The Stillwater Girls(5)

But mostly, I’d have thanked her for her unconditional love.

The door to the outhouse creaks open before the wind catches it and bangs it against the side of the little building.

“Wren?” Sage calls for me.

“Over here.” I step out from the south side of the outhouse and take her hand, leading her back to our house, where the warm glow of the fire through the windows lights the way. “Feel better?”

She nods.

“You’ll go to bed now?” I ask.

Sage nods again.

“I promise we’ll talk in the morning,” I say once we’re halfway to the door. I’m not sure what I can tell her to calm her concerns when I’ve spent weeks trying—and failing—to calm my own, but I’ll try my best to ensure I don’t steal what hope remains from those sweet, coffee-colored eyes.

As soon as we’re inside, I hang our coats, and Sage changes into her nightgown, a white cotton dress with a lace hem that once belonged to me, and I watch as she slips an extra pair of gray woolen socks over the ones she already wears.

I lock the door for the final time this evening, shutting out the silence that reminds me of how alone we truly are in this world—and in this land Mama always called “our little slice of heaven on earth” and “the place where no one can ever hurt us.”

Grabbing Sage’s doll from the floor, I place it on the pillow beside her, promising myself I’ll be better tomorrow. Maybe I’ll sing her one of Mama’s favorite songs and try to find a way to distract her from all this, if only for moments at a time.

“I won’t let anything happen to us,” I tell her, tucking her into bed a second later and kissing her forehead the way Mama always did. “I promise.”

Returning to my bed and burrowing under my quilt, I draw the covers over my head and take comfort in what body heat I have left.

We’re not going to die.

Not here.

Not like this.

Not cold and alone and forgotten.

Mama wouldn’t want that for her darlings.





CHAPTER 4

NICOLETTE

“I thought I was supposed to be the nervous one tonight.” Brant places his hand on the small of my back and hands me a champagne flute.

Offering a hesitant smile, I begin to respond, but he’s ushered away by some man in a three-piece suit and a woman in head-to-toe diamonds and Givenchy.

Everyone here tonight is a buyer, a dealer, or a faithful lover of the photographic arts, and one person here tonight, I presume, is a lover of my husband.

“Nicolette? My God, it’s been forever.” An old colleague of mine from the Berkshire Gallery years ago strides toward me, placing her hand on my arm and kissing the air beside my left cheek.

Her name doesn’t come to me immediately because I knew her a lifetime ago and only briefly. I hadn’t worked there very long when a handsome photographer came in for a meeting with the director and left with my personal cell number and the promise of drinks the following Friday.

M . . . her name starts with an M.

Mariah . . . Marie . . . Marin.

That’s it.

“Marin,” I say, recycling the same manufactured excitement I’ve been using all evening. “So lovely to see you. Glad you could make it.”

Her manicured hand splays across her freckled décolletage. “Brant Gideon and the Bellhaus Museum? Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. This is huge. I remember when he was just starting out. Hottest starving artist I’d ever laid eyes on . . . and then you just had to walk in and steal him from me.”

Marin bats my arm.

“You know I’m kidding,” she says, head tilted as her smile fades. “You two are disgustingly perfect for each other, and I couldn’t be happier for you. Anyway, heard you two left the city. Where are you these days?”

I sip my champagne, letting the bubbles tickle my throat before I answer. “Upstate.”

Marin studies me, her busy eyes narrowing. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

Lifting a brow, I ask, “Really?”

She shrugs. “I just figured it’d be someplace a little more . . . exotic? Given his profession.”

“We travel, but he likes the solitude,” I say, “when he’s not shooting.”

“But do you?”

I hesitate. Her question is a bit invasive considering she hasn’t seen me since I was twenty-two.

“I’m sorry,” she says, waving her hand. “I just . . . I remember when we worked together, and you always said you wanted an apartment overlooking Central Park. I believe you said you were born and raised in the city, and you were going to die here, too.”

Yes. I did say that. I’d completely forgotten.

I smirk, raising my flute. “They say if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans, right?”

Marin chuckles, though I didn’t think my comment was that funny, and then I catch her glance toward my husband.

“Anyway, I should make my rounds,” she says, swatting my wrist. “I’m only here to network. And to ogle your husband.”

Marin winks before she struts away, and I begin to recall her odd sense of humor and the fact that I never could tell when she was serious and when she was joking.

I let it go. Marin’s hardly a threat. She isn’t his type in the least.