We bleed like everyone else.
Except in Camilla Grant’s case, it wasn’t really true. At least not that Rory’d ever seen. When she was a child, her mother had seemed to be carved of marble, pure and fine and cool to the touch, Hiram Powers’s The Greek Slave but with the bronze spine of Rodin’s Eve. Impervious—or so she’d thought. But that moment this morning, that look on her face. You have no idea what I’ve lost, Aurora. What had she meant? Not a lover, apparently. Not that she would have blamed her mother for seeking comfort outside her marriage. She couldn’t remember her parents sharing a room, let alone a bed. How lonely she must have been.
Finally, the signal changed, and the crowd at the curb began to shuffle forward. She was preparing to step into the crosswalk when an old row house on the opposite corner caught her eye and she halted.
As row houses went, it was nothing special—three stories of weathered red brick with a rounded corner tower and a witch-hat turret overlooking the road. Newbury Street was lined with dozens just like it. For that matter, so were half the streets in Boston. But there was something about this one that felt different enough to stop her in her tracks.
Curtainless windows filmed with grit. An overgrown strip of grass out front. Bits of trash blown up around the cracked front stoop. It was vacant; she was sure of it. And yet, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched from one of the upper windows.
She was contemplating a closer look when a passing police car reminded her that six blocks away, the meter was running. She didn’t have time to indulge her curiosity. But as she continued down Newbury Street, she found herself glancing over her shoulder with a pang of regret. It was a peculiar sensation, like leaving a party just as things were getting interesting. Something told her the row house wasn’t finished with her yet.
It was nearly four by the time Rory finally returned home. She had narrowly avoided a parking ticket, which she decided to take as a good omen. These days, she had to take her wins where she found them. She took off her makeup, then stripped out of her brunch clothes, swapping them for sweats and a T-shirt. The bedroom TV was on, as it always was, but with the sound turned way down. Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. Bringing Up Baby. It was another quirk she’d developed, leaving the television on day and night. It gave the illusion of company and helped buffer the silence, which was too easily filled with dark thoughts.
I think you’re having trouble coping with what’s happened.
Her mother’s words echoed annoyingly. Of course she was having trouble coping. Her fiancé had vanished without a trace. And pouring out her troubles to a stranger who mumbled, “Yes, I see,” at regular intervals wasn’t going to change that.
In the kitchen, she worked around discarded takeout containers and a sink full of dirty dishes as she popped a bowl of canned minestrone into the microwave. Was this her life now? Living on canned soup and takeout while the dishes piled up? Stacks of romance novels and weekly skirmishes with her mother?
If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like one of those women whose entire life revolved around the care and feeding of her eighteen cats. Hyperbole? Maybe. But it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She’d need to get some cats, though. And a few floral-print housedresses. Maybe a pair of fuzzy slippers.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the depressing images. She’d grown up privileged, the quintessential trust-fund baby. Cars, clothes, designer everything. Elite summer camps and the very best schools. She’d wanted for nothing—except a life of her own. Growing up, she had dreamed about escaping her mother’s gravitational pull to chart a course of her own. And she’d been on the verge of making it happen. Then Hux disappeared, and it all fell apart.
Where would she be today—this very minute—if she’d followed through on Hux’s advice to chase her dream? A gallery of her own, for up-and-coming artists. Unheard Of, she was going to call it. Hux had been the impetus behind the name. In fact, the whole idea had been his.
They’d gone to hear a new band at one of the local pubs and ended up staying till last call. The streets were quiet, and they’d opted to walk rather than hail a cab. Hux had curled an arm about her shoulder, his warmth welcome against the chilly autumn night. She’d slowed as they passed a small gallery, pausing to admire one of the pieces in the window.
“You like art,” Hux had observed, sounding unusually serious. “You study art. Your degree is in art. How is it you don’t make art?”