Mercy “God, we’re so good at this, aren’t we?” I was sweaty, chunks of hair falling out of my ponytail, and trying to wrestle a very expensive cut of meat onto a plate without actually touching it. Rose, meanwhile, looked like she’d popped out of the pages of Vogue and was doing an amazing job of reading instructions while not actually in volving herself in the pr eparation of the food. Suffice it to say, my belief in our abilities was lower than hers. “We haven’t screwed it up yet, at the very least.” “Please. Those lemon bars are a thing of beauty. Even Granny will be impressed with how much I helped.” I gave her a look. “You opened a bag of powder and dumped it in the bowl, Rose.” “I could’ve spilled it, you know.” “I hate raw meat.” I poked it with a fork and tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. “Why didn’t we try to find a chef, again?” “Because you wanted to prove something to my grandmother?” “That’s so stupid.” “Indeed.” She smiled. “Come on. Up you go. We need it on the plate for salt and p epper.” I let the fork drop onto the counter. “You do it.” “I beg your pardon.” Her eyes dropped to the tenderloin. “No. It’s all slimy.” “What happened to quality time and cooking and sisterly bonding?” “We are bonding. I don’t need to touch meat in order to do those things.” I rolled my eyes. “Convenient.” Rose brushed an invisible piece of lint off her fuchsia cashmere sweater. The way it set off her reddish hair and blue eyes was decidedly unfair. I glanced down at my T-shirt and cotton shorts, both covered with oil from wrestling with the potatoes, and sighed. “Whatever,” I muttered. “It’s already dead. It’s not like it’s gonna bite me.” I picked it up with my bare hands and fought a shudder. “What did you do for his birthday last year?” she asked. “He’s so stingy with the details on everything. Like bloody Fort Knox.” Right. Because supposedly, I remembered this part of our marriage. “Oh, um . . .” I reached over the counter to the plate she’d set out. “We . . . we went out to dinner?”
Rose narrowed her eyes. “You don’t remember a single bloody thing about being married to my brother, do you?” The hunk of raw meat slipped out of my hands, landing with a sickening thud on the kitchen counter. We both stared at it. Her mouth hung open, eyes round with horror. And me? I was fucking stalling. “O-of course I do.” With a wince, I scooped the tenderloin back into position on the plate and gestured with my chin for the salt and p epper. Rose diligently seasoned the beef while I washed my hands for the millionth time in the last two hours. The potatoes were washed, diced, coated in oil and seasoning, already roasting in the top oven, the lemon bars were cooling on a rack on the island, and if Grant’s family didn’t appreciate the glory of that box mix, I’d eat the entire fucking pan without a shred of guilt. We’d stayed busy enough while the other three were at the gardens, our conversation remaining fairly innocent—I told stories about teaching, and she k ept me updated on the never-ending drama of her love life. Everything was perfect, until it wasn’t. Because much like her brother, Rose seemed to have a preternatural ability to throw me off. Rose set the salt and p epper aside, her eyes lingering briefly on my facial expression as she used a pair of tongs to set the meat in the hot pan waiting on the range top. The beef hit the surface, a pleasant sizzling sound filling the kitchen. Rose’s expression was decidedly smug. “One minute on each side. Then, after it rests for about fifteen minutes, we wrap it in that,” she said, gesturing to the mushroom mix I’d sautéed, spread out on the prosciutto and a layer of pastry, on top of plastic meant to hold everything together. It looked disgusting. “There’s so much plastic wrap in this recipe. It freaks me out. What if we forget to take it out?” Rose shrugged one shoulder. “Then Granny chokes and dies at your dining room table.” I gave her a horrified look. She rolled her eyes. “Mercy, I’m teasing. Relax.” “When you people choose to use it, the Hastings sense of humor is not for the faint of heart,” I muttered. “You’re avoiding the question.” I took the tongs and flipped the meat, admiring the sear on top. “You didn’t ask me a question,” I hedged. “For God’s sake.” She set a hand on her hip and stared hard at my profile. “You’re a better cook than you are a liar, and that’s not saying much. Look me in the eye and tell me you remember anything about marrying my brother.” My palms were getting all sweaty.
