Chapter 22

I wake up on Monday morning to the bleeping of my alarm clock with a hangover and a dry mouth that tastes like rotten marshmallows.

Crap.

The last thing I remember was trying to seduce Declan—possibly multiple times—despite being so drunk I couldn't walk straight.

"Smooth move, Claire," I mutter. He hadn't seemed too put off, but then again, it's hard to judge other people's perceptions when your own are impaired. My mind travels further backward, and I remember what he said, or most of it. I think he told me he wants to be my fuck buddy, exclusively, which is mostly good news.

Only "mostly," because I can already tell I'm going to be stupid over him. He's funny and complicated and interesting, and easily the most attractive man who's ever wanted to kiss me. I like him. I really like him. And I'm desperate to know whatever it is he thinks he needs to hide from me. Especially if he's got some kind of secret family, like in one of those books Lainey always tries to push on me.

My second alarm goes off, reminding me that I have to get to Mrs. Rosings to help her with yet another thankless task connected to the wedding of a couple I've never met. A second gush of memories from last night hits me.

Agnes.

Chanel No. 5.

That bitch.I get up, groaning from the ache in my head, and march to my dresser. I pick up the bottle and throw it at the trashcan, only remembering when the bottle is airborne that we'd decided to gift all of the perfume, presuming I get the rest back at some point, to a nursing home. And also that I'm shitty at throwing things, another genetic gift I must have gotten from Richard Ricci, since my mother was the pitcher for her high school intramural softball team.

The glass bottle hits the floor with a tell-tale crack that makes my eyes fly open wide, especially when the stench hits me. Shit. Shit.

I fight a wave of nausea as I grab a couple of towels from the closet and mop it up, then carry them to the bathroom to wash them in the washer-dryer combo set up in there.

Sighing, I get ready for the day, and then plod downstairs toward the alluring scent of coffee. Damien's sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, and there's a plate of buttered toast in the middle.

"It's for all of us," he says, grinning at me. Probably because I look and smell like a senior citizen.

"Bless you."

His nose twitches, but he doesn't say anything about how generously I've shared my perfume.

"Your phone was on the table when I came down," he said, nodding to it. "I'm guessing Declan left it there so you wouldn't resort to any late-night texting." His eyes are dancing, and he doesn't look hungover at all, the jerk.

"She would have deserved it."

"No doubt."

I grab some coffee and toast and sit down, and we carry on with our breakfasts in blissful silence for a few minutes until there's a racket in the other room, and then Nicole emerges with a suitcase.

"Did you bathe in that stuff just to fuck with me, Claire?" she asks, laughing. She doesn't look hungover, but at least she has the decency to look tired. "Thank God I'm leaving again, because I think I'd burn the whole house down just to get rid of the smell."

"The bottle bro—" I start, then catch myself. "What? You're going somewhere?"

"I'll be back in a couple of days," she says.

"You just got back yesterday," I say, dropping the toast before I can get in a third bite.

"Hence why I'm leaving ‘again.'"

My mouth gapes open for a second, and then I find plenty of words. "I thought we were both supposed to live in this house for a month to get the inheritance. You've barely been around since I got here."

"I'm the executor of the estate," she says with a laugh. "I'm the one who gets to decide whether the terms have been fulfilled."

"That's bullshit!"

"Besides, Damien's going to stay here to keep an eye on you. Legally speaking, he's my other half."

"Guilty as charged," Damien says, his eyes warm as he watches her. He's always looking at her like that—like the world revolves around Nicole instead of the sun. I wonder if he knows she's crazy and just doesn't care. I remember not caring either, last night. Now, in the light of day, befriending my sister seems like less of a good idea.

"But I thought we were supposed to be looking into what happened to Dick, and so far we've done nothing."

"Untrue," she says, lifting a finger. "What do you think I've been doing all week? I had some other stuff to take care of, sure, but I was also tracking down a couple of leads. Besides, I think we've agreed it probably wasn't Declan—although you should plan on very thoroughly investigating him." She winks theatrically. "Speaking of…is he upstairs? I know he brought you in last night."

