PROLOGUE
First and foremost, this is a story of redemption.
But it’s also a love story. A love story that begins with a black eye and a mental health facility, and while that hardly seems the setting for a modern romance, and I’m the last guy anyone would consider a knight in shining armor, trust me when I say I’d suffer a thousand black eyes to meet her again.
But before there was the rehab and the fist to the face and the falling for a girl with jagged nails and graphite smudges on her fingertips, there was my dad’s annual holiday party.
And it happened like this. . . .
.
.
.
.
We were late getting home that night. I couldn’t access the driveway as cars lined the street in front of our house—a string of Cadillacs, Porsches, and Jaguars, curves reflecting the glow of the street lamps—so I parked my Audi SUV in the first available space, directly in front of the neighbor’s.
Despite the crowd the world outside was quiet, so when Crewe slammed the car door shut, the sound seemed to echo through the whole neighborhood, bouncing off gates and houses, giving our position away.
“Do you have to be so loud?” I hiss-whispered. My younger brother stood in the ditch, fist against his mouth, suppressing a fit of laughter.
I swallowed back a smile, trying my best to summon a serious face. My brother was a hilarious high. “Shut up, Crewe. I’m not kidding.”
“No way can they hear us,” he argued. But he managed to calm himself as we made our way along the Sanderling’s wrought-iron fence until we reached the hedge wall of our own yard.
I zipped my leather coat all the way to my chin, flipped the collar over my neck, and told him to follow me. With Crewe, I’d always played leader.
I dropped to hands and knees, crawling between branches and leaves and trunks and remembered us as kids doing the exact same thing with our makeshift slingshots and twigs for guns—fewer ulterior motives in play.
The bush spit Crewe out as I climbed to my feet, brushing dirt from my knees and examining a fresh scratch on the back of my hand. Leaving was easy. It was the coming home that was so hard.
“Stay close to the edge,” I warned him.
Our house was lit for the holiday. Two giant topiaries wrapped in twinkle lights bordered the front door, and a single wreath graced each of the twenty windows on the front of the house—a Greek revival with six towering Corinthian columns that my architect mother had custom made to mimic a home she and my father had seen on a walking tour on their honeymoon in Charleston. It was a walking tour because this was during their “ramen phase,” when mom was still working on her master’s degree and Dad wasn’t president of anything. If she saw you to the porch on your way out, if she caught so much as an interested glance at the leaves carved into the capital, she would explain all of this and more—each of the home’s architectural elements. She loved bringing up the ramen phase. It was a nice reminder that she, too, was common once. Never mind my grandparents financed her entire education and my parents’ first home.
They didn’t really subsist on ramen. It was just a metaphor.
Crewe and I snaked along the property line, winding between fruit trees and past the rose garden. The fountain in the middle of the drive shimmered, its spray carried away on cold wind.
I paused at the edge of the house, trying to determine the best way in. The front door was out, of course. So was the back. The garage would take us straight into the kitchen where the caterers were working. Our best option was the mudroom just off the front porch, an entrance for little boys and their dirty cleats, the help, and big boys who needed to sneak past a party without anyone noticing, but when I turned the knob it was locked, and when I removed my set of keys from my pocket, I knew we had a problem.
“Great,” I muttered, fingering through each of the three keys remaining, two of which were for my SUV.
“What?”
“Dad took my extra keys,” I explained, stuffing them back into my coat pocket.
“Why would he do that?” Crewe asked.
“Why are we sneaking into the house right now?” I countered. He took my keys so I would only have one way in—through the front door, which was monitored.
“So? Just pick the lock.”
“We could check Mom and Dad’s porch,” I suggested, though I knew it would be futile. Mom and Dad never used that door. Half the doors in our house went unused on a regular basis.
“If the mudroom is locked, then their door will be locked.”
“You’re surprisingly coherent for such a lightweight,” I told him.
“Pick the lock, Trent,” my brother demanded. “It’s freaking freezing out here.”
