I nodded. "I will. Thank you."
On the way back, I ran my fingers over both bracelets, thinking that the one from Camille was lovely.
But Rod's was bought with six months of his salary. I couldn't bring myself to replace it.
So I kept his on my wrist and tucked hers into my jewelry box.
I rarely wore Camille's bracelet, but every day I took it out to look at it, gave it a gentle polish.
I heard the gossip in the tabloids all the time.
That Rod and I didn't match. A socialite heiress and a broke college kid—what kind of future could that have?
They said my father was just playing the long game, investing in Rod for the publicity.
None of it bothered me. What did they know?
He was so good to me. So gentle. I didn't care whether he had money or not.
When Rod found out what people were saying, he made a point of reassuring me. Told me not to take it to heart. That I was the only one who mattered to him.
I knew he meant it.
So it never once crossed my mind that things would end up like this.
On the seventh day after Camille moved into the house, Rod remembered he hadn't had dinner with me in a long time.
I asked Martha to make his favorite dishes.
Sweet-and-sour ribs, braised meatballs, a light watercress soup, and the smoked pork stew with bamboo shoots he'd been craving for weeks.
He sat down and glanced at the table, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
"You made all this?"
But the moment his chopsticks left the rest, a knock came at the door.
It was Nora, the maid Camille had brought with her.
She was out of breath, her face flushed, and she poked her head in with wide, anxious eyes.
Rod noticed her. "What's wrong?"
Nora kept her head low, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Camille had a nightmare. She's crying so hard we can't calm her down. We didn't know what else to do, so we came to find you, Mr. Pruitt."
Before she even finished, Rod was already on his feet.
"I'll go check on her."
He was halfway to the door when he turned back and added, "Go ahead and eat. Don't wait up."
I sat there for a long time.
The fork was still in my hand. I'd forgotten to put it down.
Martha approached carefully. "Ma'am, why don't you go ahead and start?"
I picked up a rib and put it in my mouth.
Cold.
The sweetness coated my tongue, cloying and thick. I chewed slowly and swallowed.
I tried a piece of bamboo shoot. Also cold.
A film of white fat had congealed on the surface.
I set down my fork.
Martha sighed quietly and began clearing the table.
The clock ticked through the silence of the evening.
Nine o'clock. Ten. Eleven.
Later, Martha told me that Rod had stayed in the master bedroom until well past midnight, watching over Camille until she fell asleep before he left.
She couldn't quite meet my eyes when she said it.
I asked, "What kind of nightmare did she have?"
Martha shook her head.
"I don't know. They said she was crying really hard, and Mr. Pruitt just stayed with her the whole time. Brought her water, pulled the covers up for her, sat on the edge of the bed. Like he was soothing a child."
Rod didn't come back that night.
The herbal medicine was prescribed by a doctor, who said it would help Camille sleep better at night.
The next day, I prepared a full set and went to bring it to her.
The door to the master bedroom was half open. Nora was nowhere to be seen.
I walked straight in, rounding the decorative screen.
My feet stopped.
Camille was leaning against the bay window, a book in her hands.
Sunlight poured through the glass and spilled across her face, so bright that even the shadows of her eyelashes were perfectly defined.
Her head was tilted slightly downward, completely absorbed, the faintest smile resting on her lips.
Rod stood beside her.
He was leaning in, reading the same page.
So close. So close that his chin nearly brushed her shoulder.
His gaze rested on the book. Or maybe it didn't.
I saw his eyes. They were fixed on the loose strand of hair curling by Camille's ear.
