The Beautiful Daughters (17 page)

Sold her.

Harper felt as if someone had struck a match in her belly, and the fire that began to glow there was white-flame hot. He had no right. No right. And though she had let it happen for years—had welcomed it, even, because she believed heart and soul that she was getting exactly what she always deserved—if Adri could write those words,
Wish you were here
, maybe there
was hope for her after all. Not redemption, never that. But something at least a little better than this.

Better than slavery.

The tables at La Belle Vie were perfectly apportioned so that conversation from neighboring tables was nothing but a low buzz against the soft, creamy walls of the award-winning restaurant. Harper's gaze flicked around the room, lighting on couples and small parties, groups of people lifting wineglasses to their lips and spearing bites of tiny portions of food from the tasting menu. Everyone seemed to order the tasting menu, and everyone left hungry. But it wasn't the food, or lack thereof, that made Harper suddenly sick to her stomach. It was the fact that she was sitting among them, beautifully dressed and smiling at all the right times, and no one knew that she was as trapped as a bird in a cage.

Or maybe they did, and they just didn't care.

And maybe tonight was the night. The man with the blood sausage was practically drooling on her, and Sawyer weighed every glance. Harper could tell by the way that her so-called boyfriend watched her, proprietary and cool. But there was something else in his eyes, too. Something calculating.

The dark dress, the dream of running, they were really just a warm-up. A little exercise to stretch her independent muscles, her resolve. But all at once Harper was leveled by the knowledge that
not now
could very easily become
not ever
. What if she waited too long? Sawyer's grip strangled tighter every day, and Harper finally knew that she was suffocating.

The slimeball beside her was still openly staring at her all but bare chest, and Harper stifled a gasp when she felt his hand snake onto her thigh. The tablecloth was long, nearly touching the floor, and it was easy enough for him to hide what he was doing. But when Harper shot a desperate look at Sawyer, she realized that he knew exactly what was happening. He gave the man a half-smile. Looked away.

“Excuse me,” Harper said, pushing back her chair to stand.
The man's hand was still grasping at her slinky dress, causing a strap to slip off her shoulder. Harper righted it, heart pounding.

Sawyer was mid-sentence, but he stopped and gave her a black look. She was to be seen and not heard at these sorts of functions. And she was certainly not supposed to interrupt him in the middle of a monologue.

“I'll be right back.” She could feel the blood surging through her veins, but there was a heavy dose of fear mixed in with her fury. The men at the table were all staring at her, watching the subtle exchange between Harper and Sawyer with the interest of compulsive gamblers steeply invested in an underground dogfight. Harper knew without even looking at them that they were keen to see how Sawyer would handle his girl. And because she couldn't risk his fighting her, because she was shaking so hard that it was nearly impossible to keep her voice steady, she bent over and kissed him on the mouth. He tasted of wine and foie gras. “I'll be right back,” she said again.

This time, he settled back into his seat and flicked his fingers at her as if he had directed her to go.

The bathroom was beyond the main dining room and down a small hallway, and as Harper walked away she felt every eye on her. Not just the men at Sawyer's table, but every eye in the place. She didn't want the attention, in fact, she longed to escape it, so she wrapped her arms across her chest and hurried the last few steps on heels that clicked loudly against the tile floor.

Harper shouldn't have rushed and she knew it the minute she pushed through the bathroom door. It attracted too much attention. But she couldn't change that now. Fortunately, there was no attendant in the bathroom, and Harper didn't have to go through the motions of entering a stall and flushing the toilet. Instead, she thrust her wrists under a stream of cold water in the sink and let the shock of it numb her nerves. Drinking in fast little sips of air, Harper studied her own face in the mirror. The woman that looked back at her was clearly petrified, an
emotion that she didn't recognize in herself. And yet, hadn't she been scared for years? Fearful of Sawyer and her imprisonment, yes, but also of herself and the stranger she had become?

But Harper didn't have time for such thoughts. She only had a few seconds, maybe a minute, before she had to slip past the doors to the dining room and down the steps to the street. Any longer than that and Sawyer would wonder where she was and come looking.

Grabbing a towel from the stack next to the sink, Harper abruptly dried her hands. Then she bent down and pulled off her shoes, looping her finger through the straps of both heels so that she could carry them one-handed. She looked ridiculous, she knew. The cocktail dress, the red shoes clutched like a talisman. Her eyes were wild, and there were goose bumps on her naked arms. She had forgotten her wrap on the back of the chair where she had been sandwiched between Sawyer and the man with the blood sausage.