“I can’t. I don’t have my set with me.”
“Liar,” he replied. “I can see the outline in your pants pocket.”
“That’s just me, happy to see you.”
“You’re sick.”
“I don’t pick locks anymore,” I said. “Says Dad.”
“Bullshit. Do it, or we’re stuck out here forever,” my brother said. “Or until we freeze. Or until Mom and Dad find us. Either way, our lives are over.”
Sneaking out to spend time with my friends had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
I exhaled a sigh, my breath turning to smoke before disappearing, and even though I’d promised my parents never to pick a lock again, this didn’t keep me from sticking my Southord set in my pants pocket every time I left the house—habit, mostly—or removing it at that moment, opening the leather flap and detaching the tension wrench and a small pick.
“Hold this,” I told Crewe, closing and handing him the leather pouch.
I jammed the wrench into the lock, grasping it with my left hand, pushing until I felt resistance, then inserted the pick with my right hand, applying pressure until I hit the pin. The lock snapped open, and the doorknob turned easily.
Crewe laughed. “Keys are for pussies.”
I packed away my tools, returned the pouch to my pocket, and reminded Crewe to keep quiet.
We stepped into the mudroom, and, even though the kitchen door was closed, we could still hear the catering staff on the other side shouting to one another, silver clanking as hors d’oeuvres were trayed—every year the same as the one before it.
Crewe and I opened the door leading to the front stairwell, climbed steps two by two, and slipped into Crewe’s room because it was safest. The entrance to mine was too close to the balcony overlooking the “grand room,” not to be confused with the morning room, or dining room, or the library, or the family room. The grand room was two stories, and where the parties were held. Because when your father is president of operations at Hamilton General Hospital and your mother is an architect with her own firm, you have no choice but to add a “grand room” to your house plan.
I shut the door behind us as Crewe collapsed on his navy blue duvet. “I am freaking starving.”
“There’s plenty of food downstairs,” I reminded him.
“I’d rather die.”
I plopped down on his leather beanbag chair and coughed into one of the decorative pillows I’d moved aside, trying to muffle the noise. I’d had some extension of a cold since Thanksgiving—nasal congestion one week, sore throat the next, and the coughing had been going on for a month. None of the over-the-counter medications I’d tried worked, and now I was going to be sick on Christmas.
“Guess what?” Crewe asked.
“You’re starving,” I replied.
“I have balls on my wall.”
“What?”
“I have balls . . . on the walls.” He rolled over on his bed, body curling in laughter.
I studied the rows of balls—three basketballs, three footballs, three soccer balls, because a few years ago some catalog with overpriced furniture decided this was the “it” design for teenage guys. Never mind my brother didn’t even play those sports. A baseball and bat would have been more appropriate. But even my own room was decorated in similar colors—a nautical theme—so it was safe to assume my mother didn’t exactly take her sons’ personalities into consideration when shopping online.
“The balls, balls, balls, balls. How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,” Crewe said, his voice low.
“You did not just bring Poe into this,” I said.
His voice deepened further. “To the moaning and the groaning of the balls. The balls. The balls. The balls. On walls.”
A knock on the door sobered us.
“Shit,” I muttered, pulling myself out of the chair. I unlocked the door and opened it wide.
William Broderick stood on the other side, wearing an off-the-rack black suit and shirt and tie from a box, frowning. Laughter reverberated through the foyer, a few women at my parents’ party nearing drunk.
“Hey, Broderick. My balls are on the walls,” Crewe called from across the room.
The knock on the door sobered me, at least.
Broderick, who was responsible for making sure satellite bills were paid on time, burnt-out light bulbs were replaced, and that the lawn care company arrived as scheduled, didn’t crack a smile. “Master Trenton, Master Crewe, your mother and father request your presence downstairs.” He sniffed the air, a deep frown accentuating the wrinkles at his eyes and lips. “After you’ve showered and changed, of course.”
