Mercy
Birthdays were taken quite seriously in the Hastings family.
There were traditions behind each passing year, and when Lady Hastings finished her
second piece of pizza (undoubtedly the first time in history that Detroit-style pizza was cut
into such small portions using a knife and fork), it was quite clear that those traditions
would be upheld even if she found the location lacking.
In truth, I think I would have made it through the day unscathed had it not been for
that. It’s what I told myself, at least.
“Gifts,” she pronounced. “Then your list. Dessert after.”
Gifts.
Right.
It would have been the normal thing to do, to give my husband a gift. Exc ept I hadn’t
known it was his birthday until a few days ago and I’d been more concerned with surviving
this visit than taking the time to go shopping.
From where I sat in one of the leather armchairs across from Grant, I sent Rose a
wild-eyed look, and she answered with a reassuring smile as she left the room with her
mother. Lady Hastings excused herself to use the bathroom.
“I didn’t get you a present,” I told him.
He was seated casually, the ankle of one long leg resting on the knee of the other,
hands clasped on his flat stomach. The tie was gone, a de ep emerald green that had made
his eyes a bright silver. His steady appraisal sent a flurry of nerves down my spine.
“I don’t know if I’d say that. The look on my grandmother’s face when she tried the
pizza might have been the highlight of my day.”
I let out a reluctant laugh. “You’re welcome, then. Maybe I’m not turning this into a
complete train wreck.”
“You’re doing wonderfully.”
Given five more minutes, I could’ve re capped my day with Rose and told him just how
not true that was, but the truth, it seemed, would have to wait just a bit longer.
Caroline and Rose returned, speaking quietly as they came upstairs holding the gifts.
Lady Hastings was just behind them, her gaze locked on my face rather than her
grandson’s. The speculative gleam in her beady little eyes made me shift in my chair.
The boxes were wrapped in black paper, tied with black ribbon, and an oversize
shopping bag in a glossy green with the Harrods logo on the side told me everything I
needed to know about the type of gifts they gave each other.
He opened each immaculately wrapped gift with precision, sliding a knife through the
tape and carefully setting the folded paper onto the coffee table before turning his
attention to whatever his family had handed him.
There were more gifts than people in the room, so it seemed that they were from the
entire family, rather than each person picking something specific.
There was a crystal decanter, the style more sleekly cut than the one currently in his
office. A four-piece grilling set with a fancy French name that I wouldn’t dare r epeat,
made with beautifully carved wooden handles.
A gold watch that came from a bright-red Ferragamo box, which he seemed to
genuinely like, studying the bespoke black watch face with particular interest. His initials
were engraved on the back, and he ran his thumb over the letters before giving his mother
a genuine, albeit restrained, smile.
There was an Italian cashmere robe in a de ep midnight blue, and Caroline made sure
to point out that it was from Frette, whatever that was supposed to mean. She leaned
toward me and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have something for you, too, dear. But
I’ll let you open it privately.”
My chest ached from the casual thoughtfulness. There was a time when I would’ve
brushed it off as rich people doing rich people things. But as I watched all of them, I
wasn’t sure I could do that any longer.
Rose’s eyes lighting up as he opened the watch, something I was sure she’d picked out.
Caroline smiling softly when her kids gave each other shit over the way they each
opened their presents. Rose, I discovered, found it de eply annoying that he didn’t rip
through the paper and make a mess.
Even Lady Hastings’s facade showed a hairline crack, a hint of a smile playing around
her stern lips when Grant recounted visiting her for tea when he was in school. They
traded stories as he opened his gifts, and it was so easy to imagine his life back in London.
In grander, larger rooms filled with gilded bits of history, he’d open gifts just like this and
eat beef Wellington pr epared by a chef who’d probably fed him since he was a child.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t deny they loved each other, even if their lifestyle
hardly seemed real to me. For the first time since coming home from the hospital, I felt
that pressure build behind my sternum again —a corked bottle, bubbles pressing against
hard surfaces, screaming for release.
