Prologue
I’M SO SORRY, MOM.
The apology is spoken in a whisper, somewhere between a prayer and a sob uttered into a dark, cold void. She is alone. Forgotten. Left to die. Her most feared childhood nightmare of being buried alive actually happening.
There’s no point in shouting. She’s already tried that, of course. She yelled and begged when he walked away, when he climbed the makeshift ladder and dragged the rough piece of plywood over the hole. She screamed as he laid the heavy rocks one after the other—thunk, thunk, thunk—in rhythm to her panicked heartbeat. She’d screamed and screamed until, already exhausted, she collapsed, her throat dry as the dust beneath her feet.
He would not return. That was clear.
Was that yesterday? This morning? Three days ago? Impossible to tell here in this windowless cave. In the dimming light of the lamp, she can make out desiccated potatoes, rotted, dried, and darkened to black lumps scattered here and there on the dirt floor. The air is dank and thick. Oxygen is running low. It smells of urine and vomit. Hers.
No one will look for her here—if they even realize she’s been abducted, which is doubtful. Her captor will have fooled them with artful lies: She went on the lam to save her own hide, she is not who she appears to be. She’s cunning, ambitious, greedy—and now look what she’s done, what misery she’s caused! Good riddance to bad rubbish, they’ll all say.
Except her mother. She will keep on searching, never giving up until her daughter is found.
Though by then, it will likely be too late.
It’s On . . . TMB!
BEHIND THE SCENES OF TO THE MANOR BUILD WITH CONTESTANTS ROBERT BARRON AND HOLLY SIMMONS
Lights! Cameras! Reveal!
We can’t believe the big day is almost here! After weeks of sweating contractor delays, faulty electrical wiring, disgusting black mold, emergency asbestos remediation, and—gulp!—a snake infestation, the three couples facing off in an epic competition on To the Manor Build are about to show the world their fabulous rehabs.
And the stakes couldn’t be higher.
From design consulting to the last penny nail, TMB will cover 100 percent of the costs incurred by the lucky winning couple, who, in a twist, won’t be chosen by our experts but by . . . you! So log on to ToTheManorBuild.com and get ready to cast your vote. The polls open online after the Big Reveal in just two weeks.
While you’re waiting in tense anticipation, we caught up with one of our star couples, Robert Barron and Holly Simmons, for a Q&A on some behind-the-scenes details—and, oh my, are those wedding bells we hear???
TMB: Thank you so much for taking a break from your super-busy schedule this week as we get down to the wire. How’re you handling the final crush?
ROBERT: Thanks for having us. You know, the truth is, Holly’s borne the brunt of this rehab, starting with the original vision, lining up the contractors, and making decisions every five minutes. I just stand around looking pretty.
HOLLY: That’s not true. I saw you swing a hammer—once.
ROBERT: Must have been your secret lover. You know how I hate to ruin my manicure.
HOLLY: That’s actually kinda true. (Laughs)
TMB: See? This is why you guys are fast becoming the fan favorites. Everyone loves your banter and obvious genuine mutual affection. Why don’t you tell those new to TMB how you met.
ROBERT: Not much to tell. Holly saw my bodacious bod on Tinder and swiped right.
HOLLY: (Sighing) Don’t believe a word out of this man’s mouth. He is a congenital liar. The truth is, in my other existence I run a real estate vlog and I’d been following Robert’s alternate persona as The Robber Barron for years. I was really impressed by his creative approach to real estate investing, but I told him he needed a better platform to showcase his properties other than a subscription newsletter. In that way, he’s kind of an unfrozen caveman.
ROBERT: Grunt.
HOLLY: Then, out of the blue, he called me last winter and asked if I wanted to go skiing in Vermont and check out this kooky property he’d recently acquired for a song at a tax sale. Thought maybe I might be interested in making a video of it.
ROBERT: Yeah, that was BS. I didn’t care about the video. I only wanted the girl.
