Magnolia (30 page)

“That's a long trip,” Mr. Marsden says. “They'd probably have to change trains a couple of times.”

“Yes, but think how scenic it would be,” Mama says. “Besides, they could get a roomette—that'd give them some space to stretch out and get some sleep. What do you think, Jemma?”

It takes me a second to realize that she's talking to me. I'm too focused on the fact that Ryder's sitting beside me—just inches away—holding my hand beneath the table. “What?” I ask, glancing around at the expectant faces. “Oh, the train. Yeah, maybe.”

“They should go up a week early,” Laura Grace declares. “Take some time to see the city. Maybe catch a couple of Broadway shows or ball games or something. We could go with them!”

“No,” Ryder says, a little too loudly. “I just meant . . . we should probably do it on our own, me and Jemma. Learn our way around and all that. Y'all can come up for Thanksgiving break, once we get settled and everything.”

Laura Grace nods. “That's a great idea. We could get rooms at the Plaza, watch the Macy's Parade. And the two of you can show
us
around.”

Ryder nods. “Exactly.”

Beneath the table, I give his hand a squeeze.

Laura Grace eyes my plate suspiciously. “You're just pushing your food around, aren't you? You've barely taken two bites. I thought you loved Lou's Cornish hens.”

“I do. I'm sorry. All I can think about is that English project due this week.” I look over at Ryder with a faux scowl.
“We're already way behind—you've always got some excuse. We should probably work on it tonight.”

“Probably so,” Ryder says with an exasperated-sounding sigh.

“That's the third project the two of you have been paired up on,” Mama says, shaking her head. “I hope you two can behave well enough to get your work done properly. No more arguing like the last time.”

We'd pretended to fight over a calculus project. Yes, a calculus
project
. Is there really any such thing?

“We're trying really hard to behave,” I say, shooting Ryder a sidelong glance. “Right?”

His cheeks pinken deliciously at the innuendo. I love it when Ryder blushes. Totally adorable.

“Right,” he mumbles, his gaze fixed on his lap.

Laura Grace gives us both a pointed look. “You two better learn to get along, you hear? You're going to be spending a lot of time together for the next four years.”

Four years.
Just the two of us—away from our meddling mamas. I have to bite my lip to force back the smile that's threatening to give us away.

“She's right,” Mama says, nodding. “The only way I'm allowing Jemma to go to NYU is if she promises not to go off campus without Ryder to escort her.”

Escort
me? What is it, the 1950s or something? Besides, I don't think she realizes that NYU isn't a traditional campus.
There's no fences or gates or anything like that. I guess she'll find out when she comes to visit over Thanksgiving, but by then it'll be too late. That's what she gets for not looking over the application materials I gave her.

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound slightly annoyed. “I promise.”

Beneath the table, Ryder releases my hand and lays it open in my lap, palm up. And then I feel him tracing letters on my palm with his fingertip.

I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U.

I can't help myself—I shiver. I shiver a lot when Ryder's around, it turns out. He seems to have that effect on me.

“Are you cold, Jemma?” Laura Grace asks me. “Ryder, go get her a sweatshirt or something. You two are done eating, anyway. Go on. Take her into the living room and light the fire.”

“Nah, I'm fine,” I say, just because I know the old Jemma would have argued.

“Well, go work on your project, then. It's warmer in the den.”

“My room's like an oven,” Ryder deadpans, and I have to stifle a laugh, pretending to cough instead.

“Take her up there, then, before she catches cold. Go. Scoot.” Laura Grace waves her hands in our direction.

We rise from the table in unison, both of us trying to look as unhappy about it as possible. Silently, I follow him out. As soon as the door swings shut behind us, he reaches for my hand and pulls me close.

“Shh, listen,” I say, cocking my head toward the door.

“I still can't believe it,” comes Laura Grace's muffled voice. “The both of them, going off to school together, just like we always hoped they would. They'll find their way into each other's hearts eventually, just you wait and see.”

I hear my mom's tinkling laughter. “I guess their plan to escape each other didn't work out so well after all, did it, now? I'm sure they never even imagined—”

“I just hope they don't kill each other,” Daddy interrupts.

“They'll be fine,” Mr. Marsden answers.

“Well, I guess we won this round, didn't we?” Mama says, her voice full of obvious delight.

I glance up at Ryder, dressed for Sunday dinner—khakis, plaid button-down with a T-shirt beneath. His spiky hair is sticking up haphazardly, his dimples wide as he smiles down at me with so much love in those deep, dark chocolate eyes of his that it lights up his whole face. And me? I'm so happy when I'm with him that Nan says I glow, that a bright, shining light seems to radiate off the pair of us wherever we go.

Despite their gloating, it's easy to see that they
didn't
win, our parents. Nope.

We
won.

Have a craving for forbidden romance?

Read on for a taste of Kristi Cook's
Haven
, Book One in the Haven trilogy.

I
'll never forget that first glimpse of Winterhaven as we pulled up the long, curving drive—gray stones bathed in the lavender haze of dusk, looking like an old European university, all flying buttresses and stone spires reaching toward the sky. Leaves in every shade of the autumn spectrum—red, yellow, orange, brown—littered the ground at my feet, crunching beneath my boots as I stepped out of the car and looked around. This was it—my new home, my new life.

Typically, I had just been dumped there as unceremoniously as had the luggage at my feet. My mom hadn't even bothered to come along for the ride. Okay, technically Patsy is my stepmother, but since my real mom died when I was four and my dad married Patsy about, oh, two seconds later, she's all I've got. She was always clear about her priorities, though—my
dad, and her career, in that order. I think I made the list somewhere between the Junior League and Jimmy Choo shoes.