Harper tried to take a deep breath, but there was a boulder on her chest and she only managed a small mouthful. Hardly enough to get her out the door, much less away from Sawyer.

But she couldn't worry about that.

Harper slipped out of the bathroom like a ghost, her tiny footsteps swallowed up by the immense, icy floor. The stairs looked like they were a mile away, and the broad entrance to the dining room loomed between her and freedom. For a moment, Harper couldn't decide if she should tiptoe or run, but before she could worry about her choice, she felt something settle lightly over her shoulders.

Stifling a scream, Harper spun and found herself crushed against Sawyer's chest. His expression was inscrutable, but he wore a hard, thin smile. “I thought you seemed cold,” he said. “You were trembling. I brought you your wrap.”

Harper almost vomited on him. Terror and something that felt a lot like rage whirled inside her chest like quicksilver. But she couldn't indulge such emotions now. Not with Sawyer
above her, his hands holding her up so that she wouldn't collapse on the floor in a heap.

“I am cold,” she stuttered, and the tremor in her voice substantiated her claim.

“But apparently your feet aren't?” Sawyer stuck a finger through the peep toe of one red shoe and lifted it slightly.

“My feet are sore,” Harper managed. “I told you I can't walk in these shoes.”

“You said you can't walk in the gladiator shoes.”

“These, too.” It was weak and Harper knew it, but her nerves were too frayed from her pathetic attempt at escape.

Sawyer considered her, his gaze glacial and shrewd. “Put your shoes on, Harper.”

She didn't think. She just crouched down and did as he said, and when she stood up again, he took her jaw in his hand.

“I don't know what you think you're playing at.” He leaned so close their foreheads touched. Anyone watching them would think that they were in love, enjoying an intimate moment. But Harper could feel the hate coming off him in waves as he said, “If you cross me, I'll kill you.”

She didn't think he meant it. Not really.

But she didn't ever want to find out.

They walked back to the table with Sawyer's arm around her waist, and before they approached his party, they both clipped smiles to their faces like ornaments. Harper's felt lopsided and funny on her mouth, but Sawyer looked just like he always did: gorgeous. And dangerous.

The rest of the supper was a blur to Harper, and though the wrath she felt toward Sawyer threatened to bubble up and over, she tamped down such hazardous emotions. Kept her face blank. Her hands folded in her lap.

There was something off about Sawyer, something broken and fierce. Harper hadn't noticed it before, or if she had, she had done her best to ignore it. But watching him after her first and only attempt at escape, she could see it as clearly as the
perfect nose on his face. That same nose that had struck her as so masculine, so faultless in the beginning, now reminded her of a pig. Nothing was as it seemed, and in a rush Harper could see that the so-called home she had allowed Sawyer to create for her was about to reveal itself for the madhouse it really was. She had no idea what he would do with her now that she had broken his trust.

The night was crisp and clear when Sawyer's small group descended the stairs from La Belle Vie and stood on the sidewalk beneath the streetlights. The bill had been nearly $900 for five people, but Harper knew that the outrageous expense didn't affect Sawyer. It was her perceived betrayal, the understanding that she had tried to do something—even if he didn't know what that something was—that made him clench and unclench his fists like he wanted to hit someone.

But as Harper watched Sawyer say his goodbyes, she realized that his outrage also made him erratic. He stood next to her, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, but his eyes hopped around. He couldn't focus on anything for more than a split second at a time. He shifted on his feet, unable to stand still. Harper could tell that Sawyer was distracted and overeager, ready to be alone with her but too arrogant to let his anger dictate the evening he had planned.

It was her only chance.

Ducking down, Harper put her hand casually on Sawyer's wrist as if she needed to hang on to him for balance. She made a show of fussing with her shoes, slipping her heels out of the backs as if the straps were giving her a blister. For a moment she could feel Sawyer's attention, and then just as quickly he relaxed a little. Her hand was on his arm. What could she possibly do?

Stealing a peek to her right, Harper assessed the street. She couldn't go left, past Sawyer, so her only option was the small parking lot. Thankfully, it was filled with dark corners, and old trees cast shadows that quivered on the pavement in the
autumn breeze. She didn't have a choice. Not really. She could run. She could hide. It was the most she could ask for. And if he caught her . . . Well, she'd have to deal with that if it happened. Harper couldn't think past the next minute of her life.

