All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

As we reached the French doors, Wren moved aside to let me go in first. She might be a bit unsociable, but her manners were intact.

“The color of your hair is gorgeous. It’s natural, isn’t it?” I asked as she stepped over the threshold into the house.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, and her porcelain skin flushed pink within a few blinks of her lightly mascaraed eyes. “Yes.” She touched the twin ends of her braids.

Unlike the majority of the girls I’d seen on the lawn, Wren’s face was almost makeup free. She could benefit from some coral rouge, an auburn eyebrow pencil, and some tinted lip gloss to highlight her best features, but even with a nearly naked face, the girl was uniquely pretty. Her body was curveless, no hips or chest to speak of, but she had the kind of svelte frame most people could only duplicate with Photoshop.

“If I had natural color like yours, I’d never dye it,” I said. “It’s siren hair.”

“My mother used to call it that,” Wren said in a voice so low it was barely audible.

“Did she?”

Wren nodded. “She was Irish, but her hair was a lot more . . . carrot color. And a bit frizzier than mine. She used to complain about it a lot. Wished she could be a blonde—like you.”

The past tense of her mother’s description chilled me. Where was Wren’s mother now?

“Well, don’t tell anybody, but I’m not a natural blonde. I’m a brunette.” I smiled. “Actually, that makes it sound prettier than it is. My natural color is more like . . . hmm.” How did I describe such a shade of boring brown? “It’s more like the color of mud when it dries on the bottom of rain boots.”

Wren cracked a smile and gave a lift of her shoulders. It almost could have been classified a chuckle . . . if there’d been any sound to it. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Good. Because I’ve paid way too much money to a hair wizard named Charise so that nobody can imagine it.”

This time Wren did more than shrug. She laughed. It was only a tiny squeak of a sound, but it definitely qualified. Yet as quickly as the humor had lit up her eyes, her face downshifted to an expression that looked as if she wanted to become one with the wall plaster. “Silas should be out here to meet with you soon.”

“Is that what you call him?”

“What?” she asked nervously.

“Silas.”

“Yeah . . .” She drew out the word as if searching for the hidden meaning in my question. “All of us here call him Silas. Only guests call him Mr. Whittaker.”

I found it interesting that a man with so much authority would approve of being addressed so casually. Then again, that had little to do with the timid girl still waiting for some sort of explanation for my curiosity. I smiled extra big to put her at ease. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” I said. “Thanks for walking me back to the lobby, Wren. I appreciate it. Maybe we can chat a bit longer the next time I’m here.”

Something opened in her expression. “Will you be teaching a class here?”

“I think so, yes.”

“What will you teach?”

Honestly, I hadn’t narrowed it down to a single topic yet. I always had more ideas than time to plan. “I have a few thoughts, actually, so maybe you can tell me what you’d like to learn.”

She rubbed her lips together for a few seconds, her eyes flashing with a hope I understood so well. “I dunno . . . like maybe something to do with how to talk to people or whatever.”

How to talk to people? That’s what this girl wanted to learn?

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound like her suggestion was totally normal. “Well, I’ll do my best to work that into my curriculum.”

Another faint smile. “Okay. Cool.”

She looked behind her down the hallway. “I should get going. I have chores to complete after our group session, so . . .”

“Oh, sure. I won’t keep you, then.”

Slowly, she retreated a few steps, her eyes lowering to my hand. “You probably shouldn’t put that down while you’re here.”

“What?” I followed her gaze and lifted my left arm. “You mean, my purse?”

She nodded. “Not if you like everything inside it.”

“Wren! Are you coming? We have chores.” A female voice hollered from some unknown location.

“Sounds like your friend needs you.”

She glanced up at me, her eyes saying so much more than her words. “She’s not my friend.”

With a quick wave, she turned and jogged down the hallway.

“Bye, Wren,” I murmured after she’d gone.

I squeezed the handle of my purse in my hand and wondered at the world of secrets a girl like Wren must know about The Bridge and its inhabitants. Because chances were high that a house as large and as lofty as this one could put Nancy Drew and all her detective work to shame.

I took out my phone to do an Insta story with the remaining moments I had left before the interview. Searching for the best lighting, I did a quick scan of the lobby and had just begun to tease my upcoming partnership with this lovely establishment when Silas cleared his throat behind me.

4

Molly

With minimal fanfare, Silas ushered me from the lobby at eleven o’clock sharp. I followed him up a spindly staircase and down at least three hallways, though I lost track of how many turns we made in total. I hoped the conclusion of this interview process would come with a survival-type goodie bag—one filled with a compass, map, two-way radio, and plenty of snacks in case of an accidental all-nighter in a dimly lit corridor.

“This place is massive—I think I’d have to hire a guide to find my way around,” I marveled as he pushed open the large mahogany door to his office. “I’m guessing it was built sometime around the end of the nineteenth century?”

“Your guess is correct,” he remarked, allowing me to take the lead—at