Broderick was not British, but Crewe and I had this theory that every night, just before he fell asleep, he prayed to baby Jesus to make him an English gentleman. He’d attended some special school in Europe to become a butler, though they don’t even call them that in this part of the world. He was simply “house manager” (at least, that’s what his business card said), responsible for ordering groceries and making sure our school lunches were packed and that the housekeeper was loading the dishwasher the right way. His love for England was most apparent in the way he called us “master” or pronounced schedule like “shed-yule.”
“Why, of course, Sir Broderick. Cheerio, mate!” Crewe said.
“Ignore him. Tell them we’ll be there in a minute,” I said.
Since we’d been discovered, I had no choice but to cross the landing to my “suite.” Below me, a room full of black suits and shiny dresses, the occasional red sash and green wrap tossed in for festivity’s sake.
I showered quickly and changed into my best suit, then squeezed a couple of eyedrops into each eye on my way out the door, hiding the evidence in a vase on a side table in the hall. A big entrance was not in my best interest, so I took the back stairs and landed in the kitchen where the servers were at work, unpacking and heating food, silver trays moving in and out of the room.
I grabbed a canapé and kept to the perimeter, but when I reached the door a girl with mousy brown hair rounded the corner in a hurry and shoulder blocked me on accident. She swirled toward me, stumbling. I grabbed her arm to steady her, but the damage was done. Two of the empty wine glasses toppled over the edge of the tray and shattered against the hardwood floor.
“I’m so sorry!” the girl cried.
“Emily! I swear to God,” a woman said as she removed a pan of meatballs from the oven and set it on top of the stove. “That was the last broken dish from you. Put the tray down and go get your things.”
“Mrs. Marshall, please,” Emily begged, eyes filling with tears. “It was an accident.”
“They were all accidents. And the cost is coming out of your paycheck,” the woman said.
“Please. Don’t fire her,” I said. “It was my fault.” Every eye in the room turned to me.
“Who are you and why are you in my kitchen?”
I stood taller. “I’m Trent. This is my kitchen, and my house, and my dad’s party.”
The woman turned her attention back to the meatballs. “Just the same, Emily isn’t exactly suited for catering. This was bound to happen.”
“She was fine. I got in her way. She was quick, or else the whole tray would have been lost, so technically . . . she’s the hero of our little encounter.”
The woman huffed as she put a new sheet of meatballs in the oven.
“It was my fault,” I insisted. “Please. You can add the cost of the glasses to our tab. I’ll explain everything to my parents.”
The woman wiped her hands across an already greasy apron and sighed. “Someone find a broom and clean up the mess. Emily, get the wine back out there and watch where you’re going. Next time I doubt Romeo here will be around to save you.” She slanted a cool look sideways, making her private thoughts more than apparent: spoiled rich kid.
I slipped out of the kitchen as the servers began moving again and made my way to the grand room.
The tree mom rented for the occasion stood tall in one corner. Last year, the decorations were blue and green, branches puking giant peacock feathers. This year, the theme was gold and ivory. My mother was dressed to match, hair pulled up in a twist she’d left work early to have done at the salon, little pearls poking out at intervals, coordinating with the rest of her jewelry.
She forced a smile as I approached. “We asked that you arrive promptly at seven.” Her red lips barely moved, afraid someone might read them from across the room and know she was angry.
I shoved my hands in my suit pockets, hair still damp from my shower. “And I told you I had plans with Finn and the guys,” I reminded her.
“You know this party takes priority, and I don’t see why that requires you to drag your brother into your blatant disobedience.” She waved a hello to someone, her smile transfiguring from fake to almost genuine.
“Landon and Colton were coming. I thought he’d appreciate the gesture. I thought you’d appreciate the gesture—me spending time with my little brother.”
She laughed, but it held no humor. “That is the last thing your father and I want.”
“It’s Christmas break. Relax.”