Heart thumping wildly in her throat, Harper took her hand off Sawyer's arm and straightened up. He still wasn't paying attention; he was lost in conversation with the blood sausage man. It was now or never.

Harper stepped out of her shoes and bolted.

She wasn't a fast runner, but adrenaline made her careen down the sidewalk and leap off the curb into the parking lot before Sawyer and his companions even realized what was happening. Unfortunately, when they did catch on, Sawyer didn't have to tell them to chase her. They just did. All four of them, racing toward Harper with the intensity of a pack of wolves. She saw their eyes reflected in the lamplight when she chanced one furtive glance over her shoulder.

Harper didn't dare to look back again.

She had a head start, but she was barefoot and they were wearing shoes. Sharp pavement. A bitter wind. The knowledge that Sawyer probably meant what he said. That he would kill her. Or at least, make her wish that she was dead.

Weaving between parked cars, Harper thought to head toward the road, but it was too far away. She could hide, but they would find her. The parking lot was small and they would take their time. Leave no stone unturned.

Panic hit Harper when she realized that there was nowhere to go. A building loomed before her, but Harper couldn't tell what it was in the dark. The men were behind her. She was stuck.

But Harper wasn't the sort to give up.

A small, iron fence cordoned off the vast building, and Harper leaped over it before she could think about how she was cornering herself. They had lost her momentarily, but the fence gave a metal creak when she vaulted it, and it was enough
to alert them to her general vicinity. Harper didn't have much time.

The building was sprawling and taller than Harper had first perceived. It towered over her, but there were unexpected corners and small alleyways that belied its massive size. With a start, Harper realized that she knew exactly where she was. She had seen the building a hundred times, maybe more, but in the dark and in her confusion she hadn't remembered.

The cathedral.

Harper had never attended a service at the church—she didn't even know what kind of church it was—though she had often admired its elegant spire and unique architecture. But she didn't have time to ponder the design now.

She could think of only one thing.

For all she knew, the doors were locked tight and no one was around and she would be left in the darkness and the cold to wait for the moment when Sawyer found her. But that didn't stop her from twisting through the paths of the small garden she discovered. It didn't stop her from trying every door she stumbled across. From tucking herself in each alcove and grasping at the handles with hope so high in her chest she feared it would suffocate her.

Harper's entire being wished for it with a longing like nothing she had ever known.

Sanctuary.

15

ADRIENNE

F
riday night, the night before Victoria's memorial, it froze. Adri wasn't sure how the weather forecasters could have missed such a sudden, devastating frost, but miss it they did. When she woke on Saturday morning, the world outside her bedroom window glinted like crystal in the cold, late-September sun. It would have been lovely, except that she knew exactly what it would do to the baskets of pumpkins and squashes she had strategically placed beneath the arches of the loggia. The mums would be fine, they could withstand a dip in temperature, but the gourds would be mush. Adri hadn't planned on returning to the estate until an hour before the afternoon service, but she would have to now. She was on cleanup duty.

“I'll go with you,” Sam said after breakfast.

“Thanks, Dad, but it won't take me long. Everything else is ready to go.”

“Chairs set up?”

“Check. One hundred fifty of them in the main living space. I had to push the rest of the furniture against the walls, but it looks okay.”

“I don't think a hundred fifty chairs will be enough.” Sam shook his head, a thin line in his forehead betraying the fact that he was mentally calculating how to fit more in.

“It's fine, Dad. People can stand if more show up.”

He nodded. “What about afterwards?”

“The buffet will be in the library, and people will have to file there after the service.”

“Everyone will want to peek around anyway.” Sam rubbed his jaw as if the thought bothered him. “Should we cordon off the stairs?”

Adri shrugged. “I already locked Victoria's bedroom. There's really not much else for anyone to get into. The guest bedrooms are exactly that: neutral, kind of boring. They don't contain anything of value.”

“What about David's room?”

Adri hadn't spent much time in the rooms that made up David's bachelor apartment in the garden-level basement, but she had been there. She had forced herself to go, even though it took her days to work up the courage.

At first blush, it wasn't as devastating as Adri expected it to be. The bedroom was exactly how she remembered it. Spare and masculine with expensive paintings on the walls that Liam had picked out long before David was old enough to make those sorts of decisions on his own. It was the gentleman's version of a man cave, and it lacked both personality and a sense of David himself. The taps in the billiards room were long dry, and a quick peek in the bureau drawers of David's bedroom assured Adri that Victoria had gotten rid of his clothes before she died.