Lady Hastings turned her attention to me as he opened a first-edition box set of The
Lord of the Rings trilogy. “Did your family have any birthday traditions when you were
growing up?”
When his schedule allowed it, Connor tried his best to sneak me away. We’d go
somewhere for pancakes loaded with whipped cream and sprinkles, and he’d sing “Happy
Birthday” so loudly that I’d hide my face and call him terrible names. It didn’t happen
every year, especially when I was younger, but when it did, those were my favorite
birthdays.
If I told that story now, there’d be tears. It would make Grant sad too. So I just let
myself be sad and miss my brother and pretend like every question regarding my past
wasn’t laden with emotional bombs rumbling under the surface of each interaction.
I fought to swallow, my throat dry and tight. “My mom let me stay home from school on
my birthdays.”
That sounded nice, didn’t it? Simple.
“Ahh. Did you do something special while you were home?”
Across the room, Grant’s eyes searched mine as he closed the book, and I let out a slow
breath, determined not to ruin this for him. For his family. He knew the truth. Always had.
“Just hung out together,” I told her. She gave me a polite smile, and even though my
answering smile felt brittle, it seemed to appease her. I wasn’t embarrassed of the way I
grew up. Being poor wasn’t a reflection on the type of person you were, just like having
money didn’t make you a better, more worthy human being. I was embarrassed that my
family had turned out to be giant raging assholes who’d never cared much for their own
kids.
The lie didn’t even really register, because I’d told it so many times over the years.
It was better than telling her that my mom didn’t want to buy treats for my classmates
because my dad wanted the money for beer, and if there was no school alarm going off in
the morning, they could drink later into the night.
“They must have been quite worried after your accident.”
It felt like I was breathing through a straw, a throbbing headache growing at the base
of my neck. I clenched my hands together in my lap, fingers wrapped so tightly that the
skin over my knuckles turned white. She didn’t notice. But Grant did.
He noticed everything. Even if I didn’t want him to.
The concerned look in his eyes burrowed under my skin.
“Grandmother,” he said, drawing her attention away from me. There was one last box
in his hands. “Rose said this last one is from you?”
“Oh. Yes.” She shifted in her seat, hands gently clasped in her lap, ankles crossed
underneath her chair. The picture of immaculate manners. “I do hope you like it.”
This one wasn’t wrapped, but the box was held together with a silky gold ribbon that
fell away when Grant pulled on one end. He lifted the top and peeled back a layer of
de ep-green tissue paper, his face pleasantly shocked.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.”
Lady Hastings cleared her throat as he removed a leather bag in a de ep chestnut color,
large enough to hold a laptop and some files. It looked expensive, from the stitched seams
to the burnished-gold hardware, though it was free of any logos. His initials were stamped
into the leather in the center of the top flap.
Grant’s hands skimmed over the surface, his face distinctly pleased with what he saw.
“For your class,” Lady Hastings proclaimed, her chin lifting slightly. “If you’re going to
teach, one must look the part.”
My gaze snapped to Grant, who’d gone almost comically still.
Rose stood and laid her hand on my shoulder. “Oh yes, Mercy told me all about this
while we pretended to cook dinner. It’s lovely what you’re doing at the community center,
brother.”
She lied so easily.
Behind my ribs, my heart hammered. Questions sprang up, one after another after
another, and I’d have no r eprieve from them until we were alone.
The community center? My community center?
Was that where he’d been when he said he was at work?
Look at me, I commanded silently. But he didn’t. His brow held the slightest pinch, and
it only cleared when his mother spoke.
“We’d hoped to see it today—see where he teaches—but they were closed for an
off-site event.” Caroline smiled, her eyes full of pride for her son. “Someday, when we
have a bit more notice of our visit, perhaps.”
