Between Here and the Horizon(13)
When Hilary turned the Land Rover into a long, arrow-straight road and suddenly “The Big House” appeared in front of us, I understood why everyone called it that. The building wasn’t a house; it was a mansion. A huge sandstone monstrosity, three stories high, with eight pillars, four on either side of the massive entranceway, propping up a deep lintel that ran from one end of the building to the other. I counted a total of eight windows on each of the floors. How many rooms did that equate to? The place was obscene. It made perfect sense that the Fletcher family, circa 1890, had needed to hire half the island to run the place.
“Seriously?” I couldn’t keep the comment in as I sat there, blinking up at the house, which only kept getting bigger and bigger as the Land Rover sped up the driveway. “All this? For Ronan, me, you and two small children? We’ll be lost half the time.”
Hilary laughed under his breath. “Not for me, actually. I’m heading back to New York tonight. Ronan’s asked me to keep an eye on things back in the city for him and report back if anything goes awry.”
So, Hilary was more than just a driver. That didn’t surprise me. He had a way of holding himself and of speaking that made me think he was highly educated. Weird that he’d been the one to come and collect me from the beach, but then again Ronan Fletcher obviously didn’t mind doing things a little differently. “If you need anything, you can always give me a call, though. Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black leather wallet. “I have some business cards inside. Take one,” he said, holding the wallet out to me.
I did so. I flipped the wallet closed and returned it to him once I had the card, but not before noticing the photograph slid into the clear plastic window inside: Hilary and Ronan, both wearing sweat-stained t-shirts, covered in mud, heads tilted back, both laughing raucously at some unknown hilarity that I was never going to be privy to. It was strange to see Ronan laughing; he looked like another man altogether.
No one greeted us inside the house. I didn’t know what I’d expected of the interior—maybe something along the lines of a faded, aging manor house, with wingback chairs, chaise longue nestled into the bay windows, heavy, thick curtains with rich brocade, fastened back with gold tassel ties. What I was not expecting was the height of modern luxury. Cool, polished marble floors. Expensive looking flat screen TVs and sectional sofas so big you could fit at least seven or eight people on them at once. Everything smelled new, and looked like it had been shipped out from Pottery Barn or Macy’s, from the wildly shaped glass vases to the thick pile rugs underfoot and the fur throw that was arranged neatly over the back of a plush cream armchair.
“Don’t worry. It’s not real.” Ronan Fletcher’s voice echoed around the cavernous lounge space, bouncing off the walls so that it took me a moment to figure out his exact location. Standing in a doorway by the window, he was dressed in a simple plain black t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. His feet were bare, which, for some reason made me blush. What the hell was that about?
His dark hair had been slicked back when we met last, full of product, but now it was swept back out of his face in thick waves that any girl would have killed for.
“I’ll take your bags up to your room, Miss Lang.” Hilary’s hand on my shoulder almost made me jump; I’d completely forgotten he was there.
“Oh, don’t worry. I can do that.” I tried to rescue the handle of my luggage from him, but he was too quick for me.
“It’s not a problem. I have to go and pack up myself anyway. And I’m sure Ronan wants to have a quick word with you as well.”
“That’s right. Thanks, Hilary. Ophelia, come and sit down. Let’s go through a few house rules, shall we?” Cool as ever, Ronan sauntered into the room and sat himself down on the sectional, throwing one arm over the back of the sofa. His body wasn’t as rigid as it had been back in New York, but there was still a reserved quality to him that made him seem remote and detached from everything around him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but that standoff-ish quality was all at once both so overwhelming and so incredibly subtle that it made my head spin.
I went and sat on the other side of the sofa, perching myself on the edge, knees pressed together, hands resting on my thighs, back ramrod straight.
“You look very uncomfortable,” he said. “Don’t be. This is your home now, Ophelia. For the next six months, anyway. Relax. You’ll be miserable here otherwise. And I don’t want that.”
He was right, but it was going to take me a little longer than five minutes for me to start throwing my feet up on the furniture and lounging around in my sweats. Still, I leaned back into my seat, trying not to be so stiff. “You said there were house rules?”
“Only one or two. Simple, obvious things that don’t need saying, I’m sure. For the sake of clarity, however, it’d probably be better to just get them out of the way and then we can both move on. Agreed?” I hadn’t noticed the way his cheeks dimpled before. Probably because he hadn’t smiled once during our meeting in New York. Now, with the faint suggestion of amusement teasing at the corners of his mouth, they were just about visible. Connor had inherited the feature from his father. It was crazy how alike they were.
“Firstly,” he said, holding up his index finger. “I wanted to thank you. I know…I know I’m not an easy person to be around, Ophelia, and I also know that I wasn’t very…” He seemed to grope for the remainder of his sentence. It took him a while before he continued. “I wasn’t very pleasant at your interview.”