“I’m trying not to wreck the tenderloin, can you hold on a second?” God, I should have never been left alone. Why did Grant think I could manage this without supervision? And what was I supposed to say to her? I know he likes Victoria sponge and his favorite color is green and he wants a dog someday, preferably something medium size that doesn’t shed too bad, and I’m told we have really great sex. Rose studied her phone screen while I carefully set the tenderloin on top of the mushroom mixture. With the tongs still in my grip, I set my hands on my hips, pondering all my life choices as I tried to hype myself up for the whole I need to wrap my dinner in plastic thing. Her eyes flicked up. “You’re supposed to let that rest first before it goes on the mushroom pâté.” “Why didn’t you tell me that?” “I did,” she answered patiently, in a tone that was very reminiscent to how I spoke to my students when they didn’t listen to my very clear instructions. “I think you were distracted with my accusation of subterfuge.” “It’s not subterfuge,” I said, feeling flushed and hot and embarrassed and very much like I’d be in trouble with my husband when he returned home. “It’s . . . it’s necessary because he doesn’t want to be forced home to be lord of the manor.” “Aha! I was right.” Her little smile was smug, and I couldn’t even be mad about it. “I knew it. Knew it from the moment I saw you two dancing around each other last night.” My shoulders slumped. “Your mom said something similar. God, I’m sorry, Rose. We thought it would be easier to fake it.” She snorted. “Please. When it comes to drama, I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound. Plus, when you visited London, the two of you were like a walking pheromone bomb.” “A what?” “Pheromones,” she supplied. “You know, with all the sex you were having. Every bloody room, I swear.” I gave her a flat look. “I understood, thank you. The horrified what was metaphorical.” Rose tapped her chin. “Not every room, I suppose. You never ventured into the east wing, where Granny and my parents sle ep. Or the kitchens— which was thoughtful, from a sanitary standpoint. But everywhere else, really.” I made sure the beef was on a flat surface before I passed out. “Everywhere else . . .” “I walked in on you in the library.” “The library?” I asked faintly. “It was horribly traumatic. Thank God I didn’t see any of my brother’s bits and pieces because he was behind you, but from the sounds you were making, it was a jolly good time.” I dropped the tongs on the counter and buried my face in my hands. “Rose,” I moaned. “This isn’t helping.”
“I did my research on amnesia before this trip, thank you very much, and the research explicitly states that hearing about the past can help.” As my hands fell away from my face to hang limply at my sides, she beamed. “Luckily, you have plenty of explicit material to work with.” Instead of reacting to the blatant innuendo, I studied her carefully. “You did research on amnesia before you came?” Rose’s expression shifted immediately, and her eyes met mine. Brief. Shy. Worried. “Of course. You’re my sister. How many of those do you think I have?” It was a softly spoken answer that landed like a nuclear bomb. The reverberation was astounding, and I found myself in need of a chair. A sister. I had a sister. A mother-in-law. Father-in-law, too, apparently. No, they weren’t the warm, fuzzy, let’s-wear-matching-Christmaspajamas type, but they were here. They were worried. And when I’d made a white-knuckled peace with the absence of that type of love, that worry, in my life, the sudden reappearance was as jarring as anything else I’d been dealt lately. “What did you . . .” My voice came out scratchy and thick, and I took a sip of water. Rose fidgeted with the edge of the cooling rack. “What did you learn?” She let out a quiet breath. “I listened to this radio show on NPR. It’s an American thing. You’ve heard of that, yes?” I nodded. “They were interviewing some neuroscientist. His friend had a brain tumor and knew he was going to lose his memory. Talked about how awful it was, having that knowledge ahead of time.” Her cheeks were pale, her eyes sad. “A woman called in. She’d had a stroke, and it wrecked her shortterm memory. She couldn’t work anymore. And I got so sad when she talked about losing that sense of self.” Rose’s eyes glossed over with unshed tears. “I couldn’t bear thinking about that happening to you. Whoever you are, Mercy, you blew his world apart in the best way. It might seem terribly gauche to tease about finding you in the library. And the billiards room—God, I’ll never touch that table again. Oh, and the garden.” My cheeks were on fire, but I didn’t interrupt. “But you have no idea how good it was to see my brother like that.” I raised an eyebrow, and she exhaled a laugh. “Not like that. But doing anything rebellious. Living without fear of what my father or grandmother might think, simply because with you he felt safe enough to do so.” It was so easy to be distracted by their presence. Distracted by the change in our short-lived routine where we danced around each other in a completely different way, without an audience. But with Rose facing it so unflinchingly, I had no choice but to do the same.