Grant collected himself, his chest expanding on a de ep breath. “Perhaps,” he said
evenly. “Thank you, Grandmother. It’s perfect, and I’m sure my students will harass me to
appropriate degrees about how stuffy I look.” His lips tilted up on a crooked smile. “They
seem to get great joy from that.”
As my pulse raced in my ears, I waited for him to glance my way. If he didn’t, I was
fully pr epared to drag his ass back to our bedroom and demand an answer.
“Thank you for the gifts. They’re quite thoughtful.”
“And your list, dear?” Caroline asked.
Grant ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tensing as he searched for what to say next.
“My gratitude list this year is quite simple.” Finally, his gaze lifted. Locked onto mine. “I’m
thankful for you, darling. More than anything else.”
His mother smiled.
Rose made a soft sighing noise.
His grandmother watched us with shrewd interest.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.
It felt like the room flipped upside down, but I was the only thing staying in place,
hanging in the wrong direction yet again.
Everything k ept changing. As soon as I felt like I’d found my footing, someone,
something, yanked the rug out from underneath me. Grant Hastings wasn’t the man I’d
thought he was. All those moments when I’d assumed the worst felt like an absolute
mockery, because it made me cynical where I thought I was being cautious, where I
thought I knew everything. Where I thought I understood him with perfect, unyielding
clarity.
I knew nothing. Nothing.
Whatever memories had been torn from my mind, I was being forced to reconstruct the
lens through which I viewed him. Viewed his family. His upbringing. Me. Each new thing
that I saw, that I learned, made it abundantly clear that he and I were headed toward a
mighty reckoning.
His eyes begged me for understanding. Begged me for something else too.
Rose, sensing that I was headed straight toward a cute little mental breakdown, took it
upon herself to serve up the lemon squares.
“No candle this year,” he told Rose with a stern expression.
“You’re no fun. Whyever not?”
His eyes found mine again. “I already got my wish.”
If this was an act, the man was giving an Oscar-worthy performance. The dec eption of
the last few days sat bitterly in the back of my throat, because they were nice and they
loved him and he couldn’t possibly be this perfect, could he? No matter how I tried to
swallow it down, I couldn’t. But if it wasn’t . . . if it wasn’t an act, there was panic, quick
and sharp, on its heels.
The lemon bar tasted like ash in my mouth, and I stopped after half, busying myself
with cleaning up the leftover pizza. When I was done, I stood at the kitchen sink, staring
blankly into the backyard at lines of brown branches jutting up from the green grass. Each
plant had a mound of dirt built up around the base, and my hands tightened around the
edge of the sink while I tried to remember planting them. Tending to them. Anything.
I was surrounded by clues I couldn’t piece together about a life that didn’t make any
sense, and at the center of it, my husband was beginning to feel like less of an anchor and
more like the biggest mystery of all.
Suddenly, I needed some air. The timbre of his voice—de ep and quiet and smooth—was
all I could hear, despite the other people speaking in the room.
“I’ll be back,” I told them, and was out through the slider door before anyone could ask
what was wrong. The large deck was empty of furniture, probably because he’d been too
busy taking care of me to set anything up, so I found myself sitting on the top st ep, looking
over the sprawling yard, the dark-green leaves on the tall trees and the rows of mystery
plants that I couldn’t name.
The greenhouse at the back of the property was tucked out of sight, only the edge of
the small building visible through an opening in the maple and oak and walnut trees. In
there, I’d find more clues. More mysteries. More pieces of me that didn’t make much
sense.
I pressed my fingers against my temples and focused on my breathing. After a few
minutes of silence, the tension loosened at the base of my skull, muscles releasing as I
took some de ep breaths and pried my shoulders away from where they’d bunched high
under my ears.
Behind me, the slider door opened and closed, and crossing the deck were short,
measured footst eps that definitely didn’t belong to my husband. Great. I’d love an
audience to my moment of complete and utter embarrassment over the fact that I was a
clueless wreck and didn’t know how to make peace with it.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve needed a break from us.”
