Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ANTHONY

Rosie is leaving, and the ring is back in its box, doomed to slumber there until the next Smith decides to marry.

And maybe that’s how it should be. I said terrible things to her. I punched a wall in front of her. She probably thinks I’m crazy or violent or like him , but the thought of someone hurting her because of me was—is— unbearable . It’s even worse that the threat came from Nina, who’s already done her best to ruin my life once.

I wanted to feel the sharp burst of pain in my fist, because it was an echo of what was going on inside of me.

I’d thought the pain would be a distraction, and my heart would go back to sleep, or turn to stone again. But it hasn’t. It hurts .

Rosie woke me up, and now I don’t know how to go back to sleep, and I’m going to be left in this cold, hard world without her.

After I hear her car leave, taking her away from me, I take deep breaths and pack up the rest of the spilled basket. But I can’t bring myself to go inside. So instead I sit on the floor of the rose garden, numb yet hurting, and cradle my hand to my chest, letting the ghosts win.

Thinking of what Rosie looked like when she called herself a fuckup.

Thinking of my own words: “You never think about things do you? You just do them and let other people clean up the mess.”

I lift my hands to my head, probably smearing blood all over my face but not caring. Because what the fuck is the matter with me?

Rosie’s impulsiveness is what I like best about her.

It’s what I’ve lacked my whole life.

Letting it back in over the past couple of weeks has been a revelation.

But my father saw impulsiveness as an infection of weak minds—and he is my infection. I haven’t been cured of him yet, it seems. He keeps creeping back into mind when I want him there the least.

I’m ashamed of myself.

Deeply ashamed.

Why didn’t you go after Rosie, you idiot?

Why didn’t you do something?

Why did you stand there like a statue and let her walk away from you?

The top of the apple tree peeks over the side of this garden, and it feels like my father is watching me. He’d laugh, probably. I imagine he’d be pleased as hell to know his influence is still felt here all these years after he blended with the roots of that tree.

The apple tree sickened after we spread his ashes, the branches become gnarled and unhealthy, the fruit spotted. None of us commented on it to each other, but I know we all noticed. We felt him, twining under the ground in the roots, lifting up to the sun in those branches.

We felt him, hiding in the shadows inside of our house, watching us and judging.

I saw him, again and again, falling from that tree.

They say his neck snapped instantly, upon landing, and I know it’s true, because his eyes were open and staring by the time I got to him. They were empty of him.

If it weren’t for my father’s will, I could be with Rosie.

If it weren’t for his will, I’d be free .

I think about the last day he was alive…

I think about Simon and the final talks that are due to happen the week after my “wedding,” which will end with my dream being bulldozed…

But the thought of marrying anyone other than Rosie, platonic or not, is reprehensible. And it seems unlikely that the problems she shared with me can be sorted out in one week. If she’d still consider marrying me after that spectacle…

So there probably won’t be a wedding. There won’t be any money. There won’t be any deal. None of it will happen.

I’m surprised by the relief that rides that thought.

Maybe that’s what needs to happen for Rosie and me to be together—for me to let the past go, entirely.

Antsy and in need of movement, I leave the rose garden and circle around to the tree, taking in the gnarled branches, full of my father’s sickness. I reach up and grab a branch, cracking it, and the violence of the action rumbles through me even more then the pain that radiates through my arm.

I want the tree to come down—something deep inside of me needs it to—but I’m in no condition to make that happen today. So I stand beside it, thinking of Gene and another item on my bucket list.

Tell him how you really feel.

He’s dead and gone, but his ghost is in this place, like Rosie said. It’s always been here, because we’ve let him seep into everything we do, who we are.

“You said you were making me stronger,” I say, feeling like an idiot, talking to a tree. But that doesn’t stop me. “You were trying to ruin me, though. I think you wanted to. It made you feel stronger to make us feel weak. Me especially. You wanted to break me as if I were one of your horses.”

There’s no rustle of leaves. No branches fall on my head. There’s not even a dramatic wind. It’s…anticlimactic, but something inside of me is being fed. I reach up and snap another branch. Then another. The wood groans and splinters my hands, and the wrapped wound aches, and at least it’s not nothing. At least the numbness of the past years hasn’t fully set back in.

I have Rosie to thank for that.

I didn’t even realize how deeply I’d fallen asleep until she’d woken me.

And now she’s gone…

I sink down at the bottom of the tree and cradle my head in my hands. I’m still there, the napkin wrapped around my injured right hand, when I hear footsteps from the front of the house.

For a second, I think Rosie is back, and the only person who’s capable of making me believe in magic has returned with some, but then my mother and sister step into view.

They look like they’ve been arguing, but as soon as my mother sees me, she drops her purse and yells, “What in God’s name did they do to you?”

She rushes toward me while Emma watches us with a troubled look on her face.

I must look ghastly. My hand has been bleeding for who knows how long, and my coat’s open and not thick enough for the weather. As if the thought was enough to activate my body’s cold sensors, I start shivering.

My mother gives me a stiff hug that’s probably going to get blood on her jacket, because I realize now that it’s smeared across my shirt. My face. “ Anthony, talk to me. Did that good-for-nothing guard let the stalker back here, or did the proposal go poorly?”

“The latter,” Emma says, studying me as she removes her scarf and wraps it around my neck. There’s no surprise on her face, so apparently Mother filled her in on the details, not that I’m surprised. “Did she stab you?”

I laugh bitterly. “I broke a plate and punched a wall.”

My sister glances at my mother. “I guess he actually likes this one.”

