Page 9 of Halstead House

I awoke the next morning disoriented while staring at the cream-colored ceiling above me, as though the past few days had been nothing more than a dream. But no, I was, in fact, watching the sun light up the third-story room before my eyes. This was real. This was the answer to so many unvoiced prayers. Ripples of disbelief coursed through me and settled in my stomach as the reality of this moment sank in. With that came a raging moment of doubt and worry.

With those two emotions creeping along my skin like the devil on my shoulder, a wave of need to call my mother crashed over me. I’d never, ever found myself so far from home without her. My father passed away in a boating accident when I was three years old. My memories of him were not my own, but made up of pictures I’d been shown and stories I’d been told. I couldn’t imagine a life where I had not become the object of obsession for my mother. No one could blame her for clinging so tightly to me.

Yet... those same people who clicked their tongues, and patted my arm, and told me what a good daughter I was for staying close to my poor mother had never actually lived with Lillian Burke.

I threw the covers back and strode with determination to the closet door. I would not cave. I would remember the candles, and the loneliness, and the pain of having my spirit cry out for more. I would call Mother later, not from a place of worry, but from a place of strength. Today had to be about me. Today had to be about moving forward. I couldn’t afford to look over my shoulder.

It was all fine and dandy to give oneself a pep talk, but it was quite another to keep the fires burning when I discovered that my favorite dove gray skirt suit was wrinkled beyond repair. I’m talking next level wrinkles. I had packed it carefully, but clearly underestimated the toll that humidity would take. Even hanging it in the closet overnight had done nothing to help the situation. Without actually sniffing it I could tell that the slightly damp material would be repellent. Nothing but a full dry clean was going to make it wearable. My fairy godmother had fulfilled all my dreams by getting me here; she definitely wasn’t going to come back and clean my suit with her magic wand.

I stood in the middle of my cozy room and tapped my bare foot against the hardwood floor in agitation. I needed that suit. I couldn’t be expected to face this new day wearing anything less than perfection. My hands were shaking badly enough as it was. Even the mellow sound of the waves lapping on the beach nearby wasn’t calming me the way it should.

I’d been too excited last night to think about preparing my clothing, and I berated myself for the oversight, especially when I had such meager offerings to begin with. I certainly hadn’t planned to be professionally employed while on the island and had only hastily thrown in a couple of passable garments. My trusty gray suit had been one of those because, well, according to Mother a lady was always prepared. And I had been raised to be a lady right down to the tips of my china doll toes.

I paced to the window to clear my head and think. The view this morning was lovely, with dense gray humidity teasing around the edges. I could finally see those waves I’d only heard the night before. The smile that came to my face at the sight of the much-envisioned dips and swells didn’t last long. I was finally here, and instead of making a good first impression, I was fighting with a pile of wrinkled, possibly rank, clothing.

I could do nothing but hope Eliza was still upstairs and ask her about an iron and some de-funking spray. She was a woman who would appreciate an effort toward being presentable.

I cracked the door open to peek down the hallway. No one was in sight, thankfully. I tiptoed across the large foyer to the hallway containing Eliza’s room. I knocked lightly on the first door I came to, fingers crossed and prayers to heaven that it wasn’t John Lucas’s. After our awkward encounter in the carriage house I didn’t need him thinking I was a stalker. No one answered that door.

I knocked on the second door, my stomach in knots. Same result. My last efforts were given to Eliza’s office door back in the foyer. Third strike, I was out. I slumped in both relief and disappointment. No embarrassing interaction with John Lucas, but no solution to my clothing problem. I chewed on my bottom lip while I thought, a habit my mother greatly disapproved of.

“Can I help you with something?” A deep voice behind me caused me to whirl around.

The first thing I noticed about him was his size. He looked ridiculously large standing in front of the elevator door, his frame hiding it from sight. His skin was such a dark, smooth brown that he seemed to merge into the shadow he cast. He saw my surprise at his sudden appearance, and a slow, bright smile bloomed on his face.

