Hawthorne house is located on top of a hill. Massive. Impressive. It looks like a castle, seemingly endless and suited for royalty if anything. There are half a dozen cars parked out front and one beat-up motorcycle.
Alisa eyes the bike. "Looks like Nash made it home."
"Nash?" Libby asks. I merely listen, not feeling ready to join any conversation just yet.
"The oldest Hawthorne grandson," Alisa replies, tearing her gaze from the motorcycle and staring up at the castle. "There are four of them."
Four grandsons. I can't keep my mind from going back to the one Hawthorne I've already met. Grayson. The perfectly tailored suit. The silvery gray eyes. The arrogance in the way he told me to assume he knew everything.
Alisa gives me a knowing look. "Take it from someone who's both been there and done that--never lose your heart to a Hawthorne."
"Don't worry," I answer her irritatedly, as annoyed with her assumption as I am with the fact that this is rather unprofessional behaviour for a lawyer. "I never lose."
C. R. D. - M. L. T.
The foyer is bigger than some houses - easily a thousand square feet, like the person who built it was afraid that the entryway might have to double as a place to host balls. Stone archways line the foyer on either side, and the room stretches up two stories to an ornate ceiling, elaborately carved from wood. Even just looking up takes my breath away and my heart takes a jump.
"You've arrived." A familiar voice draws my attention back down to earth. "And right on time. I trust there were no problems with your flight?"
Grayson Hawthorne is wearing a different suit now. This one's black--and so are his shirt and his tie. I don't want to seem intimidated, but it's hardly manageable to look at him without staring.
He's perfect. Everything. Perfect.
"You." Alisa greets him with a steely-eyed look.
"I take it I'm not forgiven for interfering?" Grayson asks and I notice an amused tone in his voice.
"You're nineteen," Alisa retorted. "Would it kill vou to act like it?"
"It might." Grayson flashes his teeth in a smile. "And you're welcome." It takes me a second to realize that by interfering, Grayson means coming to fetch us. Nineteen? He's nearly the same age as me. Well, he certainly doesn't look like it.
"Ladies," he says, "may I take your coats?" A gentleman, too.
"I'll keep mine," I reply, feeling like an extra layer between me and the rest of the world can't hurt. Inside me there's two opposites fighting. This feels wrong, and, This place is beautiful.
"And yours?" Grayson asks Avery and Libby smoothly. Avery keeps hers and flashes me a nervous smile.
Libby takes offers her coat and hands it to him. Grayson walks underneath one of the stone arches with the beautiful art. On the other side, there is a corridor. Small square panels line the wall.
Grayson puts a hand on one panel and pushes. He then turns his hand ninety degrees, pushes in the next panel, and then, in a motion too fast for me to decode, hits at least two others. I hear a noise, and a door appears, separating itself from the rest of the wall as it swings open.
"What the..." I start to say.
Grayson reaches in and pulls out a hanger. "Coat closet." That isn't an explanation. It's a label, like this is any old coat closet in any old house. What a show-off.
Alisa takes that as her cue to leave us in Grayson's capable hands, and I try to summon up a response that isn't just staring at the closet and trying to figure out how he did that.
Grayson goes to close the closet, but a sound from deep within stops him.
I hear a creak, then a bam. There's a shuffling sound back behind the coats, and then a figure in shadow pushes through them and steps out into the light. A boy, maybe around Avery's age or younger. He's wearing a suit, but that's where the similarities with Grayson end.
This boy's suit is rumpled, like he's taken a nap in it, or twenty. The jacket isn't buttoned. The tie lying around his neck isn't tied. He's tall, but has a baby face and a mop of dark, curly hair. His eyes are light brown and so is his skin.
"Am I late?" he asks Grayson.
"One might suggest that you direct that query toward your watch."
"Is Jameson here yet?" the dark-haired boy amends his question.
Grayson stiffens. "No."
The other boy grins. "Then I'm not late!" He looks past Grayson, to Libby, Avery and me. "And you must be our guests! How rude of Grayson not to introduce us."
A muscle in Grayson's jaw twitches. "Camille Diante," he introduces rather formally, "her sister, Avery Grambs, and Libby Grambs. Ladies, this is my brother, Alexander." For a moment, it seems like Grayson might leave it there, but then comes the eyebrow arch. "Xander is the baby of the family."
