The afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the tall oaks that stand sentinel around the Hollingsworth mansion's expansive deck. I balance a tray of freshly poured lemonade, the ice clinking like tiny bells in the glasses, as I weave between clusters of lounge chairs where Lauren and her friends preen in the sunshine.
Some of these women are distant neighbors here in Lakeside Estates, but I get the impression that a number of them are from outside the community, given the way they talk about the beauty of the lake. Their laughter flutters over to me, but it’s the silence of last night’s storm that echoes in my mind—the shadowed face at the window, obscured by rain and darkness, staring right into my soul.
"Here you are, ladies," I say, my voice steady despite the shiver that threatens to unsteady my hands. But as I reach for a glass, a rogue gust of wind catches a napkin from the tray, sending it fluttering toward the chiseled features of a woman clad in a swimsuit that probably costs more than my monthly pay. Startled, I fumble and the glass tips, a waterfall of lemonade cascading onto her lap.
"Oops! Oh, I'm so sorry!" The words tumble out, tripping over each other as I set down the tray with a clatter that draws every eye. My cheeks flush hotter than the summer day; I can feel them, crimson flags announcing my mortification. With a trembling hand, I offer a towel, trying to mop up the mess, my apologies a litany as plaintive as the call of the loons on the lake.
"Never mind, Em," Lauren murmurs, but her eyes, though sympathetic, hold a glimmer of impatience. She's accustomed to seamless service, a life without the inconvenience of accidents.
"Must be a thrilling job, tending to Lauren." The voice drips with sarcasm, and I look up into the bored eyes of a woman whose skin is as flawless as porcelain. The others, an array of perfect figures and immaculate attire, watch with a mixture of amusement and disdain. They're exotic birds, all bright plumage and sharp beaks, ready to peck at anything less dazzling than themselves.
"It’s honest work," I reply, the words a tightrope walk between deference and defense. "I enjoy it."
"Can't imagine being someone's servant all day," she says, flicking her sun-bleached hair over a bronzed shoulder. Her lips curl into a smirk that doesn't quite reach the cool detachment of her gaze. "I'd go mad having to live under someone else's roof, catering to their every whim."
"Everyone's different, I guess," I say, forcing a smile as I pick up the now half-empty tray. A bitter taste lingers on my tongue, the sweetness of the lemonade soured by the condescension that hangs in the air like a heavy perfume. I glance at the women lounging across the Hollingsworth deck, their laughter as hollow as the clinking of ice cubes in their glasses. Their perfection is intimidating, but it’s their indifference, the ease with which they dismiss the lives of others, that grates against my conscience. For them, people like me are part of the scenery, as interchangeable as the potted plants lining the veranda.
"Excuse me," I murmur, my voice barely a ripple against the tide of their chatter. "I need to check on something in the kitchen."
With a nod that no one sees, I slip away, clutching the tray like a shield. My feet carry me swiftly through the French doors and across the polished floors, each step quickening as I put distance between myself and the laughter that echoes behind me. I feel a pang of guilt for abandoning my duties, yet relief washes over me as I set the tray down in the kitchen, then head for the sanctuary of the service corridor that leads to the back entrance.
I push through the door, the sunlight harsh after the dim interior. The gravel of the driveway crunches underfoot, a staccato to the rhythm of my racing heart. I draw in a breath, the scent of the lake mingled with pine offering a momentary calm. But as I near the gate, the growl of an engine breaks the tranquility.
A sleek car winds down the path toward the mansion. The silver paint gleams in the afternoon sun, a machine engineered for power and grace. It stops and, for a fleeting second, I expect Christopher to emerge, his presence as commanding as the vehicle itself. Instead, another man steps out, a man I recognize from that get-together Christopher held here a few days ago.
Aiden something-or-other. He smiles warmly, catching me off guard. "Emily! It's good to see you again." His voice carries an ease that feels out of place in the meticulous gardens of this Oregon estate.
"Hello, Aiden," I reply. My gaze lingers on him, taking in the sharp cut of his suit, a contrast against the wildness of the surrounding pines. "I didn't expect to see you here today. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, unfortunately,” he says, glancing sourly at the house. “Christopher wants to talk about a recent housing development that’s going up in the area—he wants to get in on the action.”
I nod, pretending to be interested, though in truth my mind is elsewhere.
“What about you?” he asks. “Going for a pleasant stroll?”
I laugh. "I wish. Actually, I'm escaping Lauren and her coterie. I managed to spill lemonade on one of her friends, and I don't think it improved their opinion of me."
Aiden's laughter is light, unforced. "Who cares about the opinion of a bunch of rich, stuck-up socialites?”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised by this comment. But I also find it disarming. “Maybe I should’ve spilled a little more lemonade,” I say.
He grins. “That’s the spirit.”
A breeze picks up, and we both fall silent, watching the ripples drag out along the lake. Aiden's gaze scans my face, and I can feel the weight of his attention, probing and searching. "You look troubled," he remarks softly.
I hesitate, the words coiling in my throat like smoke—should I let them out? How much can I trust a man I hardly know? Then again, what harm is there in telling him?
"Last night," I begin, the confession spilling from me like the lemonade on the sun-kissed patio tiles, "during the storm, I saw someone outside the window. Someone watching."
"Probably just Oliver," Aiden chuckles, the sound grating against my nerves, "trying to get a peek at Lauren, no doubt." The joke falls flat, and I am not amused.
"No," I reply, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. "It wasn't Oliver. He’s not sneaky like that." I know Oliver's presence; it's assured, not skulking.
Aiden's laugh disappears, replaced by a thoughtful hum. "Don't be so sure. Oliver is a man of many secrets. Then again, that’s the cost of forcing yourself into social circles like these.”
“Forcing?” I ask, puzzled.
“I’ve known Oliver for a number of years. He’s always had an eye for the finer things.” He leans in, lowering his voice. "His obsession with wealth isn't just admiration. People like him, they want a taste of this—" he gestures broadly to encompass the grandeur of the Hollingsworth mansion— "and sometimes they'll do anything to get it." There's a hint of disdain in his tone, a window into his worldview that I didn’t see before.
My mind whirls, grappling with Aiden's insinuations about Oliver. Can the man who always seems so genuine and friendly really be cloaked in deceit? The notion unsettles me like a stone in my shoe, constant and nagging. I'm still turning over the possibilities when the heavy oak door of the Hollingsworth mansion swings open.
"Mr. Bell!" Christopher's voice slices through the silence, imbued with an impatience that feels like a physical force. "We haven't got all day."
Aiden's eyes flicker toward the sound, and he rolls them with a theatrical weariness that speaks volumes about his true feelings for Christopher. His suit, impeccably fitting, seems to armor him against such intrusions as he offers me a wry smile. "Duty calls," he says with a sigh, the jest tinged with resentment.
"Of course," I murmur, my own voice sounding distant to my ears.
With a nod that feels too formal for our shared moment of candor, Aiden pivots on his heel. His stride is assertive, betraying none of the irritation that flashed across his features just seconds before.
I watch him go, the back of his dark jacket retreating into the opulent shadow of the mansion's foyer. Alone now, the chill from earlier returns, wrapping around me like the fog that clings to the lake in the early morning. Is it the breeze off the water, or the icy fingers of doubt?
Do I truly know the people within these walls, or have I been naive, blinded by the beauty and status that surround me here?
And is there anyone who is not harboring secrets?