Likes .

“I’m falling in love with her,” I say. “But there won’t be a wedding, because Nina knows something that could destroy Rosie and her family. She made it clear that she’ll pull the trigger if we get married next weekend.”

My mother’s expression hardens. “I knew that odious little strumpet gave up too easily.”

I watch blankly as Emma stoops to gather Mother’s bag. She notices the snapped branches of the apple tree before she shifts her attention back to me. One of the corners of her mouth lifts. “Had a fight with Dad, too?”

“Something like that,” I say, studying the ripped branches and the slivers they left in my hands. Then I glance up at my family. “Have you noticed that the tree got sick after we spread his ashes under it?”

“Oh, that’s no mystery,” my mother says, fussing with my hair. “I pour whiskey at its roots twice a week to keep the old bastard’s spirit satiated.”

Surprised laughter escapes me. All this time, I’d carried the knowledge of the tree’s waste with me, seeing it as a symbol of what was happening to me—the rot that was spreading each year—when really it was as simple as my mother slowly poisoning it.

Maybe we’d all do better with more of the truth. So I find myself saying: “Rosie and I have been working on a list of things we want to do before the end of the year. I…Mother, I have to cut this tree down.”

My mother studies me for a moment before nodding. “I think it’s about time we let him go, don’t you?”

Her eyes look glassy with tears, but she wouldn’t be my mother if she didn’t immediately stiffen her back and say, “And it’s past time for you to get up and stop sulking. This is not happening. We will not allow Nina , of all people, to destroy us. Rosie included, if you’re fond of her. What an embarrassment that would be.”

Smiling despite myself, I get to my feet. I still feel like I’ve been pancaked by a truck, but at least I’m not alone anymore. And if that’s not a damn Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is.

“Oh, good, he’s got some fight left in him.” Emma pats me on the back. “Let’s go inside and get wasted, shall we? Because nothing’s going to be resolved on Christmas, so we might as well be hungover.”

I laugh, because yes, we fucking shall. “I missed you too.”

“We won’t be doing anything of the sort before Anthony’s hand is treated,” Mother says. “But after we get it treated, I do think a stiff drink would be medically appropriate. Especially if we need to visit the emergency room on Christmas Eve. Then, of course, we’ll decide what to do about Nina. Because we will be doing something about Nina, even if the wedding doesn’t go forward. I can report her for having stolen my necklaces.”

I jolt, my eyes meeting hers. “Mother, you can’t do that. She’d retaliate, and it would hurt Rosie.”

Which is exactly why I haven’t already called Nina. I’m in no condition to play conversational chess with anyone.

Her expression turns speculative. “You really have feelings for this girl.”

I nod, my throat tight. “But I can’t tell you and Emma what Nina knows about her. That’s Rosie’s secret, and she hasn’t given me permission to share it.”

My mother sniffs dramatically. “Oh, pish. I don’t give a toss what her secret is. If she were a gold digger like Nina, she’d already have you in front of an altar. No threat or fear of common decency would stop her.”

“She’s not,” I insist, my throat feeling scratchy. “She doesn’t care about the money. She thinks I should quit and use my inheritance to renovate the Ware.”

“She sounds like a smart girl,” Emma says, watching me.

“She is.”

Too smart to get wrapped up in our shit. Not that she doesn’t have plenty of baggage of her own. Logically, I know I should be more worried about Rosie’s secrets and what they could mean for both of us. She committed a serious crime, and if that comes to light, she could face stiff punishment.

But it’s hard to hold her culpable for a crime she was backed into by her own uncle when she was too young to legally drink. I know better than anyone how easy it is to be swayed and shaped by the people we’re supposed to be able to trust.

Still…even if we can get Nina to back off, I’m far from sure it’s a good idea for Rosie to marry me. She’d be risking her own safety. There’d be so many eyes on us.

Speaking of which…

I sigh, and say, “The situation has complications that go beyond Nina. There’s the stalker to worry about.”

“Let’s not,” Mother says. “We hired those private investigators to see to that. “

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Neither do I,” she says, pointedly, her gaze darting to my hand, “which is why we have a guard watching our comings and goings and those private investigators on board. Although Nina’s interference certainly suggests she’s behind the whole thing.” She lifts her brows and puckers her mouth. “I have to admit, she’s a fiercer adversary than I gave her credit for.”

“I don’t think it was her.” I can’t explain why other than that I have a gut feeling, something my mother probably wouldn’t accept as an explanation. Swallowing, I add, “There are some aspects of Rosie’s background she doesn’t want coming to light. But it’s not hopeless. Simon won’t look too hard since a chunk of the money’s going to be sunk into the company.”

Emma sighs. “You do realize you could have her and your dream if you give up your trust fund, right? Then you wouldn’t need to worry about any of this shit. Once we take care of Nina, of course.”

“What money would I be able to invest in The Ware if I don’t get the trust fund?” I ask pointedly.

She shakes her head. “I’m too sober for this conversation, so I’ll only say this. You want to cut down the tree, Anthony, but that tree’s not the only thing Dad has his roots in. Now, let’s get to the emergency room before you go septic.”

I walk back with them, my mind busy and full of doubt, because when my sister is right, she’s right.

It hits me that there’s somewhere I’d like to bring Emma and my mother—the place where Rosie and I came up with the idea for our lists. It’s special to me, and I have the impulse to share it with them.

I need to learn to follow my impulses rather than shoving them away.

“Hey,” I say, smiling at them, “I have a bar we should go to after my hand gets cut off.”