“I can’t,” I whisper, silently pleading with him to take me back to the airport, back to the hollow but relatively safe existence I knew.
He gently tugs me out of the car and gives my trembling fingers a small squeeze before moving to retrieve my bag. I stand motionless beside the car with my head lowered and force myself to remember how to breathe. The trunk closes with a soft click, and my head lifts in time to see my borrowed suitcase disappear into the house. Slowly, I follow it, making my way up the steps with my heart thudding in time with each footfall until I stand, pale and shaking, face-to-face with a ghost.
"Mom?" The word slips from my lips before I realize I've said anything. The woman shakes her head slightly in response, a deep sadness somehow apparent in that small movement.
The closer I look, the more the slight differences between them become clear. This woman is softer than I remember my mother being. Time and circumstance haven't been nearly as hard on her. The honey streaks in her beechnut hair add a warmth and depth that my mother could never have afforded, and though her eyes are the same shade of sea glass blue, the lines that frame them seem to be from laughter rather than tears.
Staring into those eyes, my whole body is wracked with violent tremors as the stress of the past couple of days finally catches up with me. Harsh, gasping sobs escape my lips, and I double over as my stomach makes good on the earlier threat of emptying its contents. The touch of a soft hand on my back, both familiar and unknown, pushes me entirely over the edge, and I collapse in an undignified puddle at her feet.
Lavender and gardenia. Such a pretty scent. Stretching with the fluidity and grace of a well-loved cat, I crack open an eyelid, and reality comes crashing back as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings.
“You could be her twin," I whisper. The woman in the pale turquoise wingback chair next to the bed raises her eyes from the novel in her hand and gives me a gentle smile.
"We used to hear that all the time when we were young, and believe me, there were times we took full advantage of it." Her smile deepens, remembering long-ago escapades. “My name is Cecily. Your mom, Catherine, was my big sister. I'm delighted to finally meet you, Stella." Pulling myself to a sitting position against the mountain of pillows behind me, I hesitantly reach out and shake the finely boned and beringed hand she offers me.
"The Damn Box Letter. You sent it." A statement, not a question. I wince at the crassness of it, instantly wanting to take it back.
"I did," she admits with a chuckle and a nod. "I wasn't sure what, if anything, you knew about me, so I thought that might be the least intrusive way of introducing myself. If you had no desire to meet me, you could just ignore the box and the letter and go on with your life."
Not likely.
She watches me with curiosity as I push myself out of the comfort of the pillow mountain and walk to the large window overlooking the mind-blowing landscape below. With trees for what looks like miles in every direction, interspersed with areas of lush green lawn, the property resembles something out of a movie. Closer to the house, an outdoor kitchen and sitting area flank a sparkling aqua swimming pool, complete with a grotto and small waterfall.
"What is this place?" I ask, without turning away from the window.
"This is Tweedvale Cottage." Her use of the word cottage elicits a bark of laughter from me, and she grins in return as she comes to stand beside me. "If you look to the left, past the patio, you can see the roofline through the trees. That’s the original cottage. After the main house was built, the cottage was turned into a guest house by your grandparents," she explains, pointing to a small outbuilding barely visible through the foliage.
The two of us stand silently at the window for a few more minutes, staring out at the grounds. Eventually, Cecily steps back and gestures to the surrounding room.
"I hope the room is alright. I thought you might like to be on this side of the house since it’s a little more private. Parker brought up your bags and put them in the closet for you,” she gestures to the large double wooden doors on the other side of the room. "Take your time to unpack and get cleaned up. If you need anything, let me know, otherwise come down to the kitchen when you're ready. We can have a bite to eat and talk some more." She retrieves her book from the chair and crosses gracefully to the doorway, her pretty silver bangles jingling as she walks. "It really is nice to have you here, Stella," she says softly, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her.
In the fading evening light, I sit back down on the edge of the bed and take in the bedroom my aunt chose for me. You could easily fit three of my apartments in this single room. Two huge windows make up most of the back wall, with the queen-sized mattress and dove gray headboard nestled between them, and the soft, subtle pattern in the duvet cover picking up the turquoise shade of the wingback chair.
The plush silvery carpet is soft and thick, and I can’t help but squish it between my toes as I cross the room to the imposing closet doors. Once I get close enough, I realize the closet doors seem oddly familiar. Running my fingers over the softly burnished wood, inlaid with delicate carvings of twinkling stars and winding vines, I recognize the same beautiful craftsmanship and design from the box Cecily sent me.
Huh. So not store-bought then. I wonder who the woodworker in the family was.
Opening the oversized doors, my laughter bubbles out at the ridiculous sight of my little bag on the floor of the cavernous walk-in closet. The delicate scent of lavender is stronger in here, mixed with a warm, woodsy smell I can't quite identify. My suitcase takes all of two minutes to empty; I stash most of the contents in the built-in drawers and hang the single dress I brought on one of the empty padded hangers. Grabbing my purse and backpack, I toss both on the bed and follow my nose down to the kitchen for something to eat and hopefully some answers.
Hungrier than I thought I would be, we eat dinner quietly, sitting side by side on tall bar stools at the long white kitchen island. The occasional pleasantry and light conversation about my life in New York the only communication passing between us until I sit back with a sigh.
"So." I shift to face Cecily. "What's the deal?" I ask bluntly, crumpling my napkin and dropping it beside my now empty plate.
"You certainly are a Bradleigh," Cecily laughs, turning on her stool to face me. "We tend to not deal well with the unknown, and rarely put up with anybody's shit.” My eyes widen slightly at her relaxed manner. She pauses as if trying to figure out where to begin. “How much do you know about your mother's life before you were born?"
My mind tracks backward, searching for information. There are potholes in my memory big enough to swallow Volkswagens on a good day. I guess it makes some kind of fucked up sense I wouldn’t remember anything about her past. Or did she just never volunteer that information? Sitting here in this place I never knew existed, with an aunt I don’t know, it hits me for the first time how secretive the woman who raised me actually was.
The discomfort I feel must show on my face because Cecily reaches out and puts her hand over mine. Jerking my hand away and pretending not to notice the flash of hurt that flits across her features, I stand and start to pace the gourmet kitchen that runs almost the entire length of the back of the house.