The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,375

how different Orchard Hill was until I left,” she muses. “Nobody locks their doors around here. You could probably walk into just about any house you wanted.”

“That’s insane.”

“I know! But there’s hardly any crime. Everyone knows everyone. It’s just a more trusting community, I guess? Now, knowing what I know and having lived in the city for a few years, I would never. But that’s how it is here. It’s the norm.”

We turn the corner, climbing a small hill surrounded by mid-century modern homes and quaint little ranches. In the distance appears to be a block of estate-type homes: Victorians, European Romantics, and turn-of-the-century Queen Annes. I’m sure back in the day, those housed the town’s doctors and lawyers. I can only hope their current owners have restored them to their former glory.

“Where’d you grow up? You told my parents you were born in Manhattan, but is that where you were raised?” she asks.

I pause. “I attended boarding school in Connecticut from kindergarten through eighth grade. In high school, my parents sent me to a prep school—which was just another boarding school. Headed to college after that. I’m not sure that I was really raised by anyone other than teachers and school administrators.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She pouts and we mull in our respective silences. “Sucks you didn’t have a traditional childhood.”

“Yes,” I say with a bittersweet chuff. “It does … suck.”

“Must have been awful,” she says softly, “being sent away as a child and not understanding why.”

“My parents always said it was in my best interest. It was for my future. They were doing it for me.” I shake my head. “They weren’t doing it for anyone but themselves. They wanted to be able to go yachting in the Maldives and skiing in the French Alps at a moment’s notice. A child would’ve made their life … complicated. It was easier to send me away, where I would have round-the-clock supervision, three square meals, a world-class education, and plenty of socialization.”

“That’s what they told you?”

“We always had our summers in Montauk. That was our family time.”

“That’s all you got from them? A few months of the year and then they shipped you off again?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s terrible,” she says, exhaling. “Sorry. I don’t mean to judge your parents.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve judged them my whole life.” I huff. “They are who they are. There’s no changing them. There’s no taking back what they did.”

“Is that why you pour yourself into your work?” she asks.

I glance ahead. We’re getting closer to the street with the antique houses. They’re all I can think about. I don’t want to discuss my childhood anymore. I don’t want to talk about—or think about—the fact that I may or may not have abandonment issues as a result of never truly feeling wanted by my parents.

It’s neither here nor there. Truly.

“See that white house?” I point north. “It has a triangular pediment set against a hipped roof with dormers. It’s a Queen Anne.”

“Oh,” she says. “We always called that the Pauley House. It’s haunted. Or that’s what everyone says. Some kids died there in the 1920s. Drowned in the pool when the nanny was supposed to be watching them. So sad.”

“How tragic.”

“What about that stone house? I always thought it looked like a castle,” she says. “When I was a little girl, I’d ride my bike up and down this street and pretend that I was a princess and that was my house.”

“That’s a European Romantic,” I say. “You can tell by the asymmetric composition and the half-timbered accents. The light stone is fairly typical too. Sometimes you’ll see stucco.”

Warm drops of rain begin to pepper the sidewalk, dampening our clothes in the process. A clap of thunder groans in the distance. Spring is nothing if not a temperamental woman: loving on you one minute, chasing you off the next.

Without saying a word, we turn back, leaving the picturesque street in the distance, and by the time we’re halfway home, the rain picks up and begins to pour. Rustling leaves in the ancient oaks above us do little to protect us, and by the time we reach the front door, we’re both soaked.

Standing in the foyer, we lock eyes. Mari laughs, her hair sticking to her cheeks and neck, and rainwater pools at our bare feet. My shoes are in the yard, but I’m not concerned with them right now.

I can’t stop looking at her, all wet and vulnerable.

This may be a fake relationship, but this woman is