The Stillwater Girls(46)

Sage appears behind Nicolette, her dark eyes studying the handsome husband of the gracious woman who took us in.

“And you must be Sage?” he asks. He has dimples. Like Evie.

“You have a good trip?” Nicolette asks as he steps toward her. Brant places one hand on her arm and leans in, kissing her cheek. Her body tenses as he touches her.

“Good but long,” he says. “Just wanted to get home. I’ve missed you.”

He pulls away, and their eyes meet, holding like they’re having a conversation without so much as saying a single word.

“Should I make some tea?” Nicolette asks, her question directed to us. “Maybe we could chat for a little while before you girls head to bed?”

Sage yawns, and I catch one myself.

Nicolette turns to her husband. “It is a little late for them . . . maybe they can get to know you better in the morning?”

“Of course,” he says, eyes smiling as he gazes at me, then to my sister. “It’s a date.”

Slipping my hand in Sage’s, I lead her upstairs to our room, and then I close the door. She peels out of her clothes and into a pair of pin-striped pajamas Nicolette bought her at the boutique yesterday, and then she crawls into her side of the bed.

I’m not tired, but I don’t want to be down there, with them, marinating in a tension so thick I could slice it with a butter knife.

“He seems nice,” Sage says, rolling away and keeping her back to me as I change.

“Yeah.”

“They make a lovely couple. Like a prince and princess.”

I tug my shirt over my head and fold it neatly on the dresser before slipping out of my skirt.

“They do,” I say.

A moment later, my sister’s breathing has softened and steadied. Reaching for the book on my night table, I pad toward the window seat and draw the curtain until I have enough moonlight to read the words on the pages.

Ten chapters later, I’m reading the author’s biography, and while my body is heavy and leaden, my mind is whizzing and whirring. I couldn’t shut it off if I tried.

Drawing in a deep breath, I place the finished book aside and tiptoe across the room, quietly twisting the doorknob and ambling downstairs to grab my sketch pad from the kitchen table, where I left it earlier today.

I was trying to draw the woods, at least the woods the way the Gideons see them. Needled pines mixed with bare stalks of trees. Wild turkeys. The occasional deer. It’s like looking at my home but from a stranger’s perspective. Everything’s the same, and yet everything’s different.

I make it downstairs and find my charcoal pencil and sketchbook right where I left them. Heading back to my room, I stop when I reach the top of the stairs and hear Nicolette and her husband’s rushed, muffled voices.

“Why are you acting like this?” she asks.

“I’m worried this is going to make things worse,” he says. “For you.”

It feels wrong to eavesdrop, so I creep back to my room and shut the door, heart pulsing in my ears and tiny, quick breaths escaping my lungs.

I knew there was something going on between them. I saw it in her eyes. In his, too.

My stomach is clenched, knotted tight. Her husband doesn’t want us here. I haven’t the slightest idea where we would go from here. Without Nicolette’s charity, who knows what would become of us?

Maybe if I’m nicer to him, he won’t feel this way? And that could buy us more time to find Mama and Evie?

Giving myself a moment to settle down, I crawl into the window seat once more and draw my knees up, resting the sketch pad on top of my thighs. A moment later, I drag my pencil against the cream-colored, paper. Drawing has always calmed me, much like the way reading does.

Closing my eyes for a second, I picture the lady with the curly yellow hair and the gapped smile. I’ve never drawn her before because I never wanted to upset Mama, but tonight I’m going to. I’m going to bring her to life right here on this paper.

Painted in moonlight, I sketch the outline of her face first—round like mine—and then her nose, small and buttonlike. I give her a wide smile and pale, bushy curls that frame her face. Every time I close my eyes to picture another one of her details, there’s a weight on my chest, a fullness, and a tingle that spreads all the way to my toes.

I don’t know what it means, but I can’t help feeling as though I know her.





CHAPTER 30

NICOLETTE

“What’s this really about, Nic?” Brant asks, tugging his navy cashmere sweater over his head.

I slip my wedding ring from my finger and place it in the heart-shaped box on my nightstand.

“Taking in the girls . . . staying in New York for the winter,” he continues. “There’s something deeper going on here.”

“Just admit you don’t want them here,” I say, keeping my voice low yet tight in my chest. I don’t want the girls to hear any of this because no matter what’s said tonight, it won’t change anything. I’d sooner kick my husband out than put those poor girls on the street with nothing and no one. “Stop trying to pick fights about me when this is really about something else.”

He scoffs. “Something else? Nic, this is about you.”

“Me?” I chuckle. Talk about deflecting.