One hand trailing along the mahogany banister, I made my way up the stairs, my footfalls echoing loudly in the heavy silence. There were only two bedrooms on the second floor—the enormous master suite and the “rose room,” aptly named for its decor. I entered the rose room first, allowing the memories to rush back. I’d stayed here once, slept in the big antique bed hung with pale pink drapes. It seemed like forever ago—a different lifetime. That night, I’d thought that learning Aidan was a vampire was the craziest, most outlandish truth I’d ever encounter. How wrong I’d been.
I scanned the room—it looked pristine, untouched. Bed, dresser, washstand, all exactly as I’d remembered it, all accented with rosebuds and cream-colored lace. The door on the far side of the room led to the attached bath; the door on my right opened directly into Aidan’s bedroom. I walked toward it hesitantly, heart pounding and palms dampening.
The rational part of my mind warned me that, just like the rest of the house, the room was empty, that Aidan wasn’t here. If he were, I would have felt his presence by now, heard his voice in my head. And yet . . . I couldn’t help but hope, couldn’t help but imagine him there on the other side of door, waiting for me.
I approached the arched door and paused, wiping my hands on my jeans. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my nerves, but it was no use. When I reached for the cut-glass doorknob, my hand was trembling wildly. Twice, my fingers slipped off. On the third try, I managed to grasp the knob and turn it.
Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and flipped on the light. Immediately, my breath caught in my throat. I had to reach for the doorjamb with both hands to steady myself as I took in the sight—and scent—that greeted me.
9 ~ Eternally Yours
There were orange blossoms everywhere—floating in a round crystal dish by the bed, in a vase on the table in the center of the room, scattered across the deep blue velvet duvet. The scent filled the air, sweet and citrusy and achingly familiar.
Eternal love.
I took a few steps forward, my legs feeling wooden and stiff. Slowly, I made my way toward the table—what Gran called a piecrust table—and the arrangement there. The vase was tall, nearly a foot high and rectangular in shape. The milky white blossoms were still attached to their stems, nestled between the sturdy green leaves. They were fresh, not yet wilted and still full of scent. They could only be hothouse flowers this time of year. But how did they get here?
Mystified, I glanced over at the flower-strewn bed, noticing now that what I’d originally thought was a white throw pillow amidst the pile of blue and gold tasseled ones was actually paper—a sheaf of papers with an envelope on top. My heart was in my throat as I hurried over to the side of the bed and reached across the duvet, sliding the papers closer. My name was scrawled on the envelope in a familiar hand—Aidan’s. I ripped open the seal and took out the slip of heavy, cream-colored paper. Unfolding it with shaking hands, I began to read.
Violet,
I haven’t much time, so this will be regrettably brief. I’ve deeded this house and all of its contents to you, held in trust for you until your eighteenth birthday. Additionally, I’ve made provisions for taxes and upkeep. Trevors will have taken care of the paperwork, which you will find accompanying this letter. As soon as you receive this, contact my attorney here in New York—you’ll find his contact information with the paperwork—and he’ll go over the specifics with you regarding the housekeeping schedule, gardener, security, etc.
I wish I had more time to tell you what you’ve meant to me, what joy and light and happiness you’ve brought into my life. Suffice it to say that I will never forget you, not as long as I walk this earth.
Eternally yours,
Aidan
Tears burned behind my eyelids as I refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. I took a deep breath, digesting his words in silence, trying to make sense of it all. He’d deeded the house to me? The house and all of its contents? I glanced around the room in wonderment. What was I supposed to do with it all?
I took the sheaf of papers and removed the clip, leafing through them without understanding much of what I was reading. It was paragraph after paragraph of legalese, occasionally interrupted by lines with signatures, Aidan’s and someone else’s—the attorney’s, I supposed.
I swallowed hard, completely overwhelmed. The town house itself was worth millions—a plum piece of Manhattan real estate. Add in the antique furnishings, the artwork . . .
Thanks to my art history class, I now recognized several of the gilt-framed paintings throughout the house as originals, some by masters. I was pretty sure that the pretty landscape above the fireplace was a Seurat, the portrait by the staircase a Gainsborough.
But I didn’t want any of it, Aidan’s possessions. I wanted him. Here with me. Now.
I dropped the sheaf of papers to the bed and rose, hurrying over to the chest of drawers in the room’s corner. I opened one drawer, then another. There were jeans, T-shirts, all familiar and folded neatly inside, abandoned. I picked up a shirt—a worn, black tee—and lifted it to my nose. It smelled clean, like fabric softener, not a trace of Aidan’s scent remaining. There must be something, some hint of him somewhere.
I tried the dressing room next, peering inside the heavy armoire. Several button-down shirts hung there, all in shades of blue, a color that Aidan seemed to favor. There were also several hoodies stacked on a shelf. I lifted one sleeve to my nose, again inhaling deeply, searching for his scent. Once more, I was disappointed. The soft cotton smelled freshly laundered, entirely sanitized. It might have belonged to anyone.
There was a hamper in the corner opposite the fireplace, but upon inspection, I found it empty. Obviously, the entire room had been cleaned and put in order after he’d left. But then . . . I saw something, a hint of color wedged between the wall and the hamper. My heart racing, I bent down and reached into the space, my fingers closing around something soft.
It was a T-shirt, I realized. A dark gray one, one of Aidan’s vintage punk-rock shirts. Somehow, whoever had cleaned the room and done the laundry had missed it. It still smelled like him—just barely, but still . . . I would recognize it anywhere. Nearly weeping with relief, I clutched it to my chest as I hurried out.
Back in the bedroom again, there was one more piece of furniture to inspect, a beautiful desk with a large, roll-top compartment on one side. Glancing wistfully at the framed picture that sat atop the desk—me and Aidan at last fall’s Halloween Fair dance, the same photo I kept on my dresser at Patsy’s—I pushed open the rolling lid and peered inside.
There were several small boxes, one with an engraved pocket watch and another with several pairs of cufflinks. A third held a small signet ring with a crest. I flipped through a brown leather address book, mostly filled with foreign addresses that meant nothing to me. In the back was a larger wooden box—a jewelry box, I guessed. I opened the lid.
Nestled inside was a treasure trove of jewels—his mother’s and sisters’, I supposed. I lifted the top tray to reveal a second layer, which held nothing but a small blue velvet pouch along with another envelope with my name on it, again in Aidan’s script.