HOLLY: I’ll admit, I had my doubts. All I knew about Vermont was it was cold and snowy and short on retail. Not exactly this southern girl’s dream destination. But, as soon as I saw the potential house site and the apple orchard and mountain views on eighty fabulous acres, I was in love.
ROBERT: To be clear, not with me. The property.
HOLLY: Then Robert told me about his plans for a net-zero spec house. I knew immediately this was the perfect project for To the Manor Build.
TMB: Who had the idea to submit a test tape to TMB? I bet it was you, Holly.
HOLLY: Guilty as charged. Robert was on the fence, but I was determined.
ROBERT: Technically, it wasn’t just the fence I was on . . .
HOLLY: (Slapping him playfully) While we were filming, Robert and I discovered we share a commitment to saving the environment and thwarting climate change. I do everything in my ability to reduce my carbon footprint whenever I can, grocery shopping at local farm stands—
ROBERT: My personal
sacrifice is driving a Tesla . . .
HOLLY: (Rolling her eyes) Anyway, there’s so much exciting, cutting-edge stuff happening now in environmental construction. We’re so glad TMB was on board with that, too, and chose our rebuild to help bring our passion to light.
TMB: Actually, we were floored by your sizzle [note: that’s reality-show lingo for the infamous test tape]. We absolutely loved your design concept and your on-air chemistry, and, judging from the chatter on Reddit’s r/ToTheManorBuild, so do your fans. The question is, how do you think you’ll fare against the competition? They’ve both got pretty moving backstories.
HOLLY: And we couldn’t love them more, honestly. We are Joel and Sean’s biggest cheerleaders.
TMB: They’re the couple building a therapeutic ranch in New Mexico for LGBTQ2+ teens who’ve been bullied at school or cast out by their families.
HOLLY: Besides championing a noble cause that’s near and dear to my heart, from what we’ve been allowed to see of their design, I am floored. All those bright southwestern colors and the horses and the bridal path! I mean, where do I sign up?
ROBERT: We’re gonna lose, aren’t we? Ah, it’s okay. Good run while it lasted.
TMB: And then, on the other side of the country in South Carolina, you have Drs. Sam Chidubem and Concita Jimenez, who are establishing a seaside retreat for healthcare professionals and their families, who sacrificed so much during the pandemic. Extremely inspiring.
ROBERT: Yup. We definitely are gonna lose.
HOLLY: First of all, hats off to anyone who worked in the medical field during the pandemic. I cannot even imagine the trials they endured. Secondly, I’ve been following Doctor Concita’s blogs online and she and her husband embrace such a soothing aesthetic, lots of tranquil pastels and sand tones. I am dying to swing in one of their rope hammocks overlooking the beach and watch my troubles disappear.
ROBERT: I agree with everything Holly just said.
HOLLY: For once . . .
ROBERT: All kidding aside, while both of these are incredibly worthy projects, they represent the present, while, in my humble opinion, I like to think we represent the future.
TMB: Interesting. How so?
ROBERT: Our rebuild reflects a whole new way of approaching home construction in the era of climate change. We’ve employed the most advanced environmental technology. Thick concrete walls. Heat pumps that rely on geothermal energy. A peaked rubber roof that insulates and doesn’t need to be replaced nearly as often and yet is sturdy enough for a solar array. We’re going to generate so much power from the sun, even in chilly Vermont, the local power company will have to buy the exce
excess from us. Think about that!
HOLLY: He’s right. Fingers crossed that viewers will be amazed at the reveal to learn they can live in a spectacular, energy-efficient house that’s also stylish and able to be heated by a candle. Even, like Robert just said, in frigid Vermont.
ROBERT: Upfront costs are made up by massive energy savings down the road. There’s your future, folks.
TMB: Speaking of future, as if you two don’t have enough to do, you’re squeezing in a spontaneous wedding soon.
HOLLY: (Clearly blushing) You know, Robert and I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but instead of spending the final week stressing over the TMB contest, on the spur of the moment we decided what the heck! Autumn’s a magnificent season for an outdoor ceremony here in Vermont. The trees are absolutely on fire.