"No!" I protest. "I was drunk, and he has this thing about being a gentleman." Then I blush, because I said too much, and in front of Damien.

Damien sets down his coffee cup, his gaze on my sister. "And if he were upstairs, I'd have to rough him up for taking advantage of your sister."

Nicole preens, and I remember what she said about their interesting form of foreplay. "Declan's a big guy," she says, "but so are you. I'll bet you could take him. Who would you put your money on, Claire? Your man or mine?"

"No one's punching anyone," I say, annoyed. "And you don't have to defend my virtue, Damien. I'm not some Victorian virgin."

Nicole breathes out a laugh. "You might as well be, if you've only boned men like Doug."

"There've been plenty of other—" I glance at Damien.

"Don't cut yourself off on my account," he says with an amused grin.

"I'm not having this conversation with either of you right now," I say, turning back to Nicole. "Where are you going anyway?"

"I will tell you. But only when I get back. This is a secret mission. If I told you what I was doing, the whole thing would be compromised."

"I think you just get off on seeming mysterious."

"Absolutely. Speaking of… You have an assignment while I'm gone. You need to get into Mrs. Rosings's box." Her nose wrinkles again, and she laughs. "That sounded dirtier than I intended it to. I love it when that happens."

Damien finishes his coffee and gets to his feet, grabbing Nicole's bag. "Let's go. The Chanel's going to do me in."

"Amen," Nicole says, lifting onto her toes to kiss him.

"Bye, Claire," Damien says with a wave.

"But—" I manage, but they're already out the door.

Alone, sandblasted by Nicole's sudden departure, I check out my phone as I finish the toast. My pulse accelerates when I see I have three missed calls from Lainey.

I immediately drop the toast and call her back, and she answers on the second ring. "Are you okay?" I ask. "Did someone die? Is my dad—"

"He's okay," she says in a rush. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I just…I…" I hear a sob on the other end of the line. "That fucker's engaged again. Already."

"What?" I ask, shocked. Because she has to be talking about Todd, and their engagement only ended two months ago.

"It's the woman he was fucking around with. They grew up together. Summered in the Hamptons," she adds with a huff. "I think he sees her as his equal, and I was always this…mistake. A blip in his life. He thought I was pretty and fun, and before he realized I was a loser, we were engaged. That's what his mother thought."

"No, she didn't think that, Lainey. She just has one of those faces that always looks constipated. She's probably had a lot of work—"

"She told me that herself after she had two glasses of sherry. I didn't tell you because…I was embarrassed. But they're right. I am a loser. I'm barely hanging on to a job I hate, and I don't make nearly enough money to afford to stay in New York without a rich boyfriend. I'm almost thirty, and I have nothing to show for it. I'm a poser, just like my parents."

"What about the Tarot idea?"

"I keep getting the Death card. I'm starting to think it's magnetized. Either that, or I have shitty luck, and it's bleeding into everything."

"Or maybe you keep getting it because you're supposed to come down here too. I've been trying really hard not to be needy and beg you to come, but I really, really want you here. Please don't tell me no. There's plenty of room at the house, so your rent would be free, and you could get a job somewhere while you figure out what comes next. We can do it together. And if the money comes through, we'll have enough funds to actually do something. Please, for the love of God, say yes."

She laughs through her tears, and I can see her in my sad little apartment, surrounded by those boxes that aren't good for a person's soul to see every day. "Lainey, I think this is supposed to happen. It's going to be so good for both of us, I promise."

"Yes," she says loudly. "Fuck. Yes. I'm coming to Marshall, North Carolina." She sighs, then says, "I'm going to take care of clearing out your apartment, though. So it'll be a week or two."

Excitement floods me, drowning out the hangover for at least half a second. "I can't even tell you how happy I am right now." I glance at the clock above the stove. "But I'm going to be late if I don't leave soon, and Mrs. Rosings will make five passive-aggressive ‘back in my day' remarks, and I'm much too hungover right now to handle it."