Lady Hastings.
I closed my eyes and tried to shore up my defenses, but I found myself far too
exhausted to do anything of the sort.
“I recall finding you on the veranda after an evening with the whole family, staring out
at our gardens much like you’re doing right now.”
There was a sickening urge to try to picture it. To envision myself hiding from the
Hastingses then, too, but all I found was a black hole of nothing. Was it behind a curved
row of stone houses in the city? Or was it the mansion in the fields, facing endless trees
and lush greenery and rolling countryside, like one of the paintings on our bedroom wall?
“Was this Blackmoor House? Or London?”
The weight of her gaze was tangible, but I didn’t look up. “Blackmoor. Grant prefers
the country when he visits. You did spend some time in London, as you’d never seen it
before. I believe the British Library was your particular favorite.”
My fingers twisted in the material of my dress. “Then I guess I’ll get to see it for the
first time all over again someday. Lucky me.”
“If you’re seeking pity, you won’t find it from me.”
I snorted. “That’s a strange sort of relief.”
“What I mean to say is, I don’t pity you because I believe you’ll regain what you’ve lost.
You’re far too stubborn not to. But I still recognize how difficult this must be. To not
remember us. To have lost even a small snippet of your life, which by all accounts, was a
good one.” Something coiled tight under my ribs and spread, and I took a shaky breath as
that twist ratcheted higher, until the pressure was almost unbearable. “I imagine I’d be
quite a beast if I lost even the simplest of memories.”
There was something in her voice, a surprising sort of melancholy that did not match
the stiff-upper-lip version of her I’d seen. It was enough that I glanced up. Loosened the
knotted tension enough that I was willing to ask: “Like what?”
She gave a blink of surprise, her eyes meeting mine briefly, then her gaze shifted back
to the yard. “Oh. Well, I suppose I could think of hundreds of things. Not work, or
meetings, or discussion of investments and finances, which I know drive you mad.” I
dropped my chin and stared down at my hands, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
“But things such as . . . tucking my son into bed after he’d snuck out of his room to spy on
a party. He was never apologetic, you know. I thought it terribly ill behaved at the time,
but now I can see that he wanted to be part of our world so badly.” Her brows bent over
her sharp gaze, a slight wrinkle appearing between them. “Or when Rose used to follow
me around the stables, chattering endlessly about boys and clothes while I tried to teach
her how to saddle her mare properly. I never thought she was listening, but she
remembers everything I taught her.”
“And Grant . . .” Her voice trailed off, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was saying
any of this out loud. “His visits for tea, as he mentioned earlier, were quite a joy as I aged.
All the Hastings men go to boarding school, of course, and I knew when he needed a
break, because he’d walk through the doors of my library and sit in the chair across from
me, always timed perfectly for tea.” She blinked rapidly, a sheen of moisture in her eyes,
there and gone so quickly I wondered whether I’d imagined it. “As you know, he ke eps a
lot to himself. But during those visits is when I learned the most. About his friends. His
classes. His life.” She cleared her throat. “It was lovely, and I’d hate to not remember
that.”
A sick feeling of regret churned uncomfortably in my stomach. Not just because I’d
asked. Because of the pretense of the entire visit. Because I’d pegged them all so wrong.
Because I wasn’t sure how to respond to something so poignant.
Maybe she didn’t want me to.
If Lady Hastings was anything like me, reluctant vulnerability always chafed, and I let
the silence between us stretch a few seconds too far before she pulled in a sharp breath
and changed the subject.
“Your roses need tending,” she said crisply, her focus back on the yard.
I glanced out at the branches. “Roses? That’s what they are?”
“Grant must have taken the coverings off, but they need more attention if you expect
them to bloom.”
“I don’t remember what to do with them.”
It felt so good to say that out loud. The weight of pretending that I did was so much
heavier than I’d realized.
