CHAPTER TWO
Carmen
Be careful,” the boat captain shouts over the noise of the motor, the sleek little vessel cutting through the foam-capped waves of Biscayne Bay. “We wouldn’t want to lose you to the water. It isn’t that deep, but if you can’t swim—”
“I can swim,” I call back, but the poor man seems so unsettled by the prospect of having to tell my sister and brother-in-law that I was injured in his care that I lean away from the edge, the break of the waves jostling us once more.
If my plan to have my brother-in-law Asher grant me control of my fortune is going to be successful, I need to give him the impression that I am responsible and trustworthy, and making a good impression on his employees seems like a prudent start.
The boat captain looks momentarily stricken by his words, and I wonder if Asher told him what happened, prepared him for the possibility that I would be afraid of the water.
There was a horrific accident at sea, I imagine Asher saying. Her parents drowned.
I can understand why he might do so, considering my parents went boating and were killed in a storm. It would be natural for me to hate the thing that killed them. But if I’ve learned anything in the three weeks since I’ve become an orphan, it’s that grief does not follow logic or reason. My feelings come to me in the oddest moments, my reactions wholly unpredictable. Grief is changeable, capricious, and cruel.
Off in the distance, the shoreline beckons, the estate coming into view ahead.
It’s easy to see why my sister Carolina wanted to live in a place like this.
I think I’m going to like Florida.
The wind whips my hair around, blowing the gauzy scarf I hastily tied around my coiffure, momentarily obscuring the house as the boat charges toward our destination. A spray of seawater hits my face, and then another, the captain cautioning me to sit down, the ocean rough today. I’ve had enough of sitting lately—in church pews and funeral homes—my grief suffocating. It feels good to let go, to enjoy the feel of the air in my lungs, the wind in my face, to be away from prying eyes and whispers.
It feels good to put Cuba behind me, to set my sights on my future and the possibility of what’s to come. Even before my parents passed away, I was ready to get off the island, begging them to let me attend university in the United States, to experience more of the world than what I had seen so far. I just wish it hadn’t taken such a tremendous loss to set me on my way.
A gust hits the tender, lifting the scarf off my head, sending it floating through the air in front of me.
A shriek escapes my lips and I reach out, grabbing at the fabric, the house coming into view once more. I can just make out the silhouette of a figure standing somewhere on the shores of Marbrisa—a woman—my sister Carolina, perhaps. Her dress blows in the wind, the dark color a stark contrast to the palette of greens and blues of the landscape ahead.
I catch hold of the scarf, gripping it in my fist, the boat lurching once more, the house in view again.
The woman is gone, and in her place is a man, little more than a speck in the grass standing in front of the immense manse my older sister and her husband call home.
As the tender motors closer to the dock, the man grows larger, standing near the water’s edge, his feet planted as though bracing himself for something singularly unpleasant, his jacket discarded somewhere along the way, his arms shoved in his pockets, his shirt rumpled.
He’s slight of build and fair-haired, and I recognize him instantly from the last time we saw each other—my brother-in-law Asher Wyatt.
The small boat idles toward the dock, and the full impact of the house hits me all at once.
We have grand homes in Havana, so I can’t say it’s the size that makes the greatest impression or the formality of the thing, but rather it is the totality of all that Marbrisa is that stuns.
I’ve never seen an estate like it.
It isn’t a house; it’s a work of art.
The grounds are elaborate, the emphasis clearly on the gardens and the lush greenery as well as the view of the water. It looks like someone took a grand European mansion and transported it to Florida. I half expect a duke or duchess to walk out and greet me, which must suit my sister Carolina perfectly. It is an estate filled with drama and glamour, two characteristics my elder sister has in spades.
The driver turns off the boat and ties it up, helping me onto the dock before returning for my suitcases.
I take a deep breath, belatedly realizing my hair is a mess from the boat ride and the wind, the scarf I tied to keep it tidy failing to do its job. Oh well. If Asher was expecting me to be like my sister, he’s bound to be disappointed.
Asher strides toward me, looking perfectly at home with the specter of the house behind him. If I were an artist, I would paint a portrait of the tableau before me. All that’s missing is Carolina draped in jewels beside him.
“Carmen,” he says in greeting, walking toward me. He presses a kiss to my cheek; his lips are cool against my skin, a hint of whiskey on his breath.
