I walk into the kitchen slowly. I'm tired and emotionally spent from last night's confrontation with Harry. I'd walked back to my room, feeling like the weight of the world on my shoulders. My sleep had been fitful. I felt so pathetic and jealous of the woman he’s with.

I’m not entitled to those feelings – why shouldn’t he have moved on?

I disappeared, rejected everything he offered me. We had no way to get in touch with each other and I'd thought I would never see him again. And now that I can see the world he belongs to, I know it wouldn't have worked out anyway.

Camille is exactly who he should be with. She’s part of his world. And she probably isn't walking around with enough baggage to fill a train car. Last night I at dinner, she had the air of someone who had never known deep hurt or irrevocable loss. No one who had could be as careless and clueless as she was.

I don't like her. And it's not solely because I'm jealous. We had dinner at one of the estates restaurants last night. It was a huge group of people. A welcome for all of the town guests. Cara and Louis had both been so happy they'd practically glowed. She insisted repeatedly, that she knew me. She talked nonstop about Louis' "amazing” ex- girlfriend. She didn't notice when everyone grimaced. I shudder at the memory.

I the kitchen door slowly, dread filling my veins as I think about facing Jan. I hadn't seen her since I'd run from the kitchen yesterday. I'm ashamed of what a coward I was, but I was overwhelmed and I didn’t know what else to do.

"Hurry up and get in here, love. You're letting all the cold air in behind you and cook's got bread rising." Jan's voice rings out from the corner of the room where she's sitting.

"Grab some coffee or tea, whatever you need and come join me." She said brusquely without looking up at me. My stomach falls as I watch her for a beat before I follow her instructions. The last thing I need is one more person in this house who hates my guts.

I pour myself a cup coffee from the percolator and stand awkwardly by the table. She doesn't look up at me when she barks, "Well, sit down."

So, I do and I wait. She's writing something and only when she's done and closes her notebook does she look up at me. Her eyes are hard as they scan my face, but they soften as she takes me in.

"Oh love. You've been crying. You didn't sleep." I don't say anything, since she's stated the obvious and because I don't have it in me to lie and the truth is so much worse.

I haven’t been crying. I’ve been bleeding tears. I slept, but I had nightmares that woke me with a scream in my throat and with my heart threatening to break loose from the confines of my chest.

"He told me that you met in Ghana. He said you left. From what he told me, I’d thought you were indifferent. But I was wrong, wasn't I?" She says, taking the coffee cup I'm clinging to out my grasp and holding my hands in hers.

"Yes. You were very wrong." I say without looking up at her.

"Tell him." She says as if it's that simple.

"No, and it doesn't matter. He's with her." I mumble.

She sighs and says, "It appears that way, but I don’t know.” And in my heart, despite already knowing that he wasn't mine, a little bit of hope flickers to life. Her delicate brow furrows, "I don't like her. She's like the last one."

I look up at that, because I didn't expect that. He’d made it sound like he’d never be with anyone like Zara again.

She raises her eyebrows at my surprised expression and insists, "She is. They were friends. Good ones." Disgust coats her voice. My eyes drop to our joined hands, my grip growing tighter as anger starts to color my anguish.

"Freya's desperate for him to be settled. So, she can't see this one's no better and that he's had enough of being set up. A few weeks ago I told her that he would choose on his own. Little did I know that he already had.” I look up at her and see her smiling kindly.

“My boy's been so hurt before.” She says sadly, “That girl, she was a devil. She only wanted him for his title. And this one’s, the same.” She grimaces a little, “He's a big boy. He won't make the same mistake twice. And...you're here, now."

I look up at her then and one of her hands leaves mine and comes to cup my face.

"I don't know what ails you. I don't know what eats at you. You don't have to tell me, darlin'.” She says when I start to shake my head.

“But Lilly, I've lived long enough to know that nothing is as bad as it seems in the dark corners of our minds. I also know that no secret stays a secret. Tell your story. On your own terms. Or else someone else will and you may not like their version."

I feel a small prickle of dread. She's right and I know it. I’ve known it for a long time. But how to tell them what I swore I'd take to my grave?

