beachside hospital stretched through the night and into the early morning hours. When she was finally examined by a doctor, he superglued her wounds closed and told her what she already knew — she had a concussion.

The sun was rising when they eventually left the hospital and returned to Clara’s car. Harper was loaded with pain medication and stocked with a bottle of pills for the road.

“Well, that doctor must have been at the top of his class in medical school,” she gibed, “What an imbecile.”

Clara quietly steered the car back to the Davenport Estate.

Sensing the weighty tension between them, Harper doubled down, now looking for a fight. “And I suppose you have something to say about it?”

“They were trying to help you, Harper,” Clara clapped back.

When they arrived at the house, Clara pulled her sedan around to the grandiose front doors.

“Go rest,” Clara ordered while tapping her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

“What do you mean, go rest?” Harper sputtered. “The doctor said that I need someone to stay with me. ”

Clara pulled her fingers across her brow. It was as though she was now the one nursing a pounding headache.

“I’m sure there’s someone else.”

“I’m hurt, Clara,” Harper implored, throwing her hands in the air.

Clara firmly shook her head. “Call Shep or Mrs. Hollister,” she rattled off. “I’m sure Paisley —”

Harper felt a pang of annoyance hearing the names of those who had betrayed her trust in her most desperate time of need.

“I told you, I don’t have anyone,” she protested. Harper certainly would never lower herself to begging her former hired help, yet she felt desperation creeping back in.

“Harper, it’s not going to be me,” Clara stated flatly. “I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Oakleigh—”

Harper recoiled. “You’ve got to be joking.” That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “Thanks for nothing,” she spat. Pushing open the passenger door, she slammed it behind her.

“Harper,” Clara’s voice called after her. “Please, listen to the doctor,” she urged. “Do not drink while taking that prescription.”

“What do you care?” Harper flung the words over her shoulder. Raising her chin, she marched across the driveway. She was still feeling shaky on her feet, but she wouldn’t give Clara the satisfaction of knowing it. Stepping through the front door, she heard Clara’s car speed away down the driveway.

“Good riddance,” she muttered .

She made her way through the eerily silent house to the staircase, clutching the gold railing as if her life depended on it. Taking one painful step at a time, she noticed her filthy bare feet were leaving dark footprints on the clean white marble.

I’ll have the maid clean it up in the morning.

She remembered again that it was already morning, and there was no longer a maid in her employment.

Arriving at her bedroom, she was grateful to finally strip off the wine-stained clothes. Holding them up in the light, she realized they were entirely ruined now.

Pity.

She currently lacked the funds to replace any designer clothing in her extravagant wardrobe.

Even though the pain medication was working to loosen up her aching back, she still felt uncomfortably stiff. She went to the bathroom, intentionally setting her phone within reach in case she needed it. Flipping the knob to scathingly hot, she stepped into the shower and attempted to soothe her tender injuries.

Hearing her phone chime loudly, she nabbed it with hopes it might be Delia — or even Paisley. There had to be someone who would patiently allow her to vent about her horrendous night.

It was Clara.

Hoping her former assistant had a change of heart, she tapped on the message .

Clara — typing…

Here’s someone I know would pick up your call.

Harper’s wet fingers dripped onto the screen where the number appeared. To her horror, it began to dial out.

“No, no, no!” Harper’s finger smashed the end call button, but it continued to rebel.

“Hello?”

“Uh — um,” Harper stammered, panic surging through her. She nabbed a towel and swiped the screen dry. “Uh — wrong number!”

“Harp? Is that you?”

She recognized the voice immediately.

There was only one person in the world who had ever called her Harp.