CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Anna
Robert is gone now more than ever. Away on business. He seemingly works harder than he ever has before, as though he can regain his fortune through sheer force of will. News of the swindle has gotten out, creditors nipping at our heels, forcing Robert to slowly sell off some of the magnificent pieces that adorn Marbrisa’s rooms.
The walls are now marked by blank spaces where masterpieces used to hang.
At the same time, Robert is more solicitous than ever, quick to tell me where he is headed and when he will return. When he is home, he is tolerant and affectionate, going out of his way to woo me.
Each day, I feel like I lose a bit more of myself in the process.
It’s just me and the staff alone in this house, the rooms threatening to swallow me whole. I’m not sure I’ve ever been lonelier in my life. I wanted a quiet home, something cozy where we could retreat from the pressures and frenetic pace of society. I should have been careful in what I wished for. I have gotten solitude in spades, and now I long for company.
I no longer avoid the bay; instead, I walk the seawall, talking to the air, to Lenora, as though we are old friends. It is silly, for we never knew each other in life, but in a strange manner it feels as though we are both bound to this house, and in that we are now kindred spirits.
I am eternally grateful to Michael for the gardens. As stifled as I feel inside the house, there is something freeing about the outdoors. I wake early in the morning, often heading outside as the sun is rising. I pass the time by puttering with the flowers and shrubs, letting myself fill in when I am not in the gardeners’ way. I have little real skill, but what I lack in expertise I more than make up for in enthusiasm, and over the weeks that pass by, as the house sheds her treasures, the gardens come to life.
“You’ve a gift.”
I rise slowly from my crouched position, turning to face Michael.
For a moment, neither one of us speaks.
My cheeks heat as I remember the last time we saw each other, when he drove me home from that fateful party weeks ago. As I remember that he knows my deepest secret, the source of shame that lingers in my marriage.
He must read embarrassment on my face, because he ducks his head as though to spare me further pain.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Michael says. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t startle me. I just wasn’t expecting company. I haven’t seen you around the estate of late.”
He nods. “I’ve been working up in Palm Beach on a project for a friend.”
“How is it coming?”
“Well, I think. Despite being a friend, he’s an exacting customer, but then again, they all are.” He flushes. “I didn’t mean to give offense.”
“I think we’re far past that point. After all, you now know all my secrets.”
It stings to acknowledge it, but there seems to be no point in pretending.
“You decided to stay.” He hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze and holding it.
“Yes, I did. For now.”
Something flickers in his eyes, some thought I can’t read, and even if I could, I’m not sure I want to hear his opinion on the matter. It’s easy to judge when it isn’t your marriage, your memories, your future, your heart on the line.
“Your husband is a lucky man.”
Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed, to look away.
“I heard about your recent financial troubles,” he adds, his voice earnest. “I’m sorry.”
“Did they approach you about the project as well?”
“They did. I declined. You were right—the offers are coming in faster than I can keep up with.”
“That seems like a good problem to have.”
“It is. Of course. And I am grateful for it. But I’ve realized that if I say yes to everything with the hopes of turning a profit, the homes I design will suffer.”
“How so?”
He looks away from me, his gaze sweeping over the estate, to the bay beyond.
“I fell in love with this piece of property the first moment I saw it. I knew I wanted to design a house here. This place gripped me in a way that I’ve only felt one other time in my life. It won’t always be like that. The projects won’t always be Marbrisa. But still, I want to be selective in what I do take on to make sure that I can do them justice. What good is it to build something if I don’t put everything I have into it?”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words don’t come; instead, I can do little more than stare at him.
“I wish everyone had your conviction,” I say finally, unable to meet his gaze as the words leave my mouth.
I feel restless in his presence, uncomfortably vulnerable in the aftermath of our discussion of Robert’s affair. At the time, I was so shocked and in pain that I didn’t consider the ramifications of confiding in someone who would prove to be a constant reminder of one of my lowest moments.
“I can leave you if you like. I truly didn’t mean to disturb your work. I came to drop off some papers for Robert, and I saw you from the back doors.”
“Robert isn’t here. He’s traveling on business.”
“Ah. I’ll leave them in the study for him, then.”
“Did he—” I take a deep breath, inwardly cringing. “Did he pay you for your services at Marbrisa?”
Wives are not meant to question their husband’s business, are not supposed to get involved in financial matters between men, but it seems patently unfair for those who worked so hard to see the home built to not be paid for their labor.
“He did. You should have no worries on my account. We settled our affairs before the construction of the home was completed.”
He was one of the lucky ones, then, to not have to be paid in my earrings or the fur stole Robert bought me when we were in Paris years ago.
“Are things as bad as they say?” Michael asks.
His voice is low, barely louder than a whisper, and I must take a step forward to hear him.
“I’m not sure. Robert doesn’t want me to worry. He says he’s doing everything he can to straighten out our finances. We’ve sold off what we could. He’s determined to keep the house at all costs.”
There’s no point in hiding it, and considering all the gossip flowing around Miami, I’d rather the truth come from my lips than a fiction from someone else’s.
“I’m sorry for the part I played in all of this. For encouraging him to make Marbrisa bigger, grander. When I think about what you’re going through now—I regret that things turned out this way, that you’re struggling.”