ROBERT: We’re thinking of doing a flash wedding, so keep checking the website for the pop-up live stream, just in case anyone’s interested in seeing me in a skirt—I mean “kilt.” I do have extremely attractive knees, if I do say so myself. Show them the ring, darling.
HOLLY: (Displaying a halo engagement ring of blue and ice-white diamonds in a platinum setting) Robert designed this himself. It’s ethically sourced, by the way. The platinum is recycled.
ROBERT: The center diamond is lab-grown, which means it’s only slightly less expensive than a normal two carat would be if it were mined by oppressed children in a Third World country. And yet I’ve been assured by the jeweler it’ll retain its value long after death do us part.
HOLLY: Oh, baby. Don’t even say that!
ROBERT: (Leaning down for a kiss) I swear nothing can part us, sweetheart. Not even death.
TMB: Awww. Who doesn’t love lovers in love? We at TMB wish you all the very best. And to all of you on Team H&R, do keep checking this site for your personal digital invites to Holly and Robert’s flash wedding that could happen any day now. You don’t want to miss a moment of romance.
ROBERT: Not to mention my knees.
OneErika
SATURDAY
On the morning of the wedding, Erika Turnbull plugs an AirPod into her right ear, syncs it with her iPhone, and grabs her pink metal travel mug of coffee with three splashes of half-and-half. The day’s schedule printed and secured in a plastic page protector, she exits her tiny studio apartment at the top of her mother’s garage, locks her door, and jiggles the handle twice to make sure it’s secure.
Call her superstitious, but with so much on the line, she’s not taking any chances. Nothing can go wrong today. Absolutely nothing. And if anything does—if Robert’s Cuban cigars aren’t delivered or the caterers forget to swirl the figs in chevre with the small-batch balsamic vinaigrette she specifically ordered from a farm in Modena; if the blue skies cloud and rain falls right as the couple are exchanging vows—then, yes, fingers will point toward her.
All part and parcel of being an assistant. None of the credit and all of the blame. No problem, she thinks, trying to summon more confidence than she actually feels. If only she had more experience being in front of the cameras . . .
She’s been working for Holly and Robert less than a year and always behind the scenes doing what assistants do on these home-remodeling shows—nagging vendors, checking orders, updating calendars, running to the hardware store for paint and extension cords or to the general store for sandwiches and coffee to sustain the crew. In other words, executing the many mundane tasks that keep the boat afloat.
This wedding will be the polar opposite. She will be Holly’s only bridesmaid, the first one to walk down the grassy aisle and the center of attention for three excruciating minutes. Thousands of fans are predicted to tune in, perhaps hundreds of thousands, and the ceremony will be recorded, which means any faux pas will be instantly uploaded online, where it will permanently reside to humiliate her forever. The prospect makes her almost physically ill, since, unlike her photogenic employers, Erika isn’t one for basking in the limelight. In fact, she’s gone out of her way to avoid being in the public gaze. She has her reasons. Valid ones. Not that they’re of any importance today.
Hey, at least the weather’s nice, she thinks. Clear and warm for mid-October. Say what you will about climate change, but so far it’s been a boon to this part of Vermont. The new Napa Valley, they’re calling the Green Mountain State. Lush and fertile. Ranked number two right behind Michigan as the place to live if you’re trying to avoid future floods and drought, blistering summers and wildfires. Holly and Robert were ahead of the curve choosing a rebuild here. But that’s their combined superpower, isn’t it? Always two steps ahead of everyone else, like chess players.
A wispy autumn fog rises from the creek running through the ravine behind the woods surrounding the home where she grew up. Since her breakup with Colton, she’s been living in the little apartment above her mother’s garage, what she likes to call a “carriage house,” even if it never housed horses or carriages.
Erika prefers the term for the optics, though she didn’t use the term optics until she started working for To the Manor Build and was introduced to the power of verbal tweaking. There are bathrooms.
