behind MONSTER AMONG THE ROSESINSPIRATIONfor Porter Hall, Residence of Entrepreneur Henry Nash:At the time of writing this story, a very real place called Chestnut Hall Estates was on the market for sale in Georgia for a cool $48 million. http://www.priceypads.com/chestnut-hall-48000000/# This 17,000 square feet of living space boasted of sitting on 18 acres of land, but it was the collection of artifacts that came with the house that made it so pricey. Some of the statues came from a garden in Versailles. It contained a chandelier from the Civil War era, which brought about the idea of the chandelier in my fictitious Porter Hall coming from a mansion in France that was confiscated from the Gestapo in World War II. Also in Chestnut Hall, there was a bronze eagle from Benito Mussolini. So I stuck that statue in my Porter Hall as well. Shaw helped Constance move it across the hallway to preserve the carpet.INSPIRATIONfor Isobel’s Rose G
chapter ONE I nervously twisted my ball cap between my hands, the frayed bill skimming across my calloused knuckles with each pass. The room where I waited was bigger than my entire apartment, and the seat on which I gingerly perched myself probably cost more than everything I owned.It smelled rich in here. Like money. Like the walls had been papered in fresh, crisp hundred-dollar bills straight from the bank. I glanced between my knees to my shoes, hoping I hadn’t knocked any dirt onto the opaque marble floor, only to discover a small clump of dried mud did rest by my right sneaker. Shit. I quickly kicked it under the chair to hide the evidence just as the door beside me opened.A gray-headed woman in a blue pantsuit—the same one I’d spoken to, announcing myself when I’d arrived twenty minutes earlier—peered out. “Mr. Nash is ready to meet with you.”Feeling caught in the act, I stopped messing with the dirt clod and jerked to my feet,
chapterTWO What the…?I stood at the end of the drive that led up to 24 Porterfield Lane and gaped. With another glance at the Post-it note in my sweaty hand containing Mr. Nash’s heavy scrawl, I took in the numbers and letters before turning my attention back to the brick-covered mailbox that said 24 Porterfield Lane.Right address.Shaking my head, I faced the gate. A metal sign hung from it, telling me I’d arrived at Porter Hall Estate, Residence of Entrepreneur Henry Nash.Holy shit, this was his home. He’d brought me to his house. The place had to span at least fifteen acres just to make up the manicured front lawn. A row of evergreens concealed most of the building from the road, but a couple stories still peeked up above them. And from what I could see, the mansion was huge. I’m talking over ten-thousand-square-feet huge.I shook my head and pressed the intercom button located on the brick pillar part of the closed gate.When a
chapterTHREE Had to be a burn wound, I decided. One half of her was perfectly fine, beautiful even. I doubted anyone would be aware she had the scars if they saw her from the good side. The other half was full of puckered and stretched skin that looked as if it had been heated to liquefy and then cooled again all wrong. It wrinkled down her neck, then was briefly covered by her short-sleeved shirt, only to continue down to the end of her arm and over the back of her hand. I wondered if it extended lower, but pants and shoes concealed the rest of her.She appeared to be around my age, maybe a year or two younger, with a full head of dark hair, super-blue eyes and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. Except the look in those exceptionally lovely eyes was anything but friendly.“I asked you a question,” she reminded me, her tone truculent. Couldn’t say I blamed her; I had been gawking pretty rudely. But she’d shocked the crap out of me, popp
chapterFOUR So there I was, lost in a mansion I totally didn’t belong in.I wondered if all millionaires—or was Henry Nash a billionaire?—let broke, unknown guys like me wander through their homes unescorted? It would be too easy for me to pickpocket something and resell it. I mean, a single painting, or clock, or statue could pay for months’ worth of rent or groceries.Not that I would ever do that, but I had to wonder what everything I passed must’ve cost. It was crazy how much unnecessary crap rich people collected. Yet the place still looked frightfully bare, the complete opposite of my cramped apartment where all of Mom’s bakery shit sat piled into every nook and cranny we could possibly fit it into.Maybe that’s why Isobel felt so lonely. There was simply too much empty space here. Each footstep echoed, and echoes seemed like such lonely things. The hallway itself must practically tap out the rhythm of seclusion right through her c
chapterFIVE I didn’t see Isobel again for the rest of the morning. She wasn’t in the theater, which I found after washing the library windows, and I didn’t spot her through the French doors that led into her garden. I meandered my way back to the kitchen just in time for lunch, but neither she nor Mr. Nash showed to eat.So I sat down with Constance, Mrs. Pan, and Kit, wondering, “Where do the Nashes eat?”“Mr. Nash has already taken a tray in his office,” the cook replied.I nodded and waited to hear what the rest of the family did or would do, but no one spoke again.Just as I began to feel awkward from the brutal silence and bit into a homemade roll to combat the feeling, Constance said, “I noticed you were cleaning the windows in the library earlier.”I lifted my eyebrows and chewed before wiping my mouth. Mrs. Pan’s rolls tasted good, almost as good as one of Mom’s creations. Then I answered, “Yeah. Was that okay? I didn’t steal y
chapterSIX The next day was Sunday. I didn’t work at Porter Hall on Sundays, so I spent a good portion of the afternoon at the library, studying up on roses. No idea why since I wasn’t allowed to go near Isobel’s garden again. But I learned as much as I could anyway, because she intrigued me, and roses seemed to intrigue her. Plus, I felt bad about the way things had left off between us the day before, which was why I arrived to work on Monday with a small packet of seeds in my pocket.I had stopped by a garden store on the way over, planning to get something amazing for Isobel in the hopes she’d forgive me for hurting her feelings on Saturday. Since she’d made it impossible for me to apologize to her in person, I thought maybe a gift—an olive branch, as it were—would do the trick.But I hadn’t had much luck at the store. Most of the rosebushes they stocked were common, hearty brands. I’d wanted to get something rare, something special th
chapterSEVEN Back in the library, paper and a pencil in hand, I began to draft.I was scribbling my idea for the third wall when I heard her.“Let me guess. You’ve never built a bookshelf in your life, have you?”My heart gave a crazy, massive ka-pow before I could even lift my head. Then my breath caught in my throat. She wore her hair down, one half covering her scars, as well as long sleeves and thin black gloves. It was impossible to tell she’d ever been wounded. But not being able to see her scars wasn’t why she looked so beautiful to me.The fire was back inside her. She was ready to spar again. It made her sizzle with a sparkling vitality.Sending her a crazy grin, because holy shit, there she was, in person, I chuckled. “What gave me away?”She sighed heavily and wandered closer. “What exactly have you done to inspire my father to hire you as our handyman?”“I have mastered the art of begging,” I answered, lifting my nose as if supre