It was a courtesy that Adri hadn't even realized she'd hoped for. What would it have felt like to hold the shirts of the man she should have married? Would she have pressed her face to the fabric, strained for the faintest scent of the man she had once loved? There were thick layers of emotions beneath the thought, and Adri didn't have the heart to mine them. She silently thanked Victoria for doing the job for her, and tried to leave it at that.

But before she could shut the door on the rooms her fiancé had once called his own, Adri found herself tilting. The world
was off-axis, and though she had felt okay only seconds before, everything was suddenly very, very far from fine.

Adri was on her knees before she knew what was happening, fingers in the carpet as if she needed something to hold on to. Something to keep her anchored.

Here, she thought. And she could feel the carpet against her naked back, the blunt pain of David's knee against her hip before he fell against her and stole the air from her chest. She remembered what she felt, the confusion of his body above her, and the truth that she tried to tell herself again and again: He loves me. But as often as she claimed his love, she had to counter herself. He loves me not.

Adri had crawled out of the room, wounded. Pulled the door shut behind her as if sealing a crypt.

“The basement is clean,” Adri said in response to her father's question. Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard.

Adri could tell that her father was fishing for more information, that he wanted to know if even the hint of David wrecked her just a little. But she couldn't bring herself to go down that road even a short distance. The last week had rubbed the veneer of her resolve thin, and memories were popping up all around her. She had spent years in Africa demonizing this place and the past that dragged her down with the weight of an anchor, but she had to admit that there were moments of beauty, too. Kindnesses that still took her breath away after all this time. And though she remembered the carpet burns on her shoulder blades, the bruises on her arms, there were things about David that made her smile, bright and sudden; things he had said or done that were gifts she could still unwrap and admire all these years later.

That's what hurt the most: knowing that nothing ever was exactly black-and-white.

“Really,” Adri said, forcing herself to give her dad's arm a reassuring squeeze, “I've got it taken care of.”

But Sam wouldn't be deterred. “If you won't have me, I'll
take my own car and check on the horses. It is my job, after all.” He paused. “Is it still my job?”

Adri sighed. She had spoken to the State Historical Society of Iowa about Piperhall, and though they were interested in getting it listed on the registry of historical places, the woman she talked to didn't seem excited about the prospect of taking on the care and maintenance of the estate. And when she discussed putting it up for sale with Clay, his palpable disappointment cut the conversation short. Adri couldn't tell if he was daunted by the thought of selling such an albatross, or if he was secretly hoping she'd keep it. Either way, she was stuck. Will wasn't interested in it. Neither were Jackson and Nora. Or Sam. Adri felt like she had been shackled with a 25,000-square-foot lemon. Nobody wanted it. Least of all Adri herself.

As for the horses . . . “I don't know, Dad. Would you like them?” she asked.

Sam looked up. “What would I do with four horses?”

“One of them then? Mateo?” Adri tried not to sound too hopeful. What did it matter to her if her father kept Mateo? If she waited as long to come back to Iowa as she had the last time, he would probably be gone before she ever had the chance to see him again.

But Sam nodded. “I'll take Mateo. And maybe Amira.”

“I'll sell the other two.”

“You mean
I'll
sell the other two. You're going back to Africa, remember?”

Adri tried not to let the comment cut. She didn't like even the implication that she wouldn't take care of her own business. “I'll sell them online. The only thing you'll have to do is show them if a buyer wants to come and look.”

“Fine.” Sam stuck out his hand to seal the deal.

It felt strange to shake her father's hand, but there was something gratifying about coming to a conclusion concerning one small aspect of the disbursement of the estate. Something
definitive in their handshake. She had made a decision. Now all she had to do was make a dozen more.

For a moment, Sam seemed as if he was on the verge of saying something else. He held Adri's hand just a second longer than necessary, but then he shook his head and gave her a lopsided little smile. Adri assumed he was just thinking about her upcoming departure.

They went to the estate, and Sam checked on the horses while Adri hauled the frost-softened outdoor decor to the grove. On any other acreage, there would be a blackened spot far from the house that indicated the burn pile, but Victoria didn't like the thought of incinerating things on her own property. So, long ago, David had taken to dragging refuse to the grove, and there was still a small hill of organic garbage that had endured the test of time.

