Chapter Text
Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs… And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
―Charlotte Brontë
For a few hours, the mansion was supposedly empty, but Rey never felt truly alone at Skye House.
It was a quiet Sunday night, and her hand glided down the glossy wooden banister that begged her to touch it even when she was in a hurry. She looked over her shoulder as she reached the bottom, half-expecting to see someone watching.
She had no reason to think a hidden nanny-cam was filming her—she doubted Adele’s father cared enough to take the time—but she’d been here for months, and she still felt edgy.
On the ground floor, heavy drapes blocked almost all the evening sunlight from the western windows. The blue shine of the many fish tanks was the only light source. Skye House was really more like a museum or a city aquarium than a home—and Rey liked it. She really did, except it gave her flashbacks to the two kids in The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, the ones who lived for weeks in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was beautiful, but she half-felt she should hide her things when she left any room—the way they shoved their violin cases in urns and what not.
As she headed for the rear exit of the house—lit up by a red EXIT sign, also like a museum—Rey passed her favorite display, a tank of crystal jellyfish as delicate and ethereal as moonlight. The tank was almost as tall as her, with recessed lighting that included a black light to highlight their phosphorescence.
This place really was nutty. The downstairs was open to the public most weekdays and had its own staff who came in nightly to feed and clean and maintain the habitats.
There were also security guards on the grounds.
The upper floor boasted bedrooms, kitchen, dining, offices, and living areas. That’s where Rey had a room next to Rose, the live-in housekeeper and cook.
Rich houses were—to put it mildly—weird, but it was helpful to have Rose to take her cue from. She still hadn’t met Mr. Solo except for a video interview. He was the owner and apparently the designer of this aquatic wonderland, and he was supposed to be home later this week. He’d been home for a while right after Rey was hired, but she’d had to leave that week for Maz’s funeral…
Rey was more than a little nervous to meet her boss for real. Her contract was month-to-month until he gave the go-ahead.
Skye House was positioned at the top of a steep hill at the edge of Kingstree Island. As she took rocky stairs down to the beach, she caught flashes of beautiful, foamy ocean through the pine trees.
Only a thin strip of sand separated the ocean from the woods, so Rey left her flip flops on the steps so they wouldn’t float away when the tide came in.
There were pine needles mixed with the sand on the beach, which made for sharp walking. She hobbled gingerly to the water, like someone doing a very unsuccessful firewalk. Thankfully the sand smoothed out significantly at the waterline.
The next wave frothed over her feet, so cold that she yelped. It washed up to her knees, lapping at her shorts. The sun was setting on the other side of the island, so the entire beach was in shadow although the sky was still blue.
She was alone on this protected bit of beach, but surfers swam out nearby from the neighboring estate. There were men in colorful board shorts now that it was getting warmer in late May, but some still wore neoprene body suits. A few girls were in similar body suits, their hair tied into messy sun-streaked knots.
Rey could hear their laughter and shouts from where she waded. Perhaps she could learn to surf if she stayed here on the island through summer. She wasn’t a very strong swimmer, but she’d learned. Maybe she could sign up for lessons or something.
Rey was so incredibly glad to have this job, and she was not bored. Nor was she lonely, exactly, but...
No, she reminded herself, but nothing.
Adele was super-sweet, a ten-year-old who was both a little immature and a little too mature at times. She took her dad’s frequent absences in stride, or at least seemed to, and was always happy to spend time with Rey. The housekeeper, Rose, was also great. She’d been a little prickly and stand-offish at first, but she was starting to come around.
Rose had taken Adele to evening mass tonight, and Hux, Mr. Solo’s assistant and estate manager, had taken a long weekend to train for his next marathon. He was expected back sometime tonight.
If anything, Rey just felt a tiny bit cooped up. She’d sold her car before she flew to start this job, since it seemed impractical to bring her twenty-year-old Honda on a road trip that would probably kill it. Once she was added to the Solo’s car insurance, Rey would be able to take Adele to her swimming lessons and therapy sessions and run errands. That was something to look forward to.