"Hungover?" she asks with renewed interest. "Were you drinking with Declan?"

Memory wraps around me, warm and cocooning. Declan, telling me I'm beautiful. Declan, kissing me. Declan, carrying me into the house…

I clear my throat. "Yes, but don't get too excited. Nothing really happened."

Other than me wrapping my hand around his very hard cock, no in-flight magazine getting in the way this time. But I don't have five minutes to tell her about it, or even two, and it feels a little…private.

It's an unexpected thought, because usually I tell Lainey everything. I even told her about the time Doug and I had sex on the copier machine, and it made a photocopy of my ass.

"I'll call you later. Screw Todd. He's boring, and he likes boring things. You couldn't be boring if you tried."

"I did," she said with a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "I went to the opera. I bought three collared shirts. Four, but I returned one of them because it made me look like my mother. I listened to people talk about their investments. I don't think my mother's ever going to forgive me. Me marrying Todd was, like, her social-climbing dream."

"Nothing good can come from trying to please someone who doesn't want to be pleased. I wore Chanel No. 5 for seven and a half years because Agnes told me to, and apparently it's an old lady's perfume. Did you know that?"

There's a pause over the line, and then she says, "Yes, but it doesn't smell bad."

"A ringing endorsement. Okay, I love you. This is going to be great. Don't freak out."

"I'm not freaking out," she says. "But do you think I should get a dumpster and just throw all of my boxes away so I can start fresh?"

"No way. We can sell the expensive shit Todd bought you on eBay if the insurance policy doesn't come through."

"You're right," she says with a sigh. "I hate it that you're right."

"I'll hire people to pack up the rest of my stuff," I say. "You don't have to do that."

I don't have the money to make that offer, but I am working for a very rich person who will be paying me in another week, so I can figure out a way to make it happen.

"I'll do it," she insists. "I need to keep busy. It'll help me feel useful."

We've hung up with each other before I realize that I have a problem: Damien just left to bring Nicole to the airport, or wherever, and I still don't have a car I'm able to use.

"Shit, shit," I say to myself. Then I glance out the window hopefully, checking out Declan's driveway. Gone. He'd mentioned having to leave for an early job, so it's not a surprise, just a disappointment—even though it's probably for the best that I don't bathe him in Chanel No. 5.

I quickly log on to Uber. There's only one vehicle available in Marshall right now, so I select it, down the rest of my coffee, and go outside to wait.

A red truck pulls up, and to my surprise I know the person behind the wheel. "You do Uber, too?" I ask as I open the passenger door and climb in.

Rex grins at me, his nose wrinkling only slightly from the Chanel as I shut the door behind me and buckle up. I'll take that as a win. "I'm all about getting people where they need to go. You're going to Smith House, so I guess you've met our resident black widow?"

"What?" I ask, confused. "You're talking about Mrs. Rosings?"

He whistles and then clucks his tongue as he pulls out onto the road. "No one's told you yet? She's been married three times, and each of her husbands died within a few years of the wedding."

"And the people in town blame her for that?" I ask, lifting a hand to my throat. I'm half intrigued, half offended for her. Mrs. Rosings can be a bit of a pill—honestly, she seems to enjoy being that way—but there's something I like about her. She has an iron spine, and she has no compunction whatsoever about potentially pissing people off. I'd like to siphon a little of that quality for myself, although only a little.

"When you put it that way," Rex says with a self-effacing grin, "it makes us sound terrible. It's just that they all had weird accidents, and she's never been very friendly, so when she inherited the Smith House estate, people were salty about it."

"Weird how?" I ask, my pulse picking up. Would Nicole know about this? It's the kind of thing she would know, but it's strange she never mentioned it…

Then again, Nicole doesn't exactly have a personality that invites other people to idle chatter. Maybe no one ever told her because it's mostly unfounded gossip. Except, if I've learned anything from working in an office for seven years, it's that sometimes seemingly unfounded gossip has a kernel of truth at the core of it. Maybe Mrs. Rosings was behind Dick's death after all.