“Right now, I’d clear all that dirt and mulch away from the base. It’s meant to insulate
them during the winter, but they need to breathe. Too much protection from the elements
at this point, and you’ll ruin them.” She was quiet for a moment. “I can help you, whenever
you have questions.”
I turned, staring up at her with my mouth hanging open. “Really?”
The arched brow, imperious and haughty, was a Hastings family trait, one that Grant
had inherited directly from her.
“Of course. Some of those are cuttings from my garden, actually.” Her eyes cut to
mine. “You had the idea to try after visiting our Blackmoor.”
“I did?”
She nodded. “After I found you on the veranda, you and I walked the gardens—came to
a peace treaty, if you will. You asked me about my roses. Asked me what I find so
enjoyable about gardening.”
“You might need to explain it again,” I said tiredly. “Maybe I’ll feel the urge to go pull
some weeds.”
“It’s not about the weeds, Mercy.” Her gaze was locked on the seemingly lifeless plants
growing up out of the ground, seeing something in those inconspicuous branches that I
was in capable of. “That’s part of it, of course. The time and attention you give the roses
are what makes them so beautiful in the end. Knowing when to prune them back, when to
let them grow.” She folded her hands in front of her. Her features didn’t look as severe
today—maybe because I was used to her now. But she did look old. And frail. I thought
about what Grant’s sister had said, how she was mourning a future for her family, the one
she’d always wanted. “There’s a history to growing roses. Blooms that my mother and
grandmother tended still grow in my garden. They’ve graced the Hastings tables for
generations. We have visible proof that persistence—and effort, no matter how small—
yields glorious results as long as you don’t give up too soon.”
“What do you want from me?”
The words were out before I could stop them, bursting through a sliver of my old self
that wouldn’t stay quiet. She went still, glancing down at me with a sharp glint in her eye.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m exhausted. If you’re trying to Yoda me through cryptic gardening metaphors, I’d
rather have you speak plainly.”
After a thick beat of silence, she asked, “What’s Yoda?”
It started to rain. Light, misty rain, the kind she was probably used to in London. I
tipped my face up, let it cool my heated skin.
“Little green guy who hates basic grammar. He’s a couple inches shorter than you are.
Don’t worry, you’d terrify him too.” When she gave me an incredulous look, I rolled my
eyes. “Star Wars. Movie character.”
“For God’s sake,” she muttered. “Are you quite well?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
It was raining. The Queen of England had convinced me to start growing roses. And
Grant had some secret bene volent side that he’d been ke eping under wraps after I’d spent
years convincing myself he was anything but. And now, apparently, he was mine.
No, I wasn’t anywhere in the ballpark of well.
Lady Hastings drew herself to her full height and looked down her nose at me, an
ability they likely had straight from the womb. “Why do you think we came here, Mercy?”
“For his birthday. And to see how we were together.”
“I came to test your mettle, dear,” she said unflinchingly. “Ten minutes in a room with
you, and I knew something was wrong. You’ve been quiet. Restrained. Unsure.” Her gaze
was piercing. “Three words I wager have never been used to describe you.”
“No, but hasn’t that made me easier to deal with?”
She did the same slow blink, eye-roll thing that Grant pulled off so well. “It d epends on
your definition of easy.” Her gaze flickered up to the rain, which started coming down
harder. She shielded her face with one hand. “He’s turning himself into knots right now
pretending he’s not worried sick about you. Pretending he knows how to handle what’s
going on. No matter how you might disagree with my methods, I want my grandson to be
happy. I respect the fact that you’re healing, but it’s not just about you. It’s about him too.
I heard Rose talking to her mother as they came up the stairs.”
My brow twitched. “About what?”
“That you thought about leaving. Staying elsewhere while you heal.”
My stomach plummeted. “Lady Hastings, I—”
“I don’t need to know your rationale. While I have come to respect you, he is my
concern. If he’s not one of your priorities, for God’s sake, be honest with him. He deserves
that.”
She was gone before I could pluck a response from the surge of staticky noise in my
head.