Despite our relation by marriage, my brother-in-law is little more than a stranger, and I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve met. There’s one memory I have of him, the first time I ever saw him—I must have been twelve years old. He was coming to dinner, to our house in Havana, to meet our parents. Carolina had been insufferable all week in advance of his visit, so sure that the rich American she had met in Miami when she’d traveled there with family friends was going to ask our father for her hand in marriage, more temperamental than usual in case things didn’t go as she planned. I had done my best to keep out of her way, the whole house had, and I pled a cold to stay in my room that evening, to escape what I assumed would be a stuffy dinner with boring adults. After all, Asher Wyatt was a full seven years older than my sister, thirteen years older than me.
But the man I caught sight of when I peered out my window at the sound of a motorcar approaching our driveway wasn’t the old man my twelve-year-old self foolishly had envisioned. He looked dashing getting out of his convertible, his skin tanned, his smile wide, and I added Asher Wyatt to the list of things I envied about my exciting, glamorous sister.
I’d barely recognize him now.
Despite the strength of the Miami sun bearing down upon us, my brother-in-law looks as though he’s been locked away in his office, his skin pale and papery thin. His expression is drawn, his body slighter than I remembered.
He looks terrible.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says, his tone devoid of any warmth or welcome, a chill in his manner that has me taking an instinctive step back.
Has something happened?
“Is Carolina alright?”
“Your sister is sorry she couldn’t make it. She was unavoidably detained.”
I open my mouth to ask him what has happened; surely, if Carolina couldn’t be here, there must be a good reason.
Since my parents’ demise three weeks ago, I’ve spent a lot of time considering my options, trying to comprehend how my future changed so rapidly. There were distant cousins in Havana that I could have stayed with—our immediate family was quite small—but since my father had entrusted Asher with the administration of my inheritance, going to live with my sister and her husband seemed like the most prudent option.
Truthfully, the cousins appeared relieved.
I expected a warmer welcome, though. In my more fanciful moments, I envisioned a tender family reunion. After all, in times of loss, it seems natural that one would want to cleave to their family.
A bird caws off in the distance, somewhere on the estate, the sound cutting off my response and skating across the water until it is engulfed in the roar of the wind and the waves.
I wait for Asher to elaborate on the circumstances that kept Carolina from greeting me, but he doesn’t say anything else, his lips pursed in a thin line.
I glance back at the boat captain who stands near the edge of the dock with my bags, a thread of unease filling me. Asher walks past me, heading toward the captain, his back toward me. The man’s expression is hooded, and he nods at something Asher tells him, their voices too low for me to make out what they’re saying.
Maybe I should have stayed at a hotel in Miami. Of course, one needs money for a hotel, and thanks to the terms of my father’s will, my sister’s husband is my guardian until I marry or turn twenty-one. With dim romantic prospects and three years until I reach the age my father decided would signify maturity, I’m dependent on my brother-in-law’s good nature whether I like it or not. Insulting that a girl should be considered incapable of managing her own affairs despite being of legal age, but my parents were always traditional.
Asher walks back toward me, extending his arm to me.
“The staff will carry your luggage to your room. I’ll show you up to the house so you can get settled in.”
I hesitate for a moment before taking his arm and falling into step beside him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Asher says, breaking the silence between us as we walk toward the main house.
I wish he hadn’t said anything about the funeral; I’d nearly forgotten how upset I was when they sent word that they wouldn’t be able to come, how hurt I had been that Carolina didn’t see fit to let me know herself, that in a time when we should have been able to lean on each other, to share in our grief over the loss of our parents after their accident, I was left alone in Havana to deal with the aftermath of settling their affairs.
“I was surprised Carolina didn’t make it.”
I shouldn’t have been, considering Carolina never made a return trip to Havana after her marriage. Each Christmas, I waited to see if my sister would be joining us, and each year I was left disappointed. We ferried gifts across the sea to each other and impersonal notes, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise, and yet, when there’s so much hope tied up in the promise that things could be different, it’s easy to misread a situation.
Asher frowns. “Carolina—”
A scream pierces the air.
The heel of my sandal catches on the gravel path.
I lurch forward, my heart pounding madly in my breast.
Asher reaches out, his hand gripping my arm to keep me from falling to the ground. For a man who looks as though the life has been leeched from him, he moves surprisingly quickly.