And then there are spa retreats. Basements versus man caves. Patios versus outdoor-entertainment areas. Bedrooms versus suites.
When she told the LA producers of To the Manor Build she lived above a garage, they were appalled. When she told them she lived in a carriage house, they were intrigued, envisioning Victorian gables and trellised roses instead of what it really is—a second-floor, eight-hundred-square-foot studio above a one-car bay infused with the metallic smell of engine grease.
This is the magic of property rehab. With fresh paint, new flooring, a kitchen reno, and flowery descriptions, anything can be reborn, better than ever. God willing, the same will be true for her. She just needs to work her ass off so Robert and Holly win the contest and the producers realize she was the ticket to their success and want to hire her. Then maybe she’ll finally have a chance of blowing this quaint and claustrophobic town.
She starts up her new apple-red Kia and pulls off the gravel driveway, taking a left on the dirt road. First order of business: picking up the mail before the post office closes at noon. Second assignment: those damned cigars.
Cuban Cohiba Robusto Reserva at $100 a pop, and that’s before the expensive shipping requiring the illegal smokes to be routed via Switzerland to Bert’s general store in a crate of fancy Swiss chocolate. Erika can’t imagine the total cost, which must be outrageous, but Robert was determined. He insisted that surprising his groomsmen with the treasured contraband would be worth risking a $250,000 fine and ten years in prison.
Us Weekly lied. The stars, in fact, are not like us. Not one little bit.
Erika’s phone pings when she hits a rare pocket of cell reception.
HOLLY: At the spa and going in for a facial. Last chance!!!
She smiles at Holly’s text, how her boss never uses fewer than three exclamation points. If she had any idea Erika was in the process of helping her soon-to-be husband commit an international felony, she might not be so enthusiastic with her punctuation. Holly was dead-set against his breaking the law to blow close to $3,000 on Cohiba Robusto Reservas, so the cigars are one more of Robert and Erika’s little secrets.
She replies in her Bluetooth:
ERIKA: Have fun. I’ll hold down the fort. Going to get everything ready for the BIG EVENT.
HOLLY: You are the BEST!!! No worries when Erika T’s in charge!!!
That makes her feel so good. It’s nice to be of value . . . again.
Replacing the phone in its charger, Erika lowers her window and lets in the breeze, her cream lace dress hanging in its garment bag fluttering in the wind. Holly chose and paid for the outfit online. Then, on a whim, she made an appointment for Erika with her hairdresser in Burlington for a balayage. Soooo generous. The three-hour session cost way too much—Erika was mortified—but Holly insisted.
“Please, let me,” she pressed in her lilting southern accent. “Nothing makes me happier than a good old-fashioned makeover. A bridesmaid can’t say no to a bride.”
Bride. What a wonderful word. Erika grips the wheel as she negotiates the serpentine dirt roads. Driving still makes her nervous even when the conditions are dry and sunny. She’s trying to stay focused, but then she sees herself walking down the aisle where Robert is waiting in his kilt, hands clasped behind his back, his muscular legs spread, his smoldering dark gaze regarding her with raw desire. The setting sun illuminates her newly golden hair, transforming her into a princess.
Suddenly, the unspoken, forbidden attraction between them, the pulsating connection they’ve both tried so nobly to suppress, becomes too much to bear. To hell with the thousands of viewers and the show’s producers, Robert decides. True love is true love even if declaring his undeniable feelings hurts, for now, the woman he thought he loved, the one he was supposed to love, simply for hits and ratings.
He doesn’t wait for his bride. In two long strides, he goes to Erika, grasping her by her bare shoulders (oh, how he’s longed to caress her bare skin, to claim her as his own), and bending down before all the world to see he gently brings his lips to hers and . . .
Shit!
A brown blur leaps into the edges of her peripheral vision, causing her to swerve the car wildly. In any other situation, she would have quickly gained control. But the deer lopes past the dreaded wooden cross, knocking her off kilter. The homemade memorial’s fading blue plastic flowers and fluttering ribbons trigger horrific memories of another October day long ago at this very spot.