He looks so miserable when he says it that I reach out and lay my hand on his shoulder to give him comfort.
It appears to have the opposite effect.
His arm goes rigid beneath my palm, his jaw tightening, his entire body still.
I jerk back, pulling my hand away immediately, feeling as though I have committed a grave error, somehow overstepped the bounds of our acquaintance, taken the intimacies of a friendship when none was offered.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I . . .”
I trail off, the words lost somewhere in the wind around us, in the breeze rolling off the water. For an instant, the space of a breath, his guard is down, and when I look into Michael Harrison’s eyes I see a passion, a devotion, a yearning I previously only saw when he talked about Marbrisa.
Except this time those emotions aren’t directed at the house, but are reflected back at me.
“Oh.”
The word slips out of my lips on the tail end of a whisper, my heart suddenly thumping madly in my chest, adopting its own erratic and utterly unfamiliar beat.
I’m no green girl in the throes of a first attraction. I know exactly what it means when a man looks at you like that.
I take a step back, and then another, my hand dropping helplessly to my side.
He looks utterly miserable.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“No, I never meant for you to. That was sort of the point. It would have been . . .” He appears to be searching for the right word. “Unprofessional.”
A laugh escapes before I can help it, the absurdity of the situation hitting me full force. He must be a decade younger than me if he is a day, and he’s our architect. I set out to loathe him the moment I met him, considering the role he played in this house being constructed, but now that I’ve gotten to know him, I must admit that I respect him, even like him.
“Since when?” I ask him, my voice barely audible over the thundering in my ears.
“Since the first.”
I gape at him. I remember the day we met; there was nothing remarkable in our interaction, no tension I picked up on, no special interest in me.
“I can’t explain it,” he adds.
I can’t help but laugh at how insulting that sounds even though I know he didn’t mean it that way. To be honest, I can’t imagine how this happened in the first place.
He looks away. “I’m sure it will pass.”
I don’t know what to say in response. What a strange morning this has been.
“I should go,” he says, giving me a little bow before he’s gone, leaving me staring after his retreating back wondering what the hell just happened.
Robert’s trip to New York is extended a few more days, leaving me alone longer than anticipated. While part of me admires his attempts to save our fortune, I can’t help but wonder how much time we have before the creditors close in on us to the point where none of Robert’s efforts matter anymore. If he succeeds and saves our finances and Marbrisa, there’s still the matter of our marriage, which I’m not sure is so easily repaired.
“Mr. Harrison is here,” Mrs. Morrison announces one morning when I am finishing my breakfast in the dining room. I always feel more than a little ridiculous sitting at the immense table on my own, more food than one person can eat before me. Despite our need to economize, Robert is insistent that everything must be done on a grand scale as befitting the house, even breakfast when there is no one to see it but me.
Michael stands behind the housekeeper, a set of papers in his hands. “I apologize for intruding on your time. I didn’t know Robert was still away. I thought he would be back by now.”
We’re both silent for a beat while Mrs. Morrison takes her leave, and then it’s just the two of us alone in the dining room.
“His trip was extended. Some railroad deal he’s working on up north.”
“Ah. I see. I’ll leave these for him.”
Michael turns on his heel, and suddenly, I can’t take the awkward tension between us.
“Don’t apologize. And please don’t leave.”
He stills.
Michael turns slowly, his expression inscrutable.
I take a deep breath, trying to tamper down my own embarrassment.
“This will never do. Our paths will continue to cross from time to time. After all, you’re living on our property. What you told me the other day—I—you shouldn’t feel embarrassed about it.”
“If only it were that easy,” he mutters.
“Well, maybe it can be. We were on our way to being friends, which, considering how we started out, was an impressive feat,” I joke. “There’s no reason why you can’t join me for breakfast.” I gesture toward the food on the sideboard behind me. “There’s plenty here. And I promise you, the more time we spend together, any infatuation you have will surely wear off.”
His lips quirk in a little half smile. “Very well, then.”
He takes a seat opposite mine, and I arrange for a plate to be brought to him, occupying myself with pushing the food around on my own plate.
The truth is, ever since Michael confessed that he had feelings for me, I’ve thought about his pronouncement at the most inconvenient times. I’ll be sitting in the library reading a book when suddenly it comes crashing into me—Michael Harrison cares for you—and I’ll realize I’ve been staring at the same page for five minutes, reading the same sentence over and over again.
It is the strangest thing to think you know someone, have formed a picture of their nature and character, understand your relationship with them, only to discover that nothing is as you perceived. Considering the frequency this has happened to me of late, I’m beginning to question my own judgment to a degree that is truly troubling.
We pass the meal making small talk, and as I predicted, with each minute that passes, I feel a bit more comfortable in his presence, can tell that he is loosening up as well.
When breakfast is over, I set my napkin aside next to my plate, preparing to rise from the table, and then Michael is there, pulling my chair out for me.
Our arms brush against each other.
I still.
Ever since he told me how he felt, ever since it entered my thoughts, I’ve felt an awareness, an anticipation, like that moment before a storm rolls in when everything hangs in the balance.
I take a deep breath.
“I would like to paint you. Here. In the gardens.”
Michael says it swiftly, his voice low, the words both a question and a vow, and something tumbles between us as my answer comes quickly, unbidden.
“Yes.”