I struggle to calm my racing heart, my gaze darting around the estate in the direction the noise came from.
“What was that?”
Asher releases me. “It’s just the peacocks.”
The paleness of his skin belies the confidence in his words. He might have concluded that there was no threat quicker than I did, but there’s no doubt in my mind that for a moment he was as startled by the noise as I was.
“Peacocks?” I ask.
“They’re everywhere.”
“Are peacocks native to Miami?”
“No one really knows how they got here. Some people think they might have been brought by some of the early developers. They certainly add to the atmosphere of the place.”
Atmosphere is something Marbrisa has in spades.
I preoccupy myself with dusting the sand off the skirt of my dress, more than a little embarrassed by my dramatic reaction to the birds’ presence.
“The house is beautiful,” I offer, the word floating inadequately between us.
“It is.”
I wait for Asher to elaborate on the thought as one naturally would in such a conversation, but he doesn’t say anything else until we reach the main staircase going up to the glass doors leading into the mansion.
“Welcome to Marbrisa.”
I glance up, the enormous structure casting a long shadow the closer we get. There are stone creatures crouched atop the parapet—gargoyles, perhaps? Or other winged beasts. They’re too far away for me to make out their features beyond the essentials, but they look as though they’re prepared to swoop down upon me.
Whoever built this place must have had a vivid imagination.
Asher pulls open one of the glass-arched doors leading into the house.
I hesitate, the threshold yawning before me.
There’s a shift in the air from the fresh scent of the ocean breeze to something I can’t quite identify—the mustiness of a house that’s finally being aired out after being closed for far too long. As I step into the splendor that is the main house, I cross into another world, into another time. The house’s history is etched in its floors and written on its walls. There’s a heaviness to Marbrisa, a weight beyond the heavy gold-framed artwork and towering chandeliers.
Growing up in a city with as rich of a history as Havana, it’s hard to not be fascinated by how the past informs the present, to ignore the stories that reside in the walls of buildings and in street stones, the lingering imprint of the lives that came before us.
What stories does Marbrisa tell?
The door slams behind me, the sound booming in the cavernous space.
A chill slides down my spine.
Despite all the windows and the sunlight streaming into the house, the inside is a far cry from the exterior. Here, oppressive opulence reigns, the natural beauty and harmony of the grounds giving way to oversize furniture and grand artwork filled with haughty figures staring down at me like I am an interloper in their domain. Whether they are Asher’s ancestors or simply someone else’s that were available for purchase is difficult to tell, but they’re an unsmiling lot adding to the macabre ambiance.
The house lacks a general lived-in appearance, the casual detritus of life that accompanies a home. Rather, it looks like a museum, a monument to another time. I see little of Carolina in the decor save for the fact that it is undeniably ostentatious. Still, there’s a warmth about my sister—a charisma—that this place lacks, a sumptuousness that should be here but is not. It’s like sitting down at a gleaming banquet table heaped with accoutrements and expecting to be served a feast only to discover that the plates are all bare, the food withered and decayed.
The tile floor is an intricate mosaic of colors and patterns that appear to tell a story, but I’m too close to the image to get the full picture, to understand exactly what it is that I’m looking at. It’s a puzzle of sorts, and I’ve always been one for putting all the pieces together.
Each individual segment is a work of art, but taken together, the sheer amount of labor that must have gone into the flooring is staggering. The ceiling is equally impressive, an image that looks somewhat biblical given the clouds, rays of light, and winged creatures hovering above. The entryway is huge, the ceiling far, far above our heads; the artist must have worked on a scaffolding perched high to create such a breathtaking image.
Asher and I part ways, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, leads me up an enormous golden staircase to my bedroom.
Heavy paintings adorn the richly detailed walls, flanking the hallway, a seemingly endless row of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
It feels a bit like I am Alice and I have just gone through the looking glass. Because there’s something about this house, something that I can’t quite put my finger on, something that just feels a bit wrong. The house is meant to look as though it is centuries old, but the furnishings and decor don’t have the same worn look as the rest of the property. In fact, the space looks as though it was redecorated much more recently.
“How long have you worked at Marbrisa?” I ask Mrs. Morrison.
“Since it was constructed. The original owners hired me to care for the house. Then Mr. Wyatt hired me back when he bought it from the state fifteen years later, in the thirties. He was determined to restore the property and the furnishings to their former glory after the house had sat vacant for so long. We had a hurricane some fifteen years back. That took its toll, too.”
