Love the One You Hate

I miss him as I listen to Maren’s music, staring out at the dark churning sea. I ask myself what he would do in my shoes, if he would protect his family above all else.

I know the answer.

It’s not much longer before guests start to depart. I send them farewell nods and continue smoking until Maren’s music cuts off and she rises to leave the room along with everyone else.

“Maren, I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

Her footsteps stall near the door and, for a second, I’m worried she’s about to ignore me.

“That doesn’t sound like a request,” she ventures.

“It’s not,” I say, flicking ash off my cigar.

“I can’t imagine what you have to say to me now,” she replies, pivoting to face me. “You’ve had all evening to talk.”

I find it easier to keep my gaze off her, easier still if I pretend she’s no one at all. She’s merely a problem I’d like to eliminate.

“Has my grandmother told you about the reporters who’ve knocked on our doors pretending to be relatives and friends? Who’ve shown up uninvited to birthday parties and weddings? We’ve had long-lost cousins appear out of thin air, hoping to slice off a piece of inheritance for themselves. Nosey housekeepers. Thieving drivers. It seems we live with a target on our backs. Easy prey, some would think, especially as my grandmother creeps deeper into her 80s. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” she replies with a steady voice.

“It’s why I can’t have you in her life.”

She steps toward me, her hand outstretched as if trying to convince me to look her way. “I’m not at Rosethorn to take advantage of her. I swear it.”

“No? Then what exactly are you here for?” I say, finally giving in to the urge to turn and take her in from head to toe. A green-eyed siren. “What’s your job title? Housekeeper? Assistant? Gardener? Do you have any experience tending soil, Ms. Mitchell?”

Her silence is all the confirmation I need.

“My grandmother is too kindhearted to send you off, but I’m not. My patience for leeches has grown thin over the years. I trust you know how to pack your bags and find your way?”

“I won’t leave until Cornelia asks me to,” she says with a venomous tone. “Contrary to what you may believe, I am of value to her, just not in the conventional ways. No, I don’t till her gardens, but I eat dinner with her every night and I read to her in the afternoons. We take walks around the garden and we talk. We’re friends.”

When our gazes lock, she tips her chin up.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not leaving.”

She turns and stalks out of the room, her footsteps the only thing I hear, even after she’s long gone.* * *The following morning, I’m headed down to breakfast when I hear shuffling in my grandfather’s old office. I know Cornelia has taken to using it in recent years and I expect to find her in there, sitting in his oversized chair, which is why I stop and peer in.

Instead, I find Maren rifling through papers behind the desk, visibly distressed.

“What are you doing?”

Her body tenses and she squeezes her eyes shut as if I frightened her. I probably did.

“Looking for your grandmother’s glasses,” she replies, not a hint of kindness in her tone.

“Well they’re clearly not there in those papers.”

She stops her search and glares up at me. “Are you insinuating something? If so, I’d rather you just say it.”

I have the uncanny urge to smile and let her know I’m partly teasing. I don’t think she’s dumb enough to sneak around my grandmother’s office in the middle of the day, especially while I’m still here. Besides, she didn’t even shut the door.

When I don’t reply, she continues her search, but not for long.

With a huff, she dips down to retrieve a pair of my grandmother’s reading glasses that had fallen onto the ground. Mission complete.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she says as she brushes past me.

I have no choice but to follow after her, listening as she curses me under her breath.

We turn a corner and I could quicken my stride and catch her with ease, but I know she’d hate it. Instead, I speak up. My voice is deceptively casual, though we both know I’m trying to get a rise out of her. “You know we’re going to the same place. There’s no need to walk three steps ahead of me. I think we’re capable of having a cordial conversation.”

She laughs caustically. “We aren’t.”

Down in the breakfast room, my grandmother sits with the newspaper held up a mere inch from her face. When she hears our footsteps, she folds it down and sighs gratefully.

“I knew you’d find them, dear. Hurry along, I’m trying to read this story about azaleas and it’s giving me eye strain.”