She slapped the incoming wave, and the spray blew over her face. She’d worn her swimsuit under her shorts, but that had been somewhat aspirational thinking. She wasn’t much for swimming alone—she was a desert kid. The wind felt good though. It was a humid day, and the cold water felt refreshing too, now that she’d adjusted. Kingstree Island was off the coast of South Carolina, and Rose said the weather was cooler and less humid here than in Charleston or Hilton Head, but it was more humid than Rey was used to.
Another wave rushed out, dragging against her thighs.
Music drifted from the neighbor’s beach along with the smell of steak. Rey had seen several of their beach parties over the summer, from a distance. If she took the small path that led between the water and the cliff to her right, she’d be on the next property, at the bottom of the five manicured terraces that led to the Rockwell’s place, a chateau-style mansion.
She grabbed her shoes and headed for the path before she could talk herself out of it. What harm was there in a little neighborly party-crashing?
There was already a large crowd on the next beach, and probably a hundred more people on the various terraces. Most of the guests down here were in swimsuits or casual clothes too, so Rey didn’t stand out in her swimsuit and linen shorts.
As she approached one of the three bonfires, a geyser of steam exploded out of it. The group around the fire flinched back, squealing.
There was a glass beer bottle full of water in the fire, Rey realized. It blew again, but this time the bottle exploded.
She covered her face instinctively as several chunks of glass flew outward. None hit her but she thought a few pieces had landed in the sand nearby.
Already they were asking somebody named Kaden if he was done with his beer. He passed it over, and a girl ran past Rey to fill the new bottle in the ocean. A few of them hunted around for the glass chunks in the shadowy sand, but Rey doubted they were going to find it all.
No one was playing volleyball on either court, so she tossed the ball back toward the net as she walked past the first fire. On the upper terraces, more adults mingled and chatted, but Rey didn’t want to go up there alone. She fit in down here on the beach with the college students. The Rockwell’s son was home from Clemson University—Rose had told her—and most of the kids down here would be his friends.
She relaxed on one of the lounge chairs between the beach and the first terrace and watched the surfers and the fire enthusiasts. She wasn’t lonely at Skye House, but she wasn’t exactly overridden with interaction. It was nice to be near lots of people and conversation—although it was lonely in a different way.
She tapped the sand out of her flip flops and pulled her feet under me to watch the last colors of the sunset.
It was a minor miracle that Rey found herself here in this elite neighborhood on this elite island. As a foster kid, her schooling was disjointed to say the least. Her whole middle school record got lost somehow. It wasn’t a big deal in retrospect, but on the first day of high school when the records said she didn't exist... she felt like she didn't exist.
What's your name again? Didn't your mother register you during the summer? No? Your foster mom's number? Your caseworker's number? She's not answering. Not your fault. Just wait here.
But despite that—she’d had some really lucky breaks. Now she had a degree, and she had this great nanny and tutor job with Adele where she could pay off school loans and save up with free room and board.
Another bottle exploded in the fire, and Rey helped them pick up glass this time. None of them introduced themselves—probably all thinking she was somebody else’s friend—but that was fine.
Eventually she shuffled through the sand to the rocky path that led back to her beach. The moon was just past full, only slightly waning, and brightly lit her way.
In the waves about thirty yards out, a flying fish jumped and landed with a splash. Several more followed the first and Rey paused, mesmerized, as a whole school of fish began to jump. The moonlight chiseled the waves in perfect light. More than a dozen, two dozen, skimmed the surface like arrows shot from an underwater bow. They did this to escape from predators, she’d read, but it was balletic.
The fish were moving parallel to the beach, and they were still jumping when one of the surfers rode a wave in directly through them. His dark silhouette seemed like part of the ocean’s show for a moment. He made it nearly to the beach before jumping off into the shallows.