“It must feel a bit like working in a museum,” I muse. Or a mausoleum. “All this marble. Not to mention the artwork. And then there’s the history of the house to be preserved. I imagine that can be an overwhelming task.”
“It can be. Yes.”
I sneak a glance at her, trying to decode her short answers. There’s a tension emanating from her, fairly crackling around her body. She looks to be about my mother’s age, perhaps a bit older, her reddish brown hair sprinkled with gray.
“You said Asher hired you. Did you begin working here when Asher and Carolina married?”
It’s been six years since they wed in Havana in 1935.
She flinches nearly imperceptibly at the sound of my sister’s name.
Ahh.
“No. Mr. Wyatt hired me. Before your sister came to live here.”
There’s a tightness to her voice when she delivers the last sentence, as though she’s tasted something bitter in her mouth and is eager to spit it out.
“Well, you’ve done an extraordinary job. The house is lovely. It’s clear you care for it a great deal.”
Mrs. Morrison’s eyes flicker with surprise. “Thank you.”
We stop in front of one of the bedrooms. “This one is yours. Your sister picked it out for you.”
Carolina’s always been like that—doing a kind thing one moment, showing a different side of her personality the next. That she cared enough to pick out a room for me, and yet not enough to be here to welcome me upon my arrival, is just one of those things I’ve learned to take in stride no matter how much the latter stings. Part of me has always admired her fierce independence, how she has learned to hold herself accountable to no one, to live solely on her terms, but when you’re the recipient of such behavior, when her interests no longer align with yours, it can hurt.
The impetus to apologize for whatever slight Carolina has caused is there on the tip of my tongue. Despite the years between us, I have always been the peacemaker in the family, striving to avoid conflict at any cost. I’m not responsible for my sister’s actions, but at the same time, I’ve been here less than an hour and I’ve slipped back into the pattern of our childhood.
I take a deep breath and bite back the empty apologies that come to mind. Carolina will always be Carolina, and there’s no point in me wishing she could be someone she’s not or making excuses for her behavior. My parents are gone now, my sister married and in a family of her own; it’s time for me to be my own person, independent of where I come from.
The housekeeper closes the door behind me, and I take in the full effect of my room. The bedding and drapes are a matching sage green silk with some floral pattern embroidered on the fabric. They look too new to be original to the house, yet they fit in perfectly with the house’s grand, gilded character.
Did Carolina choose these? And was it a coincidence that she gave me this room, or did she remember that green has always been my favorite color?
It would be easy to write her off as self-absorbed if that were the whole of her personality rather than a facet. After all, that’s the trouble with people—it’s easy to be ensnared when you glom on to the good in them, suffering through the sharper parts.
Various paintings line the walls surrounding the guest suite, but one in particular stops me in my tracks. The artist has painted the back of Marbrisa, the view from the patio looking and leading out to the sea. There’s a woman in the foreground of the painting—a pale blonde wearing a dress the color of the sea. Her hair is swept up in a loose updo, a pair of seashell combs holding it in place.
I step closer, studying the brushstrokes, the way the artist has drawn the landscape. Given the grandeur of the subject matter at hand, I would have expected the artist to focus on Marbrisa, on the stunning view of Biscayne Bay. Instead, it feels as though the house and the grounds fade into the background, pale in comparison to the brushstrokes that have seemingly, lovingly been used to capture the woman’s profile.
I can’t make out the artist’s name amid the scrawled signature at the bottom corner of the painting, but there’s a gold plate affixed just above the heavy gold frame with a name engraved there:
Anna Barnes
Was she a guest in the house? Or one of the previous owners?
I walk over to the window, staring down at the gardens below. There’s a greenhouse on the edge of the property, the stone-and-glass edifice looming large. It’s in the painting, too, off on the fringes of the image.
Peacocks mill about the greenhouse—six, no, seven of them. Two of the males have all their feathers fanned out in full display as though they’re posturing with each other, preening in front of the remaining females.
The greenhouse door opens, and a woman steps out. She pauses, turning back just as a man follows behind her. She calls out to him, but between the glass window and the distance, I can’t hear what she says, am too far away to read the shape of her lips and the words they form.
I recognize her instantly.
Carolina.