"The wedding is in two days. Everyone's going to be really busy and preoccupied. You should take the time to think and gather your courage, love and then just tell them." She says with a challenging cock of one of her eyebrows.

"I've made so many mistakes,” I moan

“We all have, dear. Life is hard. It takes honesty and it takes kindness and forgiveness to survive with your soul intact. I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But I know it's worth it.” Her tone is so assured. I wish I could muster half of that.

I nod my head noncommittally. "We'll have to see." I look around the kitchen, "Where's this cook you're always going on about?" I ask, "Is she a ghost?"

"She's already gone to the restaurant for the day. She'll send up lunch later, like she did yesterday. Speaking of, did you enjoy the chicken with carrots and beet salad?"

I laugh and roll my eyes. "That was petty, Jan. We'd only just met and you're already poking fun at me."

"That was not my doing. Those sandwiches were on the menu at the restaurant yesterday. I just thought it was very fitting."

I smile ruefully as I admit "They were delicious, I might have to rethink my dislike of chicken. And carrots and apparently beets. And pork."

"You're down early. No one else is even out of bed yet. Do you want breakfast?"

"No, I'm actually never really hungry in the morning, my coffee will hold me for a few more hours."

"Well, then." She looks at her list and looks up at me with a twinkle in her eye and a smile that makes me nervous. "I have Christmas hampers that need to be delivered to the gift store. I need you to take the Christmas hampers down to the farm Gift Shop. Can you drive?" She asks.

"Yes, but it’s the wrong side of the road here,” I say nervously.

"No worries, on the estate the roads are marked with arrows because we have vehicle rental for our visitors who are staying in the cottages we let out for the holidays and they come from all over the world." She stands up and pats my leg. "You'll be fine. Just drive in the direction the arrows are pointing and follow the signs to the Farm."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I'm driving to the farm in a small van loaded with hampers, which are really just gigantic gift baskets, brimming with cheeses, wines, meats, and baked goods. People order them as corporate gifts and this batch is being picked up by a local real estate firm this morning.

It's still early, but the sun is already up and shining. I roll the window so that I can enjoy the bite of the cold air. The air is so clean here, the smells of the trees, the sounds of the estate coming to life. It was the crow of the cock that got me out of bed this morning. The way I was enjoying this place was just another sign that I'd outgrown Miami. All of my reasons for staying there had disappeared. I needed to think about my next move carefully. I'd been thinking about moving back to Houston. I’d started seeing an online therapist and it had been helping. I’d stopped a couple of months ago.

I pull up to the front of the store that's attached to the farm and as soon as I step out of the car, my senses are assailed with the smell of hay and horses and manure. We had horses when we lived in Houston, at our ranch in Brenham and we spent many weekends there. I'd forgotten how much I loved the smells that my sisters complained about. All of that went away when my father did. I don't even know who got our horses when my mother sold all of the property she and my father had owned together.

I walk into the store and the jingle of the bell announces me before I can call out. But I don't see anyone so I walk to the counter where two lone cash registers sit. The shelf behind the counter is loaded with bottles of jams, preserves, pickled vegetables, bottles of olives.

"Hello! I'm here with the bask-, I mean the hampers." I call out to no one in particular. I sigh and go back to my van to get the baskets out of the back. I've just flung the door on the side of it open when I hear a car pulling up. I grab one of the gigantic baskets and when I pick it up, it obstructs my view.

"Oh dear, what ever are you doing?" Comes a voice I could live the rest of my life without hearing. The snide laughter in her tone makes me bristle and I juggle the hamper to glare at Camille.

She's standing there, her arm wrapped snuggly in Harry's. I put the hamper back over my face to hide my expression, afraid that my envy is on full display.

"Here, let me take that." His voice is gruff and he doesn’t wait for me to respond before he takes the basket out of my arms. I don't protest, but turn back to the van to get another one.

I can handle his anger, his irritation, his scorn even his disgust. But his kindness, is so undeserved is too much for me to bear. I cover my face with the hamper and follow him into the shop.

"Aren't you helpful?" Camille says as she strolls next to me, her voice full of patronizing humor.

"Well, I try." I respond dryly.

"Wouldn't do for me to confuse the villagers, so I'm just watching." She says.

