The Deception Dance (12 page)

Chauncey covers her mouth, in an exaggerated gesture, “Oh my
god, what a shock. Someone in the world doesn’t love Raven
Smith!”

I crush my eyes shut as my cheeks heat. Nicholas gives my shoulder a
squeeze. I want to curl into him and disappear, but I force open my
eyes.

“That is hard to believe,” the confident third man says,
as he scoops up and kisses my hand. I know what’s off about his
face now; a reddish crevice ascends up his chin, pulls down the
corner of his mouth and ends splitting his left ear in two.

I’m staring. I force myself to focus on his eyes, anywhere but
the scar.

He must be used to gawkers, because the lopsided smile he gives me
brims with amusement. “My name is Stephen, you are very welcome
here.”

I just stare. I’m all thrown off by Nicholas’s
grandfather’s disapproval. I’m making too much of his
un-welcoming; I have to get a hold of myself.

Wake up, Raven. Stephen complimented you and welcomed you and you’re
just standing here, gaping.

I manage a smile and fix my gaze on his eyes. “Thank you, my
name is Raven.” I step out of Nicholas’s embrace, while
gesturing and saying, “This is my sister, Linnie, and her
friend, Chauncey.”

Linnie does better than I, she smiles at Stephen not gawking in the
slightest; obviously she got all the considerate genes in our family.

Stephen kisses Linnie’s hand and leans to kiss Chauncey’s,
when he stops. He examines the bandage on Chauncey’s inner
wrist.

She yanks back her hand. “It’s a tattoo.”

“Tattoos are unattractive, especially on women,” Stephen
replies in a voice I would have considered infuriatingly self-assured
if I didn’t like him more than Chauncey at the moment. Heck, I
like poison oak underwear more than Chauncey.

Chauncey’s jaw sags; she stares at Stephen, eyes narrowed at
the side of his face, before huffing and stomping from the room. She
makes time to shoot me a glare as she exits, as if it's my fault or
something. If she ever regretted drugging and deserting me, she’s
changed her mind.

Ha! Seems as if everyone is stomping out of here. Lo and behold,
Linnie dashes after Chauncey and I’m left with the four
brothers!

Nicholas gestures, continuing as if half our party didn’t just
run off, “and this is my eldest brother, Tobias.”

Tobias still stands halfway down the stairs. He gives me a tight
smile and a slight nod. “How do you do?” His nasal voice
sounds as if he has a cold. All four boys have the same blond hair
and blue eyes, but that’s as far as the resemblance to his
brothers goes for Tobias. He has pinched, angular features, that are
not improved by his squeezing his lips into a white line. Maybe, he’s
constipated.

“Fine, thanks.” I nod back. “How are you?”

He clears his throat. “As much as I would like to converse, I
have work to finish with grandfather.” He makes this sound like
a criticism and, in a perfect reenactment of his grandpa’s
exit, Tobias spins on his heel and marches up the stairs.

Before Tobias disappears from view, Stephen calls up something in
Swedish. Tobias does not turn around, even when Stephen and Albert
howl with laughter. Albert actually slaps his knee. Nicholas gives a
light chuckle, then motions to follow him outside. The hooting
brothers trail behind.

The afternoon sun blinds me, as I step out the door. A zephyr dances
by, carrying the scent of roses; there must be a garden near. When I
blink my vision clear, I see Linnie, Chauncey and the chauffeur,
standing by the car. There’s no taxi, but he is, without a
doubt, the chauffeur from the dock.

Chauncey’s hand grasps the chauffeur’s tie and she pouts
up into his beefy face, while Linnie unloads her bags. The chauffeur
glimpses us, steps out of Chauncey’s grasp and snatches
Linnie’s luggage off the driveway.

“Your friend works fast,” Stephen whispers.

“She’s not...” I stop before the hateful words slip
out of my mouth. It’s true, Chauncey is no friend of mine and
she has proved it a couple times. But, a week ago, I would never have
been so spiteful as to say something like that because it would
reflect on me. That’s what bothers me so much about her, isn’t
it? I don’t want anyone to think I’m like her. I told
Linnie, I’d let what Chauncey did, go, and I should, I should
let it all go and just have fun in spite of her (or maybe
to
spite her).

