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She wanted to tell them:Sometimes, horrible things happen, and it’s up to us to make the best of them.
She wanted to tell them:We are all the authors of our own destiny.
But she felt too exhausted.
Rose leaned against the counter and pressed her face into her hands. Exhaustion made her eyes feel heavy and her shoulders droop.
I’m fifty-two years old,she reminded herself,and for the first time in a long time, I’m afraid.
She wished she could shake it.
Chapter Seven
June 1993
Rose planned to hitchhike back to the Walden Estate. She felt like a rebel woman, a woman on the brink of the rest of her life, a woman who took risks. After all, she’d come all the way to Nantucket from Mississippi on a wing and a prayer. What was a bit of hitchhiking? It was nothing in comparison.
Rose was at the edge of the Nantucket Historic District with her thumb out. It was nearly ten in the evening, and she felt blurry with happiness and dizzy with freedom. She’d stayed out far longer than she’d planned for, but she hadn’t been able to resist window-shopping and people-watching and eating two ice cream cones so that her head felt fuzzy with sugar.
But it was the nineties, not the seventies. Did that mean people didn’t hitchhike anymore?
Rose watched with increasing despondency astourists passed her by, ignoring her or giving her annoyed looks. Mothers seemed the cruelest of all, frowning when they passed or pressing their foot on the gas, as though Rose’s existence on this planet would soon corrupt their children. It was only a matter of time.
This gave Rose pause. What if one of those mothers was friendly with Mrs. Walden? What if they told Mrs. Walden what Rose was up to, and Rose lost her job?
But Rose didn’t have much time to consider the what-ifs. Suddenly, a car stopped on the side of the road—a nice car, Italian-made with tinted windows. Rose didn’t hesitate. She threw herself into the passenger seat and closed the door behind her.
Immediately, she recognized the man in the driver’s seat.
It was Oren Grayson.
It was the man who’d lost his wife, Natalie.
Rose’s mouth went dry with panic.
Oren pressed the gas and shifted his massive hands across the steering wheel. He wore a very expensive cologne that Rose wouldn’t have been able to name if her life was at stake. But even she—a Southern country girl with two dollars in her pocket—recognized it as remarkable. As something that startled you out of yourself. As something that made you acknowledge the wearer as powerful, mysterious, and handsome.
“Thank you,” Rose mustered because she hated how quiet the car was.
She eyed the radio and speaker system, and her fingers itched with urgency. She wanted to turn it on and blare it as loud as it could go.
“Didn’t anyone tell you it wasn’t safe to hitchhike?”Oren asked. His gruff voice was like nobody’s Rose had ever heard.
I’m so sorry about your wife,Rose wanted to say. And then she remembered that Zachary and Mrs. Walden had hinted that he’dstarted the fire himself.
So had he? Rose inspected his face, his expensive clothes, and his car. He didn’t seem like a murderer. Then again, she’d never been around any murderers. What did she know?
“It seems we’re staying at the same place,” Oren said.
Rose raised her chin. “You’re staying with the Waldens?”
“For now.”
Rose blinked several times. She’d thought the night of drinks was a one-time thing. Maybe they were perpetually in the lounge with cocktails, listening to records, telling stories, making sure not to say a thing aboutNatalie.
“It’s a beautiful place,” Rose said.
Oren made a strange noise in his throat. Rose couldn’t make sense of it.