Her cheeks flushed as she snapped her fingers, catching the attention of a girl in black pants and a white shirt carrying a tray of champagne. She knocked my hand away as I reached for one. “Not tonight. He is not to drink,” my mother told the server, eyes widening in warning. She’d perfected her “serious face” a long time ago. The server nodded, understanding. “We’ll discuss this later,” she assured me, reaching for a new glass. “Go find your father, and do not leave his side unless commanded. Are we clear?”
“Absolutely.”
I waded through the crowd, adjusting my monogrammed cufflinks and turning up the charm, smiling at everyone who met my eye, addressing them, if not by name, then as “Sir” or “Ma’am.” I was a McGowan man, after all, and the upper middle class loved my Southern hospitality.
“Trent. So glad you could finally join us,” my father said. “You remember Mr. Wildwood. And this is the new Mrs. Wildwood.”
Mr. Wildwood was one of Dad’s VPs of something or other. After a while, it was hard to keep them straight. They were all old and stodgy—too much pudge around the middle, like over-stuffed creme puffs with half the allure. And then there was the problem with their wives changing out from year to year, getting younger and younger, but I was told several years ago not to notice this.
The party was a tradition. Every year dad invited the veeps and the board, plus the occasional chief of a department or faculty liaison to join us for wine and meatballs on a stick just before the holiday.
Balls on sticks.
Balls on walls.
I swallowed back a laugh. “Congratulations,” I said, shaking hands, trying hard not to stare at Mrs. Wildwood’s collagen-inflated lips sparkling pale pink in the dim light. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise. How does it feel to be heading to Keaton?” Mr. Wildwood asked.
I smiled, avoiding my dad’s gaze, though I could feel his eyes boring holes through my skull. “Not quite sure, yet,” I confessed. “We’re still waiting on word.”
“He’s going to Keaton?” Mrs. Wildwood asked her husband. “Oh em gee. That’s where you went to school!”
“That’s right, darling!”
I waited for him to pat her on the head and offer her a treat, but then she turned to me, her black beehive following a few seconds later. Her eyelashes were on delayed reaction, too. In fact, everything about her seemed delayed. A thick diamond bracelet fell to her wrist as she changed her champagne glass from one gloved hand to the other. “You must be so brilliant!”
“His mother and I couldn’t be more proud,” my father said, flagging down the server with mousy brown hair and tray of red wine, who was now back on the job. He removed two glasses, handing one to me and keeping the other for himself.
“Thank you, Emily,” I said, lifting my glass in toast. She refused to look into my eyes, tried to scurry away, but I stepped in front of her, blocked her path, took a sip of wine. “You know, I saved your pretty little ass back there,” I said, voice low. “I was thinking you might want to thank me sometime.”
Her mouth tumbled open in surprise, but before she could respond we heard the crash—the clatter of silver on marble. We turned in tandem to discover the crowd parting like the seas, trying to escape what appeared to be miniature cannoli rolling across the floor.
A server was already on hands and knees, hurrying to re-tray the mess while Crewe laid twisted on the floor nearby, in hysterics.
I knew of at least three very pissed people at that moment.
Mrs. Marshall, in the kitchen.
My mother, who said “Crewe,” in her “firm but polite” tone. “Get up.”
And my father, the angry vein in his neck already bulging, who handed me his glass of wine and excused himself.
“Oh my God. I think he’s having a seizure,” Mrs. Wildwood said, grasping her husband’s arm. “We should call for help.”
“No, darling. He’s not having a seizure,” he assured her. “Something has amused him, is all.”
“At least someone is having a good time, right?” I said.
Mr. Wildwood smiled politely as his wife let out a cackle. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” she cried.
“Great minds. . . .” I trailed off, lifting my glass and draining its contents.
My dad helped Crewe to his feet. Broderick helped clean up the mess. My mother’s eyes caught mine, widening as she pointed a finger at me and mouthed the words:
“You. Upstairs. Now.”
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