Thankfully, the antilock brakes activate and Erika comes to a full stop before hitting the cross, her heart pounding, lungs squeezing. In the rearview, she watches the panicked deer disappear into the thick foliage. A spikehorn. No doubt crazed by the surging hormones of early mating season. Not his fault.
Not anyone’s fault.
Erika’s damp palms slide down the steering wheel as she wrestles for composure. “It’s all over. No harm, no foul,” she mutters, gradually pressing her foot on the gas and resisting the urge to give up, to ditch the car and walk the four miles back to home. Lord knows she’s done it before.
Body shaking, she resumes driving slowly until she reaches the covered bridge leading to Snowden’s picturesque village. The maples ringing the town green under the bright blue sky are ablaze in a riot of red, orange, and yellow leaves, a few of which are falling gently over the white-painted rail fencing. They remind her that, no matter what, the earth continues to rotate, seasons change, and life goes on. Nothing lasts forever. Taking a cleansing breath, she continues.
Circling the village square, she passes the white clapboard Snowden town hall, its black slate roof and matching shutters imposing and yet reassuring in their historic stability, and the Snowden general store
. To the general store’s left is the brick Snowden Volunteer Fire Department with its one bay for its one truck, and to the right of the store is the Snowden post office.
The post office foyer is about the size of Holly and Robert’s mudroom, except more cramped. It’s infused with the scent of ink and paper, like the stacks in the village library. Brass mailboxes line one wall over an old wooden desk into which holes have been drilled for holding certified mail receipts and forms, along with a pen tied to a dirty string. Across from that is the larger window with a bell and a sign that reads RING FOR SERVICE.
Erika taps the brass bell and Dylan emerges from the back room, flicking a lock of hair that tends to fall over his left eye. She and Dylan graduated from their regional high school the same year. He’s one of the few from their class who doesn’t blame her for what happened. Or, if he does, he’s kind enough not to let on.
“You look different,” he says.
“Do I?” She makes the effort to strike a pose. “Good or bad?”
He frowns, actually taking the question seriously. “You kind of look like your boss, no offense.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. Just different. Like I said.” He hands her a letter with a green certified return receipt attached. “You can sign as your boss’s agent, I guess. It’s addressed to her.”
Erika doesn’t have to check the address. She cringes at the lacey purple penmanship with the star instead of the o in Holly and the faint whiff of coconut suntan oil that managed to survive the long trip from Homosassa, Florida.
What to do? Whether or not to accept is Holly’s decision, not hers. But she doesn’t want to upset her boss by asking, not when she’s lying on a massage table, her face slathered with a chamomile mask.
Screw it. Erika takes the pen and dashes off her name. Better to be safe than sorry. Dylan hands her the certified letter on top of a hefty stack. Erika removes the fliers for flooring and junk mail from furniture stores and mortgage companies, Realtors and florists, tossing them in the recycling on her way out.
“Thanks, Dylan,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits. But he’s already disappeared.
She dumps the mail in the back seat of the Kia and crosses the green to the general store, feeling slightly anxious. She’s unclear if Bert’s aware the chocolate delivery contains a $2,500 worth of contraband cigars, and she’s not about to inquire. The story Robert told the store owner was that the Swiss chocolatier would not deliver the handmade confections to a residence, only to a retail establishment. The truth is neither the smuggler nor the
recipient wanted the permanent documentation of an address.
Her assignment is to ask for the box and go, but as soon as she opens the door to the tinny chime of the overhead bell, she senses hostility. Doc, the retired veterinarian who had to put down their basset, Nell, years ago, and his wife, Judy Ann, Erika’s third-grade teacher, end their chat with Bert midsentence and set their jaws in matching scowls. Neither makes eye contact nor makes the effort to offer a begrudging “Good morning.” With curt nods to Bert, they exit quickly, brushing past her, eyes averted.
Nothing new there. She steps back and lets them pass, adding with false cheer, ...
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