The man walks away from the house, too much distance between us for me to make out his features, but one thing is clear by the clothing he’s wearing, considering I just saw my brother-in-law not half an hour ago.
It isn’t Asher.
Carolina begins walking toward the house, hips swaying.
My breath hitches as I watch her.
So much of my sister’s persona is curated that it’s rare to catch these glimpses of Carolina that feel like windows into who she really is rather than the version of herself that she wishes the world to see.
Carolina stops suddenly, her gaze trained toward the main house. For a moment, she stills, and then it’s as though she transforms into someone else entirely. The carefree sister I knew, loved, and envied is gone, and the image staring back at me and the expression on her face are ones I no longer recognize. The easygoing woman strolling through the gardens is replaced with a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
How is it possible that a place that looks like paradise could bring its residents so much pain?
Carolina’s head jerks up as though I’ve spoken the words aloud, the question carried on the wind, through the panes of glass.
Our gazes connect.
The last thing I want is for Carolina to think I was spying on her, as I admittedly was wont to do when we were children and I followed her everywhere, hanging on her every action and word. I wish I could explain that I just happened to be looking out the window when she exited the greenhouse, wish I could assure her that no matter what, she’s my sister and her secrets are safe with me.
I raise my hand to wave to her, a smile forming on my lips.
My arrival at Marbrisa is the fresh start I always hoped we could have, without the baggage of our family dynamics between us, without the foolishness of youth that followed us for so long.
Carolina holds my gaze for a heartbeat, and then she glances away, disappearing inside the house.
My hand falls to my side.
I wait for Carolina to visit me in my room, but no one comes to see me save for a man who drops off my suitcases and then leaves as quickly as he came.
The urge to go in search of her is there, but I’m not a child anymore, and part of me wants Carolina to see me as an equal rather than an annoying little sister, for her to acknowledge how much I’ve changed and grown in the hopes that we can forge a friendship between us.
I spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking, hanging my dresses on silk-padded hangers in the enormous armoire opposite the bed. Despite the floral sachets that have been tucked in there, the furniture smells faintly of disuse—a guest room that has likely seen few guests.
When we lived in Havana, Carolina was always the life of the party. I would have thought that a house like this would have provided the perfect opportunity for her to entertain her friends, although there’s a stillness about Marbrisa that suggests otherwise. It’s a house that was clearly built for grand parties, for inspiring awe, but it seems to have lost its way. The estate is rather isolated, a far cry from the city environs that we were used to.
And yet, there’s clearly one visitor to Marbrisa—the man Carolina met in the greenhouse.
I dress for dinner in one of my favorite gowns, the familiarity of it and the fond memories it conjures filling me with peace and much-needed confidence. I shouldn’t feel this nervous to see my own sister, but Carolina’s moods can run the gamut from making you feel like the most important person in the world when she bestows her attention on you to that prickling feeling that forms at your nape when a storm is about to roll in, and unfortunately, you never know what you’re going to get.
Tonight, I can’t help but sense clouds are on the horizon, given the lack of a warm welcome earlier.
With the age difference between us, and the fact that I gathered I was a bit of a surprise to my parents, Carolina always gave the impression that she would have been happier as an only child. Maybe it was because as the eldest, she was the one who drew the most expectation and criticism when she didn’t live up to our parents’ notions of what was appropriate. By the time I came around, they were too exhausted by her exploits to worry much about me and my behavior, leaving me largely unscathed. I always assumed she would have preferred to have shared none of the attention and all of the strictures.
Now that they’re gone, it is surprisingly terrifying to realize the world before me is a blank canvas, my future up to me and me alone—if Asher gives me control of my inheritance, that is.
A clock chimes somewhere in the house, the long gongs like a beating heart.
I head downstairs.
When I enter the room, I’m surprised to find that we’re not dining as a family as I imagined, but rather, there’s an unfamiliar man sitting at the table in the chair opposite the one that has clearly been left empty for me.
Asher and Carolina sit across from each other at the table, like the two farthest points on a compass.
My sister rises.
The glimpse of her in the gardens earlier wasn’t enough to prepare me for the shock.
She has always resembled our mother—the same dark hair, the same dark eyes, the same tall, willowy build—but now, seeing her presiding over her own table, her mannerisms so like the ones I grew up with—
A lump fills my throat, an unexpected wave of grief attacking me.