There was an insatiable, growling sort of discontent underneath the surface of every interaction, and it had been there since the moment he’d walked into my hospital room. We’d managed to ke ep it muted, to ke ep it from overtaking the fragile peace we’d found. I wasn’t sure we could do that for much longer. That sound filled my head, buzzing like angry bees. Who was I during that time? If I’d had such a transformative effect on Grant, it was only logical that he’d done something similar to me. “I don’t know how to reconcile the things you’re telling me, Rose.” I ran a hand through my hair, and when the hair tie gave up its battle, I twisted it around my fingertip. “We have chemistry,” I said carefully. “But I don’t know who that person is, the one you’re talking about.” “You’re still her.” “Am I?” I held her gaze and lowered my voice. “I’m not so sure.” Rose chewed on her bottom lip, her expression thoughtful. “If you aren’t, why are you going so far to help him? You could’ve walked away. Could’ve told him no. Let him handle the consequences of my grandmother and father.” There was a pit in my stomach, a twitching discomfort at the thought. But facing that question felt like poking a sle eping bear. It would wake eventually, right? Wake up growly and hungry and violent, and I’d have to hope for minimal fallout. Why was I helping Grant? The answer was locked down just as tightly as everything else in my head, and for the moment, I was content to let that be the truth. “I could have,” I admitted. “I thought about it.” “Did you?” I nodded slowly. “I still do. Right before you came, I . . . I thought it might be best for me to leave. Stay somewhere else for a while.” “Oh, Mercy.” I braced myself for an argument, but it never came. “We agreed to table that discussion until you leave.” Rose k ept her eyes on me, a frown bending the corners of her mouth. “Where would you go?” I shrugged. “Rent something. I don’t know. I didn’t get that far.” “But you stayed. For this.” “It doesn’t feel fair to make him give up a life he enjoys simply because your family can’t understand why he wants to live differently,” I said. “Your brother deserves the right to make his own choices.” Her soft smile surprised me. So did the light in her eyes.
Somehow I’d answered correctly. Passed some invisible test that I hadn’t known I was taking. I didn’t want to be tested anymore. Anger was a quickly lit fuse in my blood, flaring hot and high like she’d cranked a burner knob too far. I stood up, brushing past her with a tight jaw. “You know, I’m getting a little sick of everyone yanking on strings just to see if I react in the way they’re hoping.” My gaze met hers. “I’m not your puppet. Or your entertainment. Or your grandmother’s excuse to get away with being a bitch.” “Oh, she hardly needs an excuse. And I’m not yanking on anything, Mercy.” Rose crossed her arms, not even remotely cowed by my little outburst. Another trait she had in common with her brother. “I love my brother, and though you can’t recall at the moment, I love you too. I want him to be happy, even if it means he stays across a bloody ocean. He hardly tells us anything. All I know is what I saw, and I saw a couple who might not have started their relationship according to any conventional standards, but you fit together like a bloody lock and key. My grandmother saw that too. And she’s mourning the loss of a future for the Hastings family that’s been upheld for hundreds of years, which is why she’s digging in her heels now, grasping at one last chance to make it come to pass. You might not like to hear either reaction, but I’m not going to dance around you in the same way he is.” My voice was trembling when I answered. “So what am I supposed to do with that? With you. And her. And . . . and him? I don’t know how to be the version of me that doesn’t exist anymore, and I feel like everyone’s sitting back and watching to see if I can perform to their liking.” “Just be you, Mercy,” she begged, coming closer to clasp my hands. “Disagree with him and argue and push him to the brink of madness, because that’s what you did