"How would they be confused? Are you known for your laziness?" I ask her, glad she can't see my eyes rolling.

"No, silly, but one day I’ll be their Countess and seeing me doing manual labor would confuse them. "

The door to the shop opens just as we approach and I feel the brush of Harry's wool jacket against my arm as he walks past us.

"There you are, handsome." She says in a voice that's so different from the one she's been speaking to me in that I almost stumble.

"Hello." He returns unenthusiastically, as he steps back outside.

I put the basket down on the counter and come face to face with her. She’s beautiful. In a conventional way. She's tall, blond, perfect proportions in the lines of her face. Her eyes are the color of cornflowers and her skin is beautiful. But none of that can blot out lack of warmth that makes her beauty only skin deep.

She looks at me, her eyes narrowed. "I know I've seen your face somewhere. I never forget a face, I've got-- "

"Yes, I know…A photogenic memory.” I finish for her. She repeated this idiocy over and over last night. About Addie. I don’t bother to correct her. “You ever been to Miami?” I say instead.

“No, ugh, I loathe the sun. It's terrible for my skin. You wouldn't know about that, I'm sure.” She gives me a head to toe appraisal. "Your mother's African. Who would have known it to look at you?" She says her smile full of false saccharin. She’s also petty and not very creative.

“Is that the best you can do? Please. Try harder.” I roll my eyes and start toward the door.

Harry walks back in with another hamper and I wish she wasn't here. This woman is a snake and I want to take back everything is said to him last night. I hate that he won't even look at me. And despite how polite he’s being, I can feel his anger like it’s a laser that’s trained on me. It sits between, marking a line that neither of us can cross without being burned.

Oh, God. What have I done?

As soon as Harry walks back outside, she turns to me.

"Why are you watching him like that?" She snaps. My eyes come to her, wide with alarm and unable to disguise it.

"Like what?" I say, my heart racing, but I stand my ground. I'm not going to let this woman who doesn't fucking deserve Harry intimidate me.

She darts a quick glance at the entrance and then leans into me. “I’m not studid. I can tell there was something between you, her whisper is urgent and harsh. She puts a hand on my forearm and I look at her, my eyes wide with shock.

“Get your hands—“ She squeezes my arm even tighter and cuts me off.

“But whatever it was, it’s over. I like him. He’s rich, and titled! And he’s not old or ugly.” She closes her eyes, “Do you know how rare that is? You can’t have him.”

“Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lean away from her and pull my arm out of her grasp.

She closes the space between us again. “Just stay away. He’s mine.”

“Then, what are you so worried about?” I ask her, my eyebrow raised.

I take her in. Her face is flushed and her nostrils are flared. I’m sure I look the same way. I’d really like to curse her out. To tell her to keep her fucking hands off me. And to tell her that he’ll never be hers. But, I know how she must feel. I don’t blame her. He’s worth fighting for. She’s just guarding her treasure. I wish I’d been as wise as her when I had him.

Her face falls, but she recovers and is leaning toward me when Harry calls my name from right outside the door.

We both take a step away from each other. And then I walk toward the entrance.

I step outside and Harry’s standing by the van. He watches me as I approach. I give him a tentative smile but as soon as I do, he looks away. My stomach sinks a little. It’s okay. This is what I should expect.

"I unloaded the rest around the back, I don't want to clutter up the inside of the store." He says, pointing at the now empty van. I hear the crunch of leaves behind me and I know Camille’s come outside, too.

Time to go.

"Okay, thanks." I glance at the watch on my wrist and in the most cheerful voice I can muster say, “I've got to get back to the house. It's almost time for breakfast."

"Oh good, Harry and I were just headed there for breakfast. We woke up with a huge appetite this morning, didn't we darling." Camille comes to stand by him.

I have to stifle my groan. It's physical blow to hear her say that. Did he go to her last night? Could I blame him?

The haze of fear and self-loathing that’s clouded my judgment for so long has, in the last few months, become less opaque. Now, when it’s too late, I can see what I've thrown away.

I swallow the pain in my throat and smile at them.

"That's nice. Well, I'll see you both there. " Like hell I'd be sitting across from them to break bread. I’d rather eat arsenic.