Chauncey stares at Nicholas as if she’s challenging him; as if
she one-upped him or something, by throwing herself at the chauffeur.
Nicholas gazes my way, not even noticing. If she ceased to exist in
this moment, his world would be no different.

If I could stop resenting Chauncey, I would feel sorry for her, and
wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge, pitying her? I can’t
look at Chauncey anymore; I can’t be around her.

I ask Stephen, “Is there a garden around here, somewhere?”

“Yes.” Stephen holds out a hand toward the side of the
mansion and smiles. “Several…”

Nicholas steps between Stephen and me. “I’ll show you,”
he says.

Stephen chuckles and shakes his head. He pats Nicholas on the
shoulder and says, “överanstränga, Nicklaus.”

I follow as Nicholas backs to the space between the guesthouse and
main mansion. “Nicklaus?” I ask.

“That is my real name: Nicholas is the American version,”
he says.

“Why don’t you just use your Swedish name?”

Although the question isn’t invasive, Nicholas turns away and
is quiet.

After we walk the length of the mansions, and
into a garden of thousands of roses, he answers me, “I attempt
to
blend
in,
in America."

‘Why?’ is on my tongue, but, from his closed expression,
I can tell that if I ask, I’ll be forcing him to reveal
something or lie. “You do a great job; I thought you were
American when we first met.”

The garden is a green canvas of hedges and bushes, dappled with
multicolored blooms. One small path cuts through the thorny sea of
red, yellow, white and pink flowers. Central in the garden is a
lamppost, half consumed by vines. A hedge wall surrounds on all
sides, except a gap, covered with an arch of roses, that gives a
glimpse of the gardens beyond.

“This is our smallest garden, but my favorite.” Nicholas
flashes a smile, “My mother designed this rose garden.”

“She did a wonderful job; this is magnificent. Is your mother
here?”

“Well, in a way. I’ll show you,” He retreats out of
the garden and leads me to the pasture beyond. Nicholas points toward
a gated area next to a round door in the perimeter wall, “She’s
buried there, alongside my father, in our graveyard.”

Having a deceased parent should prepare me for when others talk about
their departed loved ones, but, I never know what to say. ‘I’m
sorry’ feels over-used and insufficient, so I remain silent.

We meander toward the graveyard, not speaking. The sun dips toward
the perimeter wall, when we stop at the small metal gate, encircling
a hundred-or-so graves. The gravestones closest to the wall are worn
beyond any legibility; the many stone cross edges are rounded and
corners are homes for moss and lichen. The farther the tombstones are
from the wall, the less weather and nature they have known. On the
six headstones closest to the gate, letters have crisp edges and
monuments are free of any flora.

Nicholas leans against the black metal gate, clutching just below the
sharp points adorning the top. He does not open the gate, only gazes
at the stones. “They died together, two years ago, during a
business trip.” His smile holds no happiness. “For some
reason, after that day, when my grandfather and I are together, we
fight as soon as we open our mouths.”

I rest against the fence next to him. “Did they work for your
grandfather?”

“Tobias now has my mother’s job and Albert, my fathers.”
He licks his lips and, for a few minutes, stares into the
sun-bleached horizon.

“Where does that door go to?” The rounded wooden door is
barely discernible from the wall: all I can make out, under the
curtain of moss, are a couple of planks, secured by a heavy wood
board.

Nicholas visibly shakes out of his thoughts: “A church. Or, at
least there was a church there a couple of hundred years ago. Now,
all that’s left is the door.” He steps back from the gate
and points along the stone wall, “There were eight churches
along our walls, but now there are only four. One is at the end of
this wall, and there are three more at the other corners of our
property.”

I step to the cobblestones and run my fingers over the uneven
surface. “How old is this wall?”

“Oh, the wall’s mediaeval, built five or six hundred
years ago, much older than our house. The churches were built at the
same time, but only one outlasted the weather; my family rebuilt the
other three.” He walks to lean one shoulder against the
cobblestones and takes my hand off the wall to clasp in both of his.

As his hands envelop mine, my heart patters faster and faster. I
can’t take my hand back without insulting him. Do I want my
hand back?

“So, you didn’t answer me.” He tilts his head; his
face is inches from mine.

My voice is a little shaky. “Answer you?”

