Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
To hell with it.
It’s a gorgeous morning, and I need to walk off the ten pounds I just ate.
It’s strange how the town smells like wildflowers. All I see are neatly maintained streets and a few sidewalk hedges.
Where is that scent coming from?
It’s almost like rose water, and it’s strongest at the center of the plaza, where that bronze statue of the guy on horseback stabs up at the sky.
I stop and stare at the monument. The marble base alone stands taller than I do.
It’s a pretty dramatic pose, the horse rearing up, the rider’s cape flaring out. A handsome sculpture of a man with bony cheekbones and a fierce face. His garb makes me think of revolutionary era minutemen.
There’s a plaque at the base with a name.
Frederick Arrendell, 1750-1833. Honorable Founder.
I trace my fingertips over the engraving, then slowly circle the statue with my nostrils tingling.
On the other side, I find fresh roses resting against the base on the cobblestones. Their crispness says they couldn’t have been here for more than a few hours.
They’re a soft sunset-pink with green leaves and thorny stems. They’re woven together, not really a wreath, more just a giant sheaf stretching from one side of the marble to the other.
Weird.
Maybe this is one of those towns, though.
Long, deep history going back to the colonial days with a reverence for its founders that can only be found in these old communities where half the family names were established before North Carolina was even a state.
No wonder Lucia Arrendell spoke to me like she was royalty deigning to address a mere mortal.
I linger for another minute—I’m early, anyway—before pushing away and letting my wandering steps take me to the town hall.
Under the shade of the little overhang above the door, I knock briefly, then push the door open, tentatively peeking inside.
The entryway is lushly carpeted, decorated heavily with marble columns and floral arrangements and flagpoles draped with the American flag, the North Carolina state flag, and a red thing with a circular symbol I don’t recognize. Paintings of more men in colonial style line the walls, including a few with the same fearsome face as the statue.
There’s no one behind the broad wood reception desk, but at the far end of the room, standing before a heavy set of oak double doors, I spot three people who look less like small-town royalty and more like they just stepped off the runway in the NYC fashion scene.
The one who catches my attention first is the woman.
She’s tall, rail-thin, wearing a couture black gown with a plunging neckline and a lazy drape to the silk fabric. Her shoulders and arms are bare and her fingers are cloaked in black gloves, delicately holding an unlit cigarette.
She carries herself with a hips-forward slouch and a quiet sensuality that’s faded gracefully with age.
She’s got cheekbones like razors. A mouth like a curving fruit. Eyes as grey as deep mist, her elegant features framed in a white-streaked bob of platinum-blonde hair.
I’d guess she’s a very well-aging mid-sixties, along with the man at her side.
He has a sort of 1930s charm, right down to his three-piece suit and pocket watch on a gold chain.
He makes me think of Clark Gable with his black hair swept back and silver touches at the temples, his thin mustache and a certain arrogant twist to his brows. His eyes are jade-green.
For a split second, I can’t help but think of Lucas Graves.
Their eyes are almost the same shade, this translucent green that’s almost glassy.
Yet Lucas’ eyes are so warm they remind me of spring.
This man’s eyes are unreadable, a foggy glass I can’t quite see through.
I’m guessing the other man with the same eyes is probably their son. Maybe early thirties, impeccably dressed in a stylish Italian suit. He has her blond hair, his green eyes, and the face of a fallen angel.
Yep.
I think I’ve just found the Arrendells.
They lean in close, murmuring to each other. Just a soft buzz of voices in airy accents—but as the door creaks, they go quiet, lifting their heads simultaneously.
Three sets of sharp eyes fall on me.
I freeze in my tracks.
There’s something about them.
This crackling presence that electrifies the whole room.
The most intense one is the son. He studies me with a widening, unblinking interest that makes me feel like he’s forgotten how to see anything else.
Jeez.
If I’d stayed in NYC, I’d probably have avoided eye contact at my own wedding.
Being gawked at like this makes me feel naked.
I glance away quickly, finding a spot just over his shoulder to look at instead of meeting those intense eyes again.
The woman breaks the stillness and her slim face relaxes with a small, thoughtful smile.
“Ah, the lady of the hour,” she lilts in an accent that’s more New Hampshire than North Carolina. She lifts her unlit cigarette to her lips like she’s taking a coy little drag. “Miss Clarendon, is it not?”