The drive to the Bradshaw estate showed an island full of mansions—and not the tacky, confusing McMansions, where random pieces of Greek architecture, western styles and mismatching textures were stacked together in a half-assed attempt to appear well-off.

These were timeless pieces, all fenced in with neat, iron fences and perfectly manicured lawns with evergreen shrubs sheared into globes, squares, and the ever-so-often swan. Most properties we passed were three stories high, all towering over surrounding trees. They each looked like what a summer home should be— wide, sweeping windows replaced portions of walls, French doors painted in bright neutrals, and wrap-around-porches built to enjoy long, lazy summers.

This island matched the same pristineness of the airport and the Yarborough Cancer Care Center. Nothing bad could ever happen here. Death did not and could not exist on this island of luscious green and lapping, gray waters. Broken bones, terminal illness, and every wicked thought could be cured by a morning spent basking on those porches, drinking orange juice with your favorite people.

The Cadillac continued deeper and deeper into the island, and as it did, the iron railings grew taller and the houses slowly moved out of sight from the public road. Soon, we crossed miles that were marked only by the change of fences with each passing property.

Rose slowed down the car until we took an abrupt right turn. In front of us, a sturdy, black iron gate, complete with decadent twirls wrapped around the rods and sharp, coned points stationed at each tip— those steel pricks made it virtually unclimbable. One long tower of painted white bricks stood four feet before the gate and connected to it was a small keypad with numbers zero through nine.

Rose rolled down the window and pressed a series of six numbers. 6-7-9-3-4-1. He ended the code with a sharp push to the '#' button. Before us, the gate reeled open, taking its time before clearing a path.

I leaned toward the middle of the car, where my face fit into the empty space between Leonora and Rose. In front of me was a sprawling, cement driveway, framed in red maple trees neatly spread apart. The crimson and orange leaves held onto the gray branches like wilting petals.

"Most Maples don't turn red until the winter," Leonora said as if she could read my mind. "But we are never here later than September. They're called Summer Red."

"They're beautiful," I whispered.

The car drove another forty seconds, all of us in a comfortable silence, when I saw my first, true peak of the Bradshaw estate.

The home stood two stories high, with an equal amount of white wooden boards and cream-colored bricks covering its exterior. Like every other home on Daisy Isle, it was framed in a large, wrap around porch— but above it, on the second floor, was an overhanging balcony held up on dark exposed wood. French doors and sweeping windows dotted the exterior in a mirrored pattern. Every few feet: another window, another door. Always an entrance, sometimes an exit. A tall, gray chimney rose up from the brown roof, disrupting the home's balanced symmetry.

"Welcome home, ladies," Rose said from the driver's seat. He pulled directly in front of the three porch steps.

I tried to peer inside through the windows. There were two moving silhouettes dancing behind gauzy white curtains, like poltergeists ready to strike at my entrance.

"Come on," Rose said. He opened my door and stretched out his hand. "They don't bite."

I stared at his outstretched fingers, long and graceful. It looked as though they belonged on a grand piano, not wrapped around a leather steering wheel. I didn't take his hand, as if it was some kind of self-punishment. My mother is dead repeated in my mind like a new mantra, one that told me any kind of pleasure was no longer allowed— even something as brief and small as taking Rose's hand and feeling his warmth beneath my palm.

I scooted out awkwardly, eyes not matching his. His warm smile turned into a confused frown, as if he wasn't used to being brushed off.

Leonora escorted me inside. Her fingers clutched my right shoulder, a welcomed pressure that kept me grounded with each heavy step we took. The moment we reached the front entrance—off-white French doors with abstract stained glass— it swung open.

Inside stood a girl, no older than sixteen, beaming. She was three inches taller than me, with warm brown eyes, dark umber skin and a head of full, 4c curls that bounced when she released a loud, high-pitched squeal. She wore a simple, white nightgown and a dark purple robe. She must have only just woken up. There was something familiar in her face—the sharp cheekbones, the smart line of her lip, her deep pupils flecked with tiny pieces of gold.

"Meet Jacqueline," Leonora said. "My daughter."

"I prefer Jackie," she said, and then, she enveloped me in a tight hug. She was like a furnace against me, and it was then that I realized I hadn't felt another human hold me like this... for months. My arms awkwardly remained straight at my side until I moved forward, wrapping my hands around her back. "I am so happy to meet you, and I am very sorry for your loss."

"T-thank you," I murmured. I was taken back by her beauty. She inherited the same air of grace my mother and Leonora naturally possessed. "I'm Susanne—but I like going by Susanne."

"Susanne it is," a man, tall and lean from behind Jacqueline spoke. He shared her same dark skin, and his head was bald. The lights of the room reflected off of the shiny surface, like a freshly waxed floor. "I'm your Uncle Daniel." He brought out a slender hand, one that was soft like Leonora's. I took it. "I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, but I hope you can make this place home."

"Where is mother and father?" Leonora asked.

Rose answered. "I'm afraid they are stuck in Seattle until Wednesday."

"Well then," Leonora turned to me, and again, allowed her eyes to slowly move over my body, like I was a specimen she studied. "You are clearly tired." And at her words, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me. "Jackie, would you mind showing Susanne to her room? I'm sure she's tired of seeing my face."

It was then that I realized I liked Leonora. She didn't speak to me like I was the girl with the dead mother. She spoke to me like a person—because she knew we were mourning the same woman. That pulsing alarm stuck in my head was in her, too—the one that ached to drag fingernails over skin until it turned raw. Anything to get away from that terrifying frustration.

"Sure!" Jackie grabbed my hand and pulled me away from my aunt and uncle.

And Rose.