The loss of my parents has stripped me emotionally raw, and I feel more vulnerable than I ever have before, a sensation that is hardly welcome considering I have no armor to protect me from the family history I’m about to wade through. We fought when we were children—Carolina angry because I would borrow her things without asking, me desperate to get her attention and going about it in all the wrong ways. I’d hoped we’d broken out of that pattern, that in our shared grief we could be sisters once more, but seeing her again like this, all the old feelings come rushing back to me. I am once again the other Acosta sister who never quite measures up to the long shadow Carolina casts.
She’s changed dresses since we saw each other through the glass panes of my bedroom window. She’s wearing a gold lace gown with a tailored collar, nipped waist, and full skirt. Enormous rubies drip from her ears, her lips painted in the same crimson color.
I glance down at my dress.
There’s a spot a few inches below the knee that I never noticed before, a remnant of a glass of wine I likely had the last time I wore it. The desire to run upstairs and change or at the very least take some club soda and a towel and remove the stain myself is overwhelming.
“Carmen.”
She even sounds like our mother.
Tears well in my eyes.
I glance up at my sister just in time to see her eyes follow the line of the dress, to the spot in question. Her gaze lingers there a moment longer than I’d like before traveling back to my face again.
She smiles, the edges of her mouth as sharp as the stones adorning her skin, the effect no less dazzling for the brittleness in the moment.
Carolina glides toward me, Asher and the unnamed man’s attention on us. I would have preferred our reunion be in private, without prying eyes, but here we are.
Carolina stops, the familiar scent of her perfume hitting me first. She embraces me, her touch featherlight against my skin, her lips hovering an inch or two away from my cheek before she pulls back to study me much as I am doing to her.
A lump forms in my throat, memories flooding me.
Carolina pulls back first.
“How are you?” she asks, her voice low, the sharp edges softened.
When I was ten and she was sixteen, I fell off my horse during a riding lesson and sprained my wrist. I was terrified of horses, but our parents insisted that we both learn to ride, and while Carolina had an excellent seat, I never took to it like she did. I remember sitting in the dirt, holding my arm, tears streaming down my cheeks at the pain. Carolina was the first to reach me, crouching down to my level, using her sleeve to wipe the tears from my cheeks. She sat with me until our mother came. It’s those memories that give me hope for our relationship.
“It varies each day,” I admit. “They say these sorts of things take time to get over, although I can’t help but wonder if that’s even possible, if distance truly does dull the pain. I miss them. So much.”
I don’t add the rest—the fact that I’ve yet to figure out what I’m supposed to do now that they’re gone. While Carolina is no doubt mourning their loss, she has already made a life for herself here, a new family, thanks to her marriage to Asher.
“How are you?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “As can be expected, I suppose.”
“You didn’t come to the funeral.”
The words escape with more accusation than I intended, the hurt I struggled to bury bubbling to the surface.
“I couldn’t make it. I didn’t think I would be missed. It’s not like they realized I wasn’t there. You were there to represent the family, which I’m sure is what they would have wanted anyway. After all, you were always the daughter they were proud of. I was the one they were eager to be rid of.”
“That’s not true,” I sputter, surprised by the edge in her voice, the flashing anger in her eyes.
“Isn’t it? I was married at your age. It seems like they weren’t as eager to have you out of the house so soon.”
I glance over my shoulder, praying our voices are low enough that our conversation can’t be heard. What would Asher think of the implicit meaning in Carolina’s words, the hint of resentment there signifying that perhaps her marriage wasn’t exactly what she wanted it to be? Although, if that’s truly the case, this is the first I’ve heard of it. While I can’t say our parents were reluctant to see Carolina wed, the entire business always felt like it was driven by her desire to be Mrs. Asher Wyatt. From where I’m standing, Carolina got what she wanted and then some. There are certainly worse fates than being mistress of Marbrisa.
For his part, Asher stares down at the dinner plate, his expression hidden by the slump of his shoulders, the curve of his neck.
“You were,” I murmur, turning back to face Carolina. “Missed, I mean. I missed you.”
She shrugs again as though we’re discussing a lunch date rather than our parents’ funeral. “You’re here now.” She smiles, a slightly false note in the gesture, as though she knows I’m annoyed and she’s trying to smooth the whole thing over with her charm. “Let’s eat. Let me introduce you to our guest, Nathaniel Hayes.”