An old pallet that had been ripped in half, nails sticking out of the gray boards and a piece of burlap snagged on one like a makeshift flag. A rusty wire basket. A wood-slat box that had a sticker proclaiming
Washington Cherries
on the side. Adri added the pumpkins to the pile, and when she accidentally dropped one and discovered that they exploded with a satisfying burst, she started to throw them.

At first she just lobbed them, but by the time she had made it to the last wicker basket, there was something vicious in the snap of her arm. It felt so good to throw something—if there had been a punching bag nearby, she probably would've landed a couple of blows, too—and she began to take an almost perverse pleasure in rocketing smaller gourds at the trunks of nearby trees. Adri didn't even realize she was taking aim at people until she uttered Victoria's name.

And then it was a waterfall. Will and Jackson and her dad. For calling her home. For making her miss them when she wanted to forget. David. For everything. Harper, because she abandoned Adri when she needed her most.

Adri was stubborn and she knew it, a little idealistic, and a
firm believer that anything could be fixed with a bit of grit and some hard work. But the truth was, she hadn't been able to fix a single thing that was wrong in her life since the moment that she had said yes to David's precipitous proposal. Everything had spun out of control. And it was making her crazy.

When the last pumpkin had erupted against the trunk of a burr oak and spilled orange pulp down the bark, Adri put her hands on her hips and fought a wave of despondency. “Oh, God,” she muttered. “What am I doing here?”

“You still talk to him?” Sam said from somewhere behind her.

Adri spun. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough.” Sam took a few hesitant steps toward her, and when she didn't yell at him, he kept coming. “Look, Adri, I've been trying to muster up enough courage to talk to you since the minute you stepped off that plane.”

“We have talked,” Adri said, rubbing her forehead. Trying to forget that her father had just seen her lose it. Or get as close to losing it as she got. “We've talked lots.”

“But not about the stuff that mattered.”

“Dad—”

“Nope,” Sam interrupted. “I'm going to say what I came to say, and if you don't want to hear it, I'm sorry. But life's too short, sweetheart, and when you hop on that plane in a couple of days, I'm afraid I'm never going to see you again.”

Adri was shaking her head, but Sam wasn't about to be deterred. There was a flinty determination in his eyes, and when he held up his hands as if to ward off any and every argument she could come up with, she bit her lip and let him speak.

“I know that Victoria wrote you a letter.”

“You do?” Adri was so shocked, she was surprised that she could speak at all. She crossed her arms against her chest so her dad wouldn't see her hands tremble. “What . . . ?” she couldn't get the question out. Tried again. “What do you . . . ?”

“What do I know? Not much. I don't know exactly what she wrote, but I do know that she was consumed in her final days.
Gripped by the belief that she had failed you somehow. Failed David.”

Adri didn't have words for this. She had no idea how to respond.

Sam passed his hand over his eyes and Adri could see him try to gather his thoughts. “Look, I'm not doing this right. I suppose what I should be saying is, I know. First of all, I know what happened to Victoria. Everyone did, I guess, but no one knew how to stop it.”

“Dad, I—”

Sam took a shuddering breath. “I know I should have asked this question long ago. That I failed you by not asking. Did David ever mistreat you?”

There were so many things that Adri could have said. Secrets and lies and bad manners besides. But the truth about David hitting her was just the beginning. If she admitted what really happened between them, how they had begun to unravel in the end, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to stop. She didn't recognize herself by the time she knew who David was—who they were together. And Adri wasn't about to admit any of that to her dad. One of the only people in the world who still loved her. Even if he didn't really know her.

Adri didn't pause. “No,” she said, holding her father's wounded gaze.

Sam believed her. Adri could tell.

It was one of the only times in her life that she had lied to his face. But somehow it fit.

Harper had taught her well.

Not everybody was happy about their engagement. Least of all Harper.

“You're jealous,” Adri accused one afternoon. They were fighting, and though it rankled to admit that their friendship wasn't perfect, fighting was something that they did really well. Harper had taught Adri the fine art of the knock-down, drag-out, and they were known to engage in glorious shouting matches that
invariably ended with one or both of them storming out of the campus apartment that they shared at ATU. Often, when they had cooled down enough to handle being near each other without throwing things, Harper would take Adri by the chin like a fond aunt. “How could I ever be mad at you! Just look at you. You're the cutest damn thing I've ever seen.”