"I'm the handsome one," Xander corrects. "I know what you're thinking. This serious bugger beside me can really fill out an Armani suit. But, I ask you, can he jolt the universe on and up to ten with his smile, like a young Mary Tyler Moore incarnate in the body of a multiracial James Dean?"
Xander seems to have only one mode of speaking: fast. "No," he answers his own question. "No, he cannot."
He finally stops talking long enough for someone else to speak. "It's nice to meet you," Avery manages and he turns to her.
"Spend a lot of time in coat closets?" I ask laughingly. I already like this boy and I've known him for 48 seconds.
Xander dusts his hands off on his pants. "Secret passage," he says, then attempts to dust off his pant legs with his hands. "This place is full of them."
My fingers itch to start sketching the beautiful stone archs and the carved details that decorate the halls of Hawthorne house. They all are unique in their own sense, and yet they fit together like a puzzle. I like putting my thoughts on paper. They only start to make sense then, taking a structure I can never express with words.
"Fair Lady," Xander steps in front of Avery. "May I ask: What are your feelings on rollercoasters?"
Avery's eyes light up. Libby asks, "This place has a roller coaster?"
Xander grins. "Not exactly." And the next thing I know, the "baby" of the Hawthorne family- who is six foot three- is pulling my sisters towards the back of the foyer.
I blink once, twice. I suppose "not exactly" having a rollercoaster is just another one of Hawthorne House's quirks.
Beside me, Grayson scoffs. I catch him looking at me and narrow my eyes. "What?"
"Nothing," he says, the slight tilt of his lips suggesting otherwise. "It's just...you have very expressive eyes." Catching my confused glance, he's quick to add: "In a good way. That's what I mean."
"Thank you," I say. "I like your suit." I regret it the moment I say it, but it is a nice suit after all. He laughs and shakes his head, then we continue to walk.
"Miss Ortega said there are four of you." I can't help myself. I need to know more about this family and what I'm getting us into. "Four grandsons, I mean."
"I have three brothers," Grayson says. "Same mother, different fathers. Our aunt Zara doesn't have any children."
All different fathers? Interesting. I make a mental note on that.
He looks past me. "And on the topic of my relations, I fear I should issue a second apology, in advance."
I'm about to ask what he means when I hear a jarring voice.
"Grayson darling, how rude of you not to introduce the guests to me first!" A woman sweeps up to us in a swirl of the most peculiar fabrics and motion I've seen in my life. Once the flowy skirts have settled around her, I try to guess her age. Maybe around forty. Beyond that, I'm not able to tell a single thing about her, except that I sense she's going to make my life a living hell, going from the looks she's sending towards me. "They're ready for us in the Great Room," she says to him, voice high pitched. "Where's your brother?"
"Specificity, Mother."
I don't even try to hide my amused smile and Grayson glances at me, his hard gaze softening slightly.
The woman rolls her eyes. "Don't you 'Mother' me, Grayson Hawthorne." She turns to me and I mask my expression. "You'd think he was born in that suit. Anyway, you must be Camilla."
"Camille," Grayson corrects. If he feels any embarrassment about her getting my name wrong, he doesn't show it. "Her name is Camille, Skye."
I assume he's used her name in an attempt to humour her. Skye sighs. "Grayson's a good boy," she tells me. "Too good." Then she winks at me. "We'll talk."
"I doubt Ms. Diante plans to stay long enough for a heartfelt fireside chat." A second woman, Skye's age or maybe older, inserts herself into the conversation. If Skye is an oversharing bubble, this woman is all pencil-skirts and pearls.
"I'm Zara Hawthorne-Calligaris." She eyes me up and down. "Do you mind if I ask- how did you know my father?"
For the first time, I am to add to the conversation. And my answer is as dissatisfying as they come. "I didn't."
Beside me, I can feel Grayson's eyes on me. After a small eternity, Zara offers me a tight smile. "Well, we appreciate your presence. It's been quite the time these past few weeks."
These past few weeks where no one could get ahold of me, I add silently. I'm contemplating to answer her, when Skye loops her one arm around me and one around Grayson: "Now, why don't we make our way to the Great Room?"