I turn toward the stranger.
He’s tall and lean, his hair an inky midnight, his skin pale. Whereas Asher looks as though the life has been slowly leeched from him, Nathaniel’s face has a luminous quality to it like a pearl plucked from the sea. If I were casting a Gothic hero, Nathaniel would fit the bill nicely. It’s also undeniable that if I were to place a guess as to the sort of man my sister would meet in a greenhouse, he would be at the top of my list.
He looks to be more Asher’s contemporary than mine, and I can’t help but wonder where he fits into this little tableau. Is he Asher’s friend or Carolina’s? A business associate, perhaps? I wouldn’t think they would invite an acquaintance for an intimate family reunion, but maybe he’s supposed to be a buffer, their way of ensuring this dinner doesn’t delve into the overly personal. Maybe it’ll make tonight easier.
I take a seat to Carolina’s right, opposite their guest.
My gaze darts around the table, studying my fellow dining partners’ faces. It feels as though I’ve entered at the middle of a conversation, one I was never meant to be privy to. There’s a tension between them, a falseness in their mannerisms. Carolina smiles too brightly; Asher is far too occupied with the table setting before him.
And Nathaniel—
“I understand you just arrived from Havana,” Nathaniel says.
Surprise fills me. I would think Asher or Carolina would be the ones to dictate the conversation, considering they’re our hosts, but Nathaniel speaks with the confidence of someone who is familiar enough with the house and its inhabitants to steer the direction of the evening.
“I did. Just this morning.”
“And what do you think of Marbrisa so far?”
“It’s certainly grand,” I say, directing my compliment and smile to my sister to draw Carolina into the conversation.
She doesn’t respond, her gaze not on me, but instead on Nathaniel.
There’s a hint of something in her eyes—anger, dislike, annoyance?—and then she returns her attention to the wine in front of her, sparing neither one of us another glance.
Is he the man Carolina was meeting in the greenhouse?
He’s certainly handsome enough.
Up close, without the distance between us, it’s hard to tell if he could be the man I saw from the window. His clothing is different, but he likely changed into more formal attire to come to dinner this evening. His clothes are elegant and fine, his manners impeccable. If I didn’t know otherwise, it would be easy to mistake him as the owner of Marbrisa and Asher as his guest.
“Are you a frequent guest at Marbrisa, Mr. Hayes?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me.
Carolina’s head snaps up as the question falls from my lips.
Mr. Hayes smiles, the effect transforming his face from Gothic hero to charmer in an instant. I swallow, more than a little unsettled. He is almost aggressively handsome, and while I can easily understand how such a quality might draw women to him, there’s something disingenuous about his looks.
My mother warned me not to trust a man who was too handsome for fear he’d think too highly of himself.
“Occasionally. Asher and I did a bit of business together a few years back. We’ve become friends. He’s kind enough to host me when I’m in Miami. I like to spend the winters here.”
“It’s not quite winter, Mr. Hayes.”
He smiles again. “Perhaps not, but I confess, November in Boston can be markedly unpleasant. Better to be here with the bright sun and sea, and in such pleasant company.”
He says the last part with a flourish I doubt he means.
I glance at Carolina, curious to see if she’s moved by his patently obvious attempt at flattery, but her gaze is back on her wineglass, her lips moving ever so softly, no words audibly escaping. The mannerism tugs me back in time to when we were young girls and she used to engage in the same habit whenever she was working something out in her mind. It was almost as though she was having a silent conversation with herself, one she didn’t care to share with the rest of us.
What is consuming her thoughts?
“What sort of business are you involved with?” I ask, my gaze darting back to Nathaniel Hayes. If I can’t decipher Carolina’s secrets, perhaps I can ascertain his.
“None I’m certain that would interest someone as lovely as you. It’s all very boring. And please, call me Nathaniel.”
If he thinks he can fob me off so easily and with such a poor attempt to put me in my place, he’s surely mistaken.
“I wouldn’t be bored at all.”
“I build hotels,” he drawls.
“And yet, you don’t stay at them?”
Across the table, Asher’s eyes widen slightly.
Nathaniel flashes me a row of perfect white teeth. “I haven’t built any hotels in Miami. Yet. I’m still looking for the perfect location.”
I open my mouth to reply—
A scream rips through the house.