"Well, one of them died from food poisoning, and her third husband died in a plane crash."

"I don't see how that could possibly be her fault."

"True. But the second one, the father of her kids, died in an accident at Smith House. He was the heir, you know. Adrien Smith. He fell while he was picking apples from a tree in the yard. It made people suspicious, how that went down. Everyone in town loved him."

"Okay," I say. "I can see how all of this would lead to gossip, but don't you think it's a little unfair to blame a woman for being a three-times-over widow?"

Rex grins at me again. "You have a knack for putting a man in his place."

Do I?

I rewind our conversation. It hits me that I've been bolder here, in Marshall. Partly because, in the beginning, anyway, it felt like it didn't matter. I wasn't going to stay, so what did it matter if Declan thought I was too forward or Nicole or the other people I met thought I was disagreeable?

But now I'm staying. Can I still be Bold Claire?

"Sorry," I mutter, then retract it. "Actually, I still think it's bullshit, but I'm sorry if I made you feel bad. I doubt you're the person who started the rumors."

"I'll accept that," Rex said with a quick glance at me. "How've you been getting along with Nicole and Damien? I heard some talk in town that Nicole's your sister."

"More gossip." I shrug. "But this time they're right."

What if they're right about Mrs. Rosings? a voice in my head insists. Because if she knocked off a couple of husbands, it wouldn't have been that hard to get rid of a drunken ne'er-do-well.

He shakes his head and whistles under his breath. "Your father got around, didn't he? Well. Can't say my mother was any different. I don't get why people take the trouble to get married if they're just going to step out with someone else."

"I agree with you there," I say.

"Did you find Dick by doing one of those DNA tests? That's how I found my real dad."

"No, it was written into his will."

He snorts. "Mine wasn't any too pleased to find out about me, and the man who raised me washed his hands of me as soon as he found out I wasn't his."

"Sorry, that's horrible," I say with a grimace, thinking of my own father—the most mild man in existence, and he'd transformed into a warrior the second I'd suggested that I didn't need to be his problem because he wasn't biologically my father. I was glad to be his problem.

Rex shrugs as if he couldn't give a shit, or maybe stopped giving a shit years ago. "He was kind of an asshole, anyway," and for some godforsaken reason I start laughing.

He looks surprised for a second, but then surprised laughter trips out of him too. "You know, you're the only person who's ever laughed when I've told them that," he says, and I wipe at the corners of my eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I say through gusts of laughter. "It was the delivery…it was just…"

"No, I'm glad," he says as he passes a car. "It's better to laugh about it."

"That's the spirit," I say with a small smile. I shift, and that's when I feel it, in my cardigan pocket—the slip of paper I pulled out of the back of that photo album last night. I'd forgotten all about it.

I reach down to touch it and feel the crackle of paper inside, which makes anticipation tingle down my spine. But I don't want to open it in front of Rex. Based on what little I know of him, it's possible everyone in town would know what it says by lunchtime.

Rex and I talk about other, lighter things for the next few minutes that bring us to Smith House. I tip him, I wave to him, and then he's gone, and I'm five minutes late, and I need to open the letter. Glancing at the gate, I step to one side of it and then tug the note from my pocket.

I open it.

Claire-

If you're seeing this, I'm probably dead. Oh well. I never took great care of myself, and my body is feeling old and tired these days.

Finding out about me probably wasn't the greatest surprise, but I hope having half the house and half the insurance money will help. Your mother has kept me updated on your health and well-being all these years, and since she told me you have a good father, I decided to do the responsible thing and stay away. Trust me, Claire, it WAS the responsible thing. By now you know Nicole, and you've heard how poorly I did the dad thing. I'm going to be frank with you and admit I wasn't too great at life in general, but I DID have fun. I hope you do too.