I waited for the anger. For the righteous indignation to swell up and eclipse everything
else.
But it never came. The rain doused the flames before they could spread.
I was trembling, not from cold and not from fear, but from the sheer size of what I was
facing. Had refused to face until now. I’d been so focused on putting one foot in front of
the other that I had never truly looked up.
Stretched out in front of me was an immense road, multiple forks leading in multiple
directions, and it never occurred to me that there was a decision to be made.
Could I do this . . . with him? Ostensibly, I’d taken vows. Even simple ones, spoken in
front of a stern-faced judge, were promises. Having and holding and all the rest of it.
In sickness. Health. Riches and poverty. Till death.
Promises meant something. Meant enough to me and Grant that we’d inked our names
on a legal document. I was here, and that meant something too. But he was upholding the
vows. Living them out. That part was still new to me. Confusing and alarming in a way that
could hardly be defined. Terrifying to a degree that didn’t make sense.
A choice. A direction to be selected.
Even when I closed my eyes, those deceivingly ugly, thorn-filled branches grew out of
the ground along the side of the path. According to her, I could make them into something
beautiful.
Time. Effort. Pruning. Attention. Wouldn’t I have to do that no matter which direction I
went?
I couldn’t face the Hastingses like this.
Couldn’t force my brain into submission.
Couldn’t figure out how to feel like myself, because I didn’t know what that looked like.
I couldn’t face him. The one who seemed to want more from me than I was capable of
giving. Who was there. Always there. Always watching. Always surprising me.
Even though the rain was relentless now, coming down in thick sheets, soaking into my
skin and hair and clothes, I strode into the yard. The grass was cool under my feet. The
dirt was, too, when I sank to my knees and started pushing the mulch and soil away from
the base of the roses.
I didn’t know what I was doing. Give them space to breathe, wasn’t that what she said?
That was what I’d asked for, from Grant. But now I wasn’t so sure it was wise. I
couldn’t go backward, not to anyplace familiar. But moving forward seemed just as hard.
Just as scary.
I moved to the next plant. And the next. My fingers were caked with dirt, my dress
molded to my body. I swiped my forearm over my face when the rain became too heavy to
see. The sound of someone approaching made my hands move even faster.
It was him. I knew it. Every part of my body braced for the impact.
“Mercy.”
My heart twisted painfully at the sound of my name coming from his mouth.
“You don’t call me that. You never call me that.”
I clawed at the dirt, my vision blurry. From the rain, right? It was rain. The pressure in
my chest was unbearable, my breath ragged in my throat while the enormity of the past
few weeks slammed into me.
“Mercy,” he said again, hands gripping mine until I had no choice but to look up. Rain
dripped off his face, his chiseled features harsh and beautiful as he crouched beside me.
“Stop.”
I ripped my hands from his grasp.
“Let me go,” I said harshly. There it was. The anger. The heat. The frustration finally
spilling over into something impolite and messy and loud. “We can’t ke ep lying to them.
You have a family and they love you. They love me.” My voice cracked. “I don’t know who
the fuck you really are and your sister’s telling me things that don’t make sense and I’m
embarrassed and I don’t know why they’re talking about classrooms and buying you a bag
for a teacher and apparently we have sex everywhere and I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
My voice trembled. His eyes softened, a tortured bend appearing in his brow. If he gave
me a safe place to land, I had a terrible feeling that I’d break apart. “Grant, we cannot
ke ep doing this.”
What if there was nothing he could say? What if there wasn’t a neatly given
explanation for why this was so hard and why I was confused and when I’d feel like myself
again?
I pushed to my feet, and before he could answer, I was rushing toward the greenhouse
for a r eprieve, a break, something.
Through the beating sound of the rain, I heard a growled “Fuck.”
I ran, succumbing to a devilish impulse to see whether he’d come after me. In my
thundering heart, wild and skittish and desperate for a confrontation, I knew he would.
And I was right.