I shot Nick a look of apology for my betrayal.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen,” he said, chuckling and raising his hands in surrender, “drinking heavily.”
Now, I realized that was possibly why he had such trouble staying awake in the Town Car.
“You know, I could smell that whiskey on you a mile away.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure Harold will spritz me with something on my way in,” he said, a fair point we both knew to be true.
“Why are you so against coming here?” I asked quietly, sticking my arms through the sleeves of my coat. “It’s only for a few days, and I’ll be here with you this time. Besides, the place sounds incredible.”
Nick slipped his sunglasses on and sighed. “I was raised here, Abby, and it wasn’t all sunshine and games for me.” His shoulders tensed imperceptibly as we pulled off the main road. The light itself seemed to dim in the car with the soft undertones of his voice. “Also, I don’t like being summoned.”
I understood that feeling. We were so close to freedom, only to have it extended by a week, and that really boiled my blood. Still, I was determined to be positive, an attitude that probably had something to do with the fact that it was my fault our internment was lengthened in the first place. Of course, for me, the allure of the manor and the designer clothes made the whole idea a little easier to stomach.
I lifted the brochure to read it again, flipping eagerly through the pages as we rolled down a cobblestone road flanked on both sides with tall, majestic trees. It wasn’t until we cleared the lane that I lowered the picture and found myself staring up at the real thing. My mouth dropped as I glanced between the brochure and the building once, twice, then three times. If a picture is worth a thousand words... I can’t even imagine the price of the real thing!
“This place is...unbelievable,” I said.
I stared up in sheer wonder, feeling as if we’d rolled into some kind of movie set. More accurately, it felt I’d hopped into a time machine, been whisked back to an era where things like horse-drawn carriages, glass slippers, and wishes really did come true.
The estate itself stretched as far as my eye could see. Rolling emerald lawns punctuated with the occasional towering oak rose and fell in gentle waves, reaching all the way to the pale, clear sky. The mansion, which was really more like a palace, was something right out of the Old World, with tall, white pillars; sleek, crisp lines; and the kind of turreted roof that made me think Sleeping Beauty might peer around any corner at any given moment. There was even a golden statue sitting in the middle of the curved driveway, one of those ancient Greek champions who looked freakishly similar to the man sitting beside me in the car. The mansion could easily sleep 100 and probably comfortably entertain several times that many. The entire thing looked like something Gatsby would have had wet dreams about before rolling back over with a discontented sigh.
Inconceivably, when Nick looked up at the grandeur, he just shook his head. “My dad is such a showoff.”
I nudged him. “Like you’re not.”
Without another word, he helped me out of the car and led me up the steps to the front door. It opened before we could even reach it, and a small army descended on the car behind us. They emptied it of our luggage and vanished again to the servants’ entrance. We froze for a moment, staring cautiously around the entryway.
Harold swept down the stairs to greet us. “Nicholas!” He clasped him warmly on the tops of both arms, looking him up and down with delight. “We’ve been waiting for you. I hope the drive was pleasant.” He scrunched up his nose, then, with hands so discreet I almost didn’t notice, he actually pulled something from his pocket and sprayed it onto Nick before slipping it back into his jacket.
Nick’s lips did not form an answer; instead, they just thin
ned into a line as he cocked his head pointedly to the side.
Harold followed the gesture curiously, wondering what could possibly be more important than his idle chitchat, and his face soured as it fell on me. The two of us glared at each other for a moment before he glanced back at Nick with and formed a quick smile. “And how is your lovely...wife?” The stutter in his voice as he said it was not lost on me. It was hard enough for him to concede that in the eyes of the rest of the world, I was actually now part of the family, a feat he had made his life mission. Knowing that Nick and I were actually together seemed to only make things worse for poor Harold, so much so that I was fairly certain there was a voodoo doll of me stashed under his pillow.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Nick replied, clapping the man cheerfully on the shoulder.
“Abigail?”
I let him hang for a moment before smiling graciously myself. We’re here to make nice, right? That was my fault, but from the second Nick had discovered we were going to be forced to meet his father’s new bride, he’d been dead set against the entire endeavor. It was up to me to take the lead and to keep the peace. “I’m fine, Harold. Thanks. Should we go change?” I glanced up at the giant arching stairwell, curious to explore.
He shook his head. “Normally, that would be the case, but Mitchell and Ms. Hart are already waiting on the veranda. Perhaps it would be best for you to make your introductions first.” He spun toward Nick. “I’m sure your father would prefer that.”
Ms. Hart? Did I hear that correctly? I wondered when I noticed his disgruntled tone at the mention of the woman. Is it possible that there is someone Harold Oates despises more than me?
Nick, unmoving, had yet to take off his Ray-Bans, and the longer he stood inside his childhood home, the more he looked like a flight risk. “Would he now?” he said, his words clipped and cold. “Well, of course anything for my father.”
Harold and I exchanged a nervous glance before I slipped my hand firmly into Nick’s. “That’s right, babe,” I said, giving him a pointed squeeze but glancing up with a smile. “This week is all about dear ol’ Dad,” I urged.
Nick glanced down at me for a moment before flashing a breathtaking, pearly smile, as dazzling as it was fake.
Harold and I exchanged another glance, this time hiding smiles of our own. “That’s the spirit,” he muttered, gesturing us forward.
I squeezed Nick’s hand again as we made our way down the corridor, breezing past enough priceless paintings to fill The Met. It wasn’t until we neared the doors to the inner courtyard that I flashed him a sideways glance.
“You should take off your shades, now that we’re inside. I’m sure your father would prefer that,” I said with a wink.