Maybe you're wondering about the one-month stipulation in the will since you have a job in New York. Sorry about that, but it's my humble opinion that you can do better than being some woman's servant. You might decide to stick it out with her and say fuck it to the house and the money, and that's your choice. We all have a choice, and it's been my habit to make the bad one. The thing is: I never knew my brother, and I wanted you and your sister to know each other. I'm forcing that chance upon you, kid, like I wish my own deadbeat dad had done for me.

I'm sorry for being myself, but I could hardly help it. If you need help with anything connected to the house or property, ask Declan. He's a friend and a mostly good guy, which is all any of us can hope for if we're being honest.

I wish I'd known you, kid, but that's a selfish wish, and I've done enough selfish things to last anyone two lifetimes.

Love,

Dick

He's a mostly good guy…

The gate swings open, nearly hitting me in the face.

"You're late," Mrs. Rosings says blandly. "What are you reading? A love note from that gardener?"

I wish. Emotion is pricking behind my eyes, and even though I'd promised Nicole I'd never give Dick any of my tears, I'm very close to breaking that promise. This note makes him more real—a person rather than a concept. A curiosity that will never be satisfied.

I wish I'd known you too, you jerk. I wish I'd seen the side of you that Declan saw.

"It's from Dick," I admit.

She flinches. "He left a note?"

I lift my hands in a staving-off gesture. "Not that kind of a note. It's one of those if you get this, I'm probably dead notes."

Although now that I think about it, it's a little coincidental that he'd write me a note like that before dying an untimely death.

"Well, I suppose he had to be right about something eventually," Mrs. Rosings says, prompting me to gasp. I think again of Mr. Smith in the apple orchard. Of her first husband and the mysterious case of food poisoning. Could she really have had something to do with it?

"Were you surprised when you heard he was dead?" I ask slowly.

She sniffs. "No. He was self-destructive. Brash. But I'd hoped to be wrong. Now, get into the car. Don't dally. We're going to look at a venue on the other side of Asheville."

I can't help but frown. "Don't you think that's something Anthony and Nina should be here for?"

She lifts her chin and looks down at me, despite being at least four inches shorter. "No."

Can't argue with that. I drive her car—a sleek sedan—marveling again at how quick and abrupt the change is from sleepy small town to medium-sized city. Neither of us speak much. I'm wrapped up in my thoughts and hangover, and she's not the kind of person who's inclined to fill awkward silences. If anything, she likes extending them to make people uncomfortable.

I follow her directions to a goat farm with an events center attached.

When we arrive, I give her a sidelong look. Is it considered in vogue to get married at strange places so you can then tell people you got married in a strange place? Sure. It makes for good social media. But this doesn't feel like something Mrs. Rosings would go for at all. "Are we in the right place?"

She makes a sound perilously close to a snort. "You would have heard from me by now if we weren't."

We get out of the car, and an elderly blonde woman with a purple cane emerges from the house. She sees us and grins. "Welcome, welcome to paradise."

Fuck. I haven't had enough coffee for this.

We spend the next two hours touring the goat farm and exploring the event space, which—no joke—has an indoor pen for the goats and a stained glass window of a goat eating hay. The smell in the event venue almost makes me lose my toast.

"And if you do get flowers, I'm afraid they'll have to be arranged very high. The goats like to munch on them," the woman, Stella, says. "Now…I'm an artist, and I would be more than happy to paint a portrait of the happy couple after the ceremony. They'd have to stand still for about half an hour, but it would make for a very happy memory. Very happy. And my husband is connected with a local brewery, so we could get you competitive pricing."

As if Mrs. Rosings would offer only beer at her son's wedding. But to my shock, she says, "I'm interested. I'll let you know within a few days."

"Splendid," Stella says, beaming. "Splendid. You know, I don't offer this to everyone, but if you'll send me a photo of the delightful young people, I can Photoshop them into the venue with some of the goats, give them a real feel for what the ceremony will look like."

Mrs. Rosings's eyes shine with mirth. "Yes, that would be most acceptable. Thank you."

I'm barely able to keep my feet as we head back to the car and get in.

Don't say anything, Claire. None of your business, Claire.