“People always tell me a guy this size shouldn’t be so quiet,” he chuckled.

“I think they have a point,” I stuttered out with a wobbly smile, amused by his comment and embarrassed to be caught standing in my night clothes in the hallway.

He tilted his head and studied me in a friendly way that caused me to relax. “I assume you’re our new friend, Grace?”

I nodded.

“I’m Marshall. If you’re looking for Eliza, she’s up and about before the sun. Anything I can help you with?”

I hurried to him and stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Marshall.” He took my smaller hand in his and squeezed it firmly before releasing it.

“Happy to meet you.”

“I’m trying to find an iron so I can attempt to resurrect my suit. It got horribly wrinkled while I was traveling here.”

Marshall shrugged his shadow-casting shoulders and shook his head. “Wish I could help, but I never iron anything. Ana could tell you where to find one if you can wait until after breakfast.”

I recognized a lost battle and made a face. “I suppose I’ll have to admit defeat and choose something else to wear. Thanks for your help, though.”

Marshall nodded and turned down the hallway toward Eliza’s and John Lucas’s rooms. I went the opposite direction and stood in front of the mostly empty closet again. After some more careful consideration, I chose a blush pink silk button-up top and black slacks, with shiny black heels to finish off the outfit. It wasn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. While I had a small handful of nicer clothing I could mix and match to get by, the truth was I hadn’t wanted to bring all my best clothing. I had purposely left it behind, wanting to be someone else for a while. I hadn’t realized that leaving all that behind would feel like I’d left my protection behind too. Every wolf needs her lamb-skin around her.

I quickly applied my makeup and pulled my hair into a loose chignon, careful to squash any fly-aways. I stood in the bedroom doorway and crossed my fingers on both hands in front of me for a moment, willing nothing but happiness to come from this. I was as ready as I’d ever be.

I made my way down the back staircase, what would have been considered the service stairs when the mansion was built, and wondered what I’d find in the kitchen. While I had never been anything less than upper middle class, household staff was far out of my experience, and I felt unsure of what I would find. Would they accept me into their group? Would they know I was sort of family and keep a distance between us? Were they a group at all, or more like some of the museum staff I worked with who went independently about their duties, uninterested in friendships? Would the Halsteads be eating there too, or did they dine separately?

I had never been good at inserting myself into a group. I was too afraid of making a misstep or pushing myself on someone who didn’t want my company. I’d been so isolated as a child, with home tutors and only adults for company, that my first public schooling experience was college. I marveled at the ease others had in talking to each other, forming study groups, and comfortably chatting about whatever crossed their minds. Even more eye-opening had been the light-hearted debating between peers. I couldn’t understand how disagreeing with each other didn’t destroy relationships. I’d obsessively watched how the others behaved, wanting desperately to fit in, but my desperation had exacerbated my shyness, leaving me forever on the sidelines, until I’d given up and accepted my place. Lately, however, I’d felt a sneaking loneliness, like the starving child pressing her nose up to the bakery window, wanting to be fed, wanting what those rosy-cheeked people inside had.

I paused outside the large swinging kitchen door and took a deep breath as I pushed a lifetime of experiences down, allowing myself a moment of quiet. Getting out of bed this morning and choosing to not call Mother had been my first big speed bump of today. Now, a second decision had to be made in this moment, before I entered that room and first impressions were made. I had come to this island mansion because I was tired of being lonely and predictable. Now it was time to face the social scene, and I could go forward as I had for the past twenty-five years, or I could try something new. I could open my mouth, speak some words, and try to let inner Grace have a little breathing room.

I had to believe that given a true chance I could learn to have friends and open up. It was either that or accept that the future would never be brighter than the past. One thing I knew for sure: I wasn’t dead yet. As long as my lungs were pulling air, I had a chance to change.

With head high and heart attempting to beat straight out of my chest, I opened the door and entered a world I’d never expected to inhabit. It was a world of swirling steam, banging pots, conversation, and delicious smells. It was in absolute contrast to my sterile life. My eyes hardly knew where to look first.

---