To give Patsy credit, though, she
had
made an effort to spend more time with me after my dad died. I thought we were making progress when she took an entire Saturday afternoon off and invited me out to lunch. But that's when she dropped the bomb—she'd been offered a job in New York, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she called it. So less than a month into my junior year, Patsy gave me a choice: stay in Atlanta with Gran, or move to New York with her.

There were no other options, no one else to foist me off on. No living relatives except for Gran, my real mom's mother. And as much as I adore Gran, I just wasn't sure that she was up to having me move in with her and Lupe, her companion/housekeeper. After all, Gran was old, set in her ways. I didn't want to be a burden.

And, okay . . . I'll admit that there was more to it than that.
Way
more. I can't really explain it, but once I saw that Winter-haven brochure in the pile that Patsy had dumped in my lap, I somehow
knew
that this was the place for me. I'd been so sure of it that I'd actually refused to apply anywhere else.

And so . . . here I was. Time to see if my instincts had been correct. I made my way up the stairs toward the largest of the buildings, the one marked
ADMINISTRATION.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open a set of double doors at the top of
the stairs and stepped inside, looking around a huge rotunda. On either side of me, two staircases curved up, like a swan's wings. Up above was a stained-glass-tiled dome, a huge chandelier hanging from its center. Directly below it stood a bronze statue cordoned off by red velvet ropes.
WASHINGTON IRVING
, the plaque read. The school's founder. Which, I had to admit, was pretty cool.

Letting out a low whistle of appreciation, I turned in slow circles, admiring the view.
Wow.
The glossy brochure hadn't done this place justice. I hoped it was costing Patsy a fortune.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I froze, my heart thumping loudly against my ribs. A tall woman with graying auburn hair came into view, smiling as she hurried toward me, her high heels clicking noisily against the black-and-white checkerboard marble tiles.

“You must be Miss McKenna,” she called out. “Welcome to Winterhaven,
chérie
. I'm Nicole Girard. Are these all of your belongings?” She nodded toward the two trunks the driver had left at my side before disappearing without a word.

“That's it,” I answered, my voice a bit rusty. “I had the rest of my stuff shipped.”

“Very good. Just leave them there, and I'll take you right up to the headmaster's office. Dr. Blackwell is looking forward to welcoming you.”

“Great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. Glancing back one
last time at my trunks, I followed Mrs. Girard up the stairs on my left and down a long hall lined with portraits of stern-looking old men in suits. Former headmasters, I guessed.

Finally we stopped in front of a large, arched wooden door that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle. Mrs. Girard knocked three times before turning the brass handle. “Dr. Blackwell?” she called out, stepping inside with me trailing behind. “The new student has arrived.”

A leather chair swiveled around, startling me so badly that I took a step back and nearly tripped over my own feet. A man sat behind the massive desk, watching me. His hair was totally silver, but his skin was surprisingly smooth except for crinkles at the corners of his eyes—eyes as silver as his hair. With his wire-rimmed spectacles and a pipe between his teeth, he looked just like I imagined a headmaster should.

“Welcome, Miss McKenna. What a pleasure to meet you.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” I stammered.

“And how was your journey?”

“I think I slept through most of it,” I answered truthfully.

“I do hope you were able to explore the city a bit before coming here. I told your stepmother there was no rush.”

“I did, thanks.” I had spent two weeks helping Patsy settle into her new apartment on the Upper East Side.

“Very good.” He nodded. “Thank you, Nicole. I'll ring the bell when I'm ready for you to show Miss McKenna to her room.”

“Very well, sir,” the woman replied, then took her leave with one last smile in my direction.

Dr. Blackwell motioned for me to take a seat opposite him, so I settled myself into the chair across from his desk.

“Well, then,” he said, laying down his pipe and shuffling a stack of papers. “I have your transcripts right here. Quite impressive. Windsor Day School, advanced classes, honor roll. A fencer.” He took off his glasses and looked up at me. “Hmm, on the state championship team, it says.”

“Yes, sir. I'm recovering from an injury, though.” Almost out of habit, I reached across to rub my right shoulder.

“Well, you'll be pleased to know that we've quite a fencing program here at Winterhaven. Our instructor is an Olympic gold medalist. I'm sure there will be a place for you on the girls team.”

I shifted in my seat. At Windsor we'd had just one team—and I had been the only girl on it.

“As to your schedule, we've made some placements based upon your credits, but you'll find our class offerings a little different here from those at Windsor Day. If anything doesn't appeal to you, let us know at the end of the day tomorrow and we'll make the necessary adjustments.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine.” I took the page he pushed across the desk.

“Breakfast is served in the dining hall from seven till eight
thirty, lunch at noon, and dinner from five to six thirty.” He shuffled through some more papers on his desk. “Let's see, you'll be in the East Hall dormitory. Mrs. Girard is house-mistress there, and her word is law. I'm sure I needn't tell you that smoking and alcoholic beverages are strictly forbidden. Mrs. Girard will inform you of the remaining dormitory rules when she shows you to your room.”

I must have looked panicked, because he smiled a gentle, grandfatherly smile. “I assure you, they are nothing too strict. Now then, have you any questions for me?”

“Um, a roommate?” I asked hopefully.

“Ah, yes. You do have a roommate, and she's eagerly awaiting your arrival. Miss Cecilia Bradford. I believe you'll get on famously.”