And I wouldn't have commented on the situation if it had been Agnes. Or if the last week of my life hadn't happened. But it only takes five minutes for me to shoot a look at her and say, "Mrs. Rosings, do you want this wedding to be awful?"

She tips back her head and laughs, immediately pressing a hand to her mouth as if she's done something unspeakable. "It took you long enough to ask. I was starting to think you might be a real dullard."

"Why do you want the wedding to be awful?"

"You don't have children yet," she says. "When you do, you'll understand."

"So you hate your son's fiancée?"

"She's an uppity, irksome being, to be sure," she says. "But she's not the problem. He is the problem. Imagine, engaging yourself to a woman who refuses to show your mother any common courtesy. A woman who expects your mother to pay for the entire wedding and plan it."

"Did you offer to do those things, Mrs. Rosings?" I ask with suspicion.

"To teach my boy a lesson? I'd do worse. I'd do anything to save that boy from himself."

"You know," I say. "This whole thing could really backfire on you. What if his fiancée loves goats and smelly flowers?"

"No one, however distasteful, wants a goat eating the backside of their dress."

"What's your end game?" I ask. "Do you want to break them up? Or are you hoping she'll suddenly take an interest in the proceedings if you do a bad job?"

She sighs, suddenly sounding weary. "When you get to be my age, sometimes you just cast the die for the interest of seeing where they lie." It's so similar to a thought I've had about Nicole, and her seemingly inexplicable actions, that I find myself smiling.

"But if I had it my way, he wouldn't marry her," she continues. "She's subtle enough, but you don't get to be my age without learning to read people. She's only interested in him because she wants Smith House and the Smith fortune, and if he were thinking with his brain rather than what he's got between his legs, he'd have realized it by now. But truthfully I'd prefer for my children not to get married at all. Marriage is a mistake. A trap. And he's walking right in because a pretty young twit is holding the right lure."

"That's an interesting sentiment for someone who's been married three times," I say before I can think better of it.

I feel her watching me as I merge onto the highway. "So you've heard the whispers around town," she says with a soft, throaty laugh. "People do love to talk."

"I think they're ridiculous. Only a woman would get blamed for having bad luck." I think but don't add, But if you poisoned my bio-dad and gave him a push, blink twice.

"Only a successful woman. They can't stand that their precious Smith House is in the hands of a woman who didn't grow up there. But Adrien Smith wasn't the god among men they think he was."

Shit, there's a sheen of dislike in her eyes. Hatred. But if the police don't exactly give a shit about my biological father's death, something tells me they gave many shits about Adrien Smith. So they would have done more than their due diligence in investigating his death.

"Why were you seeing my father, Mrs. Rosings? Dick Ricci, I mean. I…did you know he was involved with other women?"

"You think I wanted more of him than what I got?" she asks with a snort.

I think of her lovely home. Her put-together life. Her beautiful things. "No. I suppose not."

I feel her glancing at me. "When you get to be as old as I am—"

"I will," I say shortly. "Either that or I'll die. I'd prefer to live."

"Well said," she tells me, sniffing in approval. Or at least I'd like to think it's approval. "I've spent most of my life being serious. Doing what's expected or prudent, and when you see the end approaching, you question all the decisions you've made for other people. I got involved with Dick for no greater reason than because I felt like it. Because life is too short to avoid the things that will give you pleasure. But I was perfectly content for him to live his life and for me to live mine. I will never, ever again sign over my power to another person."

I think about Declan's offer, and about the way he makes me feel alive and so full of wanting I might burst from it.

I don't think I can be as glib as Mrs. Rosings, or that I'll be able to keep him at arm's length, but it doesn't matter. I already know what I've decided.

"What was in the box, Mrs. Rosings?" I ask softly.

"That's between me and the dead," she says.

And I nod, because she's right. Even though I do have every intention of breaching her privacy when the opportunity presents itself. Because I need to know it wasn't her—I need that knowledge for myself as much as anything.

"You know," Mrs. Rosings says contemplatively. "Your perfume smells lovely."