“When I asked you to go to dinner with me.”

“Oh…” I hoped to avoid this conversation
altogether. I bite my lower lip then let it roll forward.

He gazes at my lips.

I take a step back, but let him keep my hand. “I like you,
Nicholas, I really do.”

He gives me a half-smile, “But?”

“
But
, I’m only in Europe for three months and only
in Sweden for...” I slip my hand out and shrug, “Who
knows?”

He closes the distance and takes my hand again, “How about
this: you don’t answer no or yes, just tell me
maybe
you
will go to dinner with me.”

I use my lip like gum, without thinking, and draw his gaze again. I
sigh and say, “Alright, maybe.
Maybe
I’ll go on a
date with you.”

His face is too close and drifting closer.

“Race you to the mansion!” I say, too loudly, then break
away from him and sprint back the way we came.

I keep ahead of him for a minute, but he passes me well before we
cross the first gardens. I’m not an endurance runner. I walk
the last few paces to the back entrance of the guesthouse, out of
breath.

Nicholas waits by the open door.

“I can’t believe you can run that fast in a suit,”
I huff out.

Nicholas laughs; he's not at all out of breath.
“The suit’s flexible and I have a
good
amount
of practice. Anyway, you’re
running in a skirt.” He steps away from the wall. “I hope
you don’t mind, because of Albert and Tobias’s work
schedule, we dine at sunset, no matter the time of year; which will
be...” He peers behind at the sky and says, “In about two
hours.”

After I assure him this is fine, he gives me
directions to the dining room, smiles and then walks off.

When he disappears from view, I wipe my hands across my face and huff
out a sigh. I’m so jittery. I shouldn’t have come here.
There’s no two ways about it, this was a mistake. What am I
doing?

The plan was to be exploring Paris with Linnie.
I’m not supposed to be staying in some Swedish mansion with
Linnie’s treacherous roommate, a stunning, exceedingly wealthy
guy who is so obviously hiding something, his three brothers and an
old man who detests me. And I’m not even welcome here;
Nicholas’s grandfather would rather receive a giant rodent into
his house. Next time I see him, I’ll yell, ‘I’m not
even interested in Nich...’

Hmmm… I need a shower, a long
cold shower.

Day Seven (Continued)

The thin and scratchy, but enormous, towel unwinds from around my
hair.

This guesthouse surpasses anywhere I’ve ever been in
sumptuousness, and I bet it doesn’t compare with the main
house. The room Linnie picked has two beds, so, when I first entered,
I settled on the one not covered in her clothes.

After a lengthy phone call with our father, Linnie and I explored the
beautiful house, finding a small gym, a room containing a large wood
hot tub, two sitting rooms, a dining hall and a large kitchen, with a
cook and maid. We skidded to a halt there, self-conscious about
frolicking around in front of the staff.

The maid, a stick thin woman named Nelly, carried a load of towels,
heavy looking in her bony arms, and told us, in a thick accent, to
wash up for dinner. Somehow, Linnie and I regressed to being eight
and seven years old and we giggled all the way to the showers, under
Nelly’s scrutinizing glare.

A shower was what I needed, but now I face a new dilemma: I have
nothing, whatsoever, to wear! The only clean things I have are
‘wife-beaters’ and underwear; the rest of my clothes have
been worn and aren’t stylish enough for this splendid
atmosphere, anyway. Nothing I own, even at home, fits with this
extravagant place. I’m not wearing my red dress, no way; even
looking at the dry cleaning bag makes my insides do somersaults.

Linnie’s clothes don’t fit me, and I’d rather run
around in my birthday suit than ask Chauncey. I slip on my boy short
underwear and two tank tops, when Linnie crashes down on her bed.

“Raven, I’m no ‘fashionista’,” Linnie
says with her wet hair on the pillow, “But I bet these people
dress up for dinner.”

I snap my fingers, “Oh, darn, my Oysterfest t-shirt is dirty!”

Linnie mocks a haughty tone: “Aren’t
we made for fine living?” She sits up and adjusts the towel,
wrapped around her. “Why don’t you borrow something from
Chauncey? I bet she has gowns to...” She examines my expression
and trails off, then continues in a whisper, “I thought you
were letting what happened, go.”