***

It was hard to take in the interior of the home when I first arrived. Jacqueline and Daniel blocked my view of every single piece of finery. But on my walk with Jackie, who still clung to me, now by the elbow, a maze of a house unfolded itself.

Every wall was painted in a rich, jewel tone, and each piece of furniture was lavish and vintage. Rich velvets, silks and dark wood acted as the home's main theme. They were not, to my relief, the rich folk who prefer that distilled, clean minimalism that left a room empty and appearing half-finished. They liked color, opposite shapes beside one another, and every piece of furniture just barely off-center, not enough to be purposeful.

This house was not carefully measured, it was lived in.

Jackie led me to a grand staircase, made of mahogany so darkly stained it appeared black to the untrained eye. Beneath all that deep tint, I made out the gentle curves and rings of the wood, proof the stairs were once a living, breathing.

"We're almost there," Jackie told me. Her light, airy voice reminded me of chiming bells—like only laughter and wit slipped through her pink lips. "You'll be sleeping across from my room." She said that like it was a good thing, so I smiled and nodded.

Exhaustion fought to pull down the corners of my lips. It was like a screw tightening in my jaw, attempting to force my mouth into a deep, unkind frown.

"Right in here," Jackie said.

I hadn't noticed it, but we walked up the staircase and down a long hallway of tall, white, wooden doors. In front of me, the identical entrance stood, waiting for me to turn the antique brass knob.

I must have taken too long. Jackie did it for me.

"Isn't it lovely?" Jackie turned around to watch my reaction.

"Y-yes," I whispered, because it was.

The room was nearly three times the size as my mother's master and painted in a deep mustard-yellow. Along the exterior wall set a bay window, cushioned with blankets and a white pillow-seat. Beside the window, a pair of French doors led the way out. Gauzy white curtains covered all the glass, a weak barrier if one tried to peek inside the room. In the middle of the room, a weaved oval rug covered the wooden floor.

And sitting in the very corner was an iron, four-post bed, wrapped in the same curtains as the window. In the early light, it appeared as though morning gossamer adorned the frame, like a spider snuck into the room and made its home among all the silk sheets and linen blankets.

"Through there is an in-suite bathroom." Jackie pointed to another pair of dreamlike French doors. They guarded the entrance like two, loyal white knights. "And straight ahead—" she took a step out of the room and gestured to the door directly in front of mine. "Is my bedroom. So, if you need anything, no matter what it is, just knock."

I couldn't tell if her kindness was because she felt bad for me, or if she was just that sweet.

"Thank you, Jackie," I whispered. I stood in the doorframe and held onto the knob, a silent attempt to shoo her away. I wanted sleep, and that bed called out to me.

"Get to sleep now," she said, like she would never think to overstay her welcome. "When you wake, please come find me. This afternoon, perhaps I can show you to the Docks, if you're up for it, that is."

"Maybe," but I didn't want to do any of that. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to dream of something far from Daisy Isle and imagine I was sitting on my porch, mosquitos sticking to me while I drink iced tea and think ignorantly that nothing bad could ever happen to me.

***

A loud knock sent me straight up from the bed. My bed. I should get used to thinking of this place as mine.

I peeled off sticky blankets and rushed to the door. I wore nothing but the white button-up from the plane-ride here and a cotton pair of underwear. A thin sheen of sweat covered my skin. It seemed even billionaires had shitty heat and air.

The knocking continued.

I swung the door open absentmindedly. My guess was Jackie stood on the other side, dressed in some kind of feather-soft white dress, like she came down from a dream to lead me out of the Bradshaw estate, hand-in-hand.

It was not Jackie at the door.

Instead, Rose stood, now wearing a handsome blue button-up and a relaxed pair of khakis. One hand rested on the wall, like he waited more than the ten seconds it took me to spring from my bed. The other wrapped around my red Samsonite. It looked odd in his grasp, like he wasn't used to holding anything secondhand.

His dark eyes crawled up my short bare legs. His only reaction was a slight raise to his brow, like he hadn't expected to see me like this—just barely out of the throes of sleep.

I pushed myself up against the door in a weak attempt to hide my body, not because I was ashamed of my nakedness, but because the intensity of his gaze stirred something in me that was unfamiliar, something that curled from my navel to the shallow well of my cupid's bow.

"I thought you would be missing this," he broke the silence after the quiet grew to an insistent ringing in my ears. He pushed his hand forward and I slid my fingers over the suitcase. It was warm, like it was forgotten in the trunk of the Cadillac.

"Thank you, Rose," I whispered. "Would you like to come in?" I don't know why I asked the question. I just wanted any excuse to keep this beautiful boy close to me.

"That's nice," he said in that slow, southern drawl. "But I really shouldn't."

"And why not?" I replied. Heat pooled in my cheeks. "I'll put on pants." Of course I would. I couldn't imagine standing in the same room as him, unpacking my Samsonite and zipping around my new bedroom while his eyes remained on the curves of my thighs.

"Listen." He leaned his hands on the top of the door frame, stretching his body out like a tired cat. And for one, fleeting moment, I saw a boy, not a man. But the child disappeared with the deep timbre of his next words. "You're a Bradshaw. And all the Bradshaws I know are good people, I can assume you are the same." He waited for me to answer, so I gave him a quick, jerky nod. "I'm not. I haven't been for a long time. But I can be good for these people, for your family. I just want to be... good, for once. So, Susanne" – he took the brass knob of my door and gave me a bittersweet smile – "this is me being good and keeping my distance."

He shut the door, and I was alone in my bedroom with no pants and my cherry-red suitcase.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and vote! How do we feel about that Rose boy? 

Also, a quick update cause I'll be busy all day tomorrow!