“The waves aren't big enough for much tonight,” he said. “But that’s not stopping the fish.”
Rey checked over her shoulder. She wasn’t exactly close, but no one else was within earshot.
“For sure,” she agreed. “You could have reached out and touched them.”
He had on a black wet suit with a partial hood. He pushed it back to his neck and tucked his board under his arm. In the moonlight, its red stripe was washed to gray.
“You must be one of Paxton’s friends,” he said. “Are you visiting for the summer or local?”
Darn. It sounded like he knew the hosts pretty well.
“I—got a job here on the island a few months ago. So, sort of local.” Was that enough of an answer? She couldn’t claim to be friends with the Rockwells.
He had deep-set eyes, a bumpy nose, and a square chin, as if every part of his face had made choices. There was a hint of gray in his dark hair, but Rey couldn't tell how old he was—anywhere between thirty and fifty—though frankly his body hinted more towards thirty.
“You’re headed away from the party,” he said. “Taking a moonlit walk?”
Rey gestured vaguely toward Skye House. “Yeah—”
He tripped in the ankle-deep water and went down on one knee with a startled curse.
“Ouch. Are you okay?” She hurried to him. Maybe he was older than she thought.
“No. I think I’ve rammed something into my foot.”
He was down on one knee, and the next wave almost knocked him over, pushing his surfboard sideways. She helped him brace it.
She couldn't see his foot in the water, but as the wave receded for a moment... “Yes—oh, it's bleeding pretty good. Can I give you a hand?”
He waved her away impatiently and tried to get to his feet.
“It’s really okay. Don’t be a martyr.” Rey put a hand under his elbow and helped him get up without putting his foot down. “If you have glass in your foot, which would not surprise me on this beach, you don’t want to push it further in. I'm sure the Rockwells have a first-aid kit.”
“Are you a nurse?”
“No, but I get that a lot.”
He tested his foot with a hand on her shoulder and one on his board, which he now planted in the sand. He hissed. “I picked up something alright; I can still feel it in there.” He hopped forward and wobbled. “This is embarrassing.”
“I really don’t mind helping you get to a chair at least,” Rey offered.
“Thanks, then.” He draped his arm across her shoulders, and she helped him hop further out of the water.
“Actually, would you help me hobble over to the next beach?” he asked. “I can shout for help from there. Skye House is just that way.”
“I know, but…” Why did he want to go over to her beach? The unusual warmth of a man’s arm across her bare shoulders scrambled her brain. “There's no access to the Rockwells’ house from that side. It's very steep. And private property.”
Rose and Adele would be home any time now, and Rose would have so many questions if Rey came back to the house with a dripping, injured guest.
“I know it’s private. It’s not that far, I promise.” He frowned and took another hopping step. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m hardly a threat with glass in my foot.”
“I believe you and I'm happy to help, but the terraces are closer…”
“Come on. We didn’t get to finish our conversation. You owe me five minutes of polite chitchat anyway.”
“I work over there—at Skye House,” Rey blurted out. “I certainly can't bring anyone up, even if I could get you up the stairs to the house, which I’m pretty sure I can’t.”
“You work at Skye House? What do you do there?”
“I'm their nanny,” Rey said, with an uneasy laugh. “So, if you'll just turn this way...”
“Ben,” another voice called from behind them. “Have you hurt yourself, or are you stealing one of my guests?” They twisted around to see a handsome middle-aged man sauntering up to them. Rey sighed; it was Mr. Rockwell.
“I rather think she's one of my guests,” Ben said. “Adele’s nanny, actually.”
Ben Solo, Rey realized with a sizzle of horror. Her boss. Why was he here? Why did he get back early and why wasn’t she told? With him leaning fully against her, he must’ve felt the sudden tension zinging up her back and landing squarely in her shoulders.
I really shouldn’t have sold my car, Rey thought. I might need a place to sleep.