before. That’s what we all saw, that’s who we fell in love with. And that’s who my grandmother respected, even if she’ll never admit it out loud. You’re trying to win her over, when you need to put your foot down and tell her to back off.” The mess on the counter was proof of what she was saying. A sink full of dishes. Mixing bowls and spatulas and knives. The smell of potatoes turning golden brown in the oven, the sweetness of lab-manufactured lemon cutting through. It was Grant’s birthday, but everything that had happened was about someone else. Something else. They’d be home soon, and I’d been doing exactly what Rose said. Bending myself into a knot to pass some invisible test set out by someone who didn’t know fuck all about me in the first place. And I was doing it for him. But I didn’t know why. I couldn’t bring myself to figure that out. Instead of clarity, my brain conjured a memory. I must have been twenty-two, leaning against the kitchen counter at Connor’s house as he presented Grant with an unconventional birthday meal. We both sang loud and off key—Connor because he was a terrible singer, me because I was forced to be there and I knew it would drive the birthday
boy crazy—and Grant stood in the corner of the kitchen, hands in his pockets and expression stoic. Without a smile, he leaned forward and blew out the candle, eyes flickering to mine as the smoke curled into the air. Instead of taking the first helping of his birthday dinner, he set it wordlessly on a plate and handed it to me. I rubbed my forehead and gave Rose a fleeting look. “I don’t want to make beef Wellington for dinner, do you?” Her smile was huge. “Not even a little bit.” She opened up the trash and I binned the entire thing. By the time they returned, I’d changed into a pink cotton sundress that swished around my thighs, the kitchen was almost cleaned up, and plan B of the birthday lunch was already underway. Rose dried the last mixing bowl and gave me a wink as she set it on the counter. Before turning around, I drained the rest of the soapy water. I could feel Grant’s gaze on my back. “Welcome back.” I slung the dish towel over my shoulder. “How were the gardens?” “Beautiful,” Caroline answered with a smile. “I can see why you both love them.” Lady Hastings conceded that with a small noise. “They were adequate, I suppose.” Rose rolled her eyes and Grant shook his head, gaze moving around the kitchen with a wrinkle in his brow. “How did it go here?” “We changed plans.” Grant’s eyes found mine, one eyebrow arched high on his forehead. “Is that so?” His grandmother surveyed the clean island, holding only the lemon bars, cut neatly into eight squares on a very fancy plate. “Please tell me we’re having more than those.” “Of course.” The doorbell rang, and all three of them turned toward the noise. “Who’s that?” Lady Hastings asked. Instead of answering, I went to the door to acc ept the steaming boxes from the delivery worker with a smile. After they were safely on the counter, I opened the first box with my very best Vanna White impression. The Iron Lady’s mouth fell open, but I hardly noticed. Grant was smiling, a dimple creasing his cheek, his eyes brighter, warmer, more beautiful than I’d ever seen them. My heart gave an untimely lurch, and I took a de ep breath to steady its frantic rhythm. I was right. Happiness did look good on him. Very, very good. To be the cause of it, even over a simple meal, set something at ease within me. For the moment, I wasn’t a puzzle to be solved or a problem to be handled, something breakable to be coddled. It was just me and Grant, smiling over a shared memory. “Good Lord, what is that?” Lady Hastings asked.
Rose handed her brother a plate from the stack on the island, and he pulled from the corner of the rectangle. The cheese stretched out, snapping when he set the piece down. There was some sauce on his thumb, and he sucked it into his mouth, his gaze steady on mine as he served me the first piece. “This, Granny, is Detroit-style pizza.” Then his smile de epened, and I felt it all the way down to my toes. “My favorite birthday meal.”