Stolen Hearts (Hearts 1)

“Don’t be mad at me,” Zilla whispered.

“Me? Mad at you? I can never be mad at you.”

“Well, that’s a lie.”

“Fine,” I said with a laugh because that was what she wanted. “I can never stay mad at you.”

“You can come see me in two weeks,” Zilla said. I was silent. Because the senator wouldn’t allow it. Not without some wild story and help from the staff, who would eventually turn on me, resulting in some painful punishment.

The last time he’d taken my phone away and didn’t let me leave the house for a month. I’d been bored, yes. Lonely. Terrified. But the real repercussion of it all was that all those people who called and texted me, who offered lunch dates and tickets to galas, who asked if I wanted to be on boards or fundraising committees – they all vanished. And when the month was over I was even more alone than I’d been before.

As punishment it had been wildly effective.

“Please come visit me, Pops. Pops—” her voice broke, and so did I. My nickname in my sister’s voice was one of my favorite sounds in the world, and I was so scared for my sister and by my sister.

But she was all I had left, and I loved her so much. And it would be worth the punishment. It always was.

“Of course,” I said. “I love you, Zilla.”

The phone clicked twice, which was the end of the amount of allotted time I had to talk to my sister who was locked up in what was an insane asylum with a fancy name.

I listened to the echoing silence for a few seconds before hanging up, sitting limp in the chair. Relief and guilt and anger tossing bombs at each other in my stomach. And my heart.

My love for my sister was so complicated. And I wished that it could be easier. And then felt guilty for that wish.

A deep breath and the last of the adrenaline rippled out of my system and I sat, wrung-out in the chair I’d collapsed in.

God, it was an uncomfortable chair. It was uncomfortable, and I’d picked it out. I’d picked it out and had it reupholstered to match the couch and the area rug. All varying shades of blue and grey. Bits of pink and turquoise to match the vases on the coffee table. I’d just finished this room. Because I’d spent a year on the kitchen. And another two months on all the bathrooms. In another three months I would have redone this whole house.

I was good at it. That was a surprise. I liked it. A little. Enough to let it fill my days, to soothe the relative frustration at somehow not being able to do what I really wanted. I thought if I put enough of myself into this house it would start to feel like a home.

But I knew the truth: I was just redecorating my very gilded cage.

The front doorbell rang, and the sound was so surprising I started like I’d done something wrong. The senator was in his study on the other side of the house, so it wasn’t him coming home. There wasn’t an event, so it couldn’t be hair and makeup. And no one ever visited me.

Anne the housekeeper came down the hallway, glancing at me, and we shared a quick look of surprise. Which was frankly more than we’d shared in the six months she’d been working here.

Look at us, bonding.

I kept myself in the chair, trying not to get my hopes up. Because I would love to have someone visit. To take my mind off Zilla, to alleviate just a little of my crushing boredom.

But it was probably some guy selling vacuums. People still do that, don’t they?

Though probably not in Bishop’s Landing.

I heard a familiar voice and jumped up out of my chair, rushing out into the hallway to see Caroline Constantine standing in the open doorway. She wore cream. Cream pants, heels, a blush shell, and a cashmere wrap. The trees were all changing colors, and she was lit up by a bright red maple behind her in my front yard. She was so beautiful she took my breath away.

Anne walked past me back towards the kitchen, leaving me alone with Caroline.

“Caroline?” It was shocking. A delight. And also so strange it felt like a dream. “Did I miss a lunch date?”

“You didn’t miss anything, darling,” Caroline said and then wrapped me in her arms, and I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I just folded right into that hug. I just collapsed into it. Caroline smelled like lavender body powder and Chanel No 5. She’d been my mother’s best friend growing up, and hugging her felt like getting hugged by my mother.

“Then what are you doing here?” I asked, suddenly aware of what I looked like. I didn’t wear makeup unless I was leaving the house, and my blonde hair was going red at the roots because I’d cancelled the last trip to the salon. I was in yoga pants and a long-sleeved sweatshirt that was damp down the back from trying to build a shower outside by the pool.