Bethany Hagen - Landry Park

David and Cara were dancing to the slow, sultry music the band was playing, his hand caressing the small of her back. That night she’d come looking for him on the balcony… it hadn’t been a one-time thing.

It had been a beginning.

It’s not that I cared whom he dated, I just thought there was more to him than that—depth and curiosity and agitation at being trapped in our lovely and lifeless world. I thought he would want more than a girl like Cara, who was as selfish as she was beautiful.

I wondered how she could dance after seeing the front of our house scalded with invective, after hearing the panicked fretting of her neighbors, and all because she refused to tell the truth. I decided to go talk to her, but at that moment, David lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered something that made her toss her head back and laugh. It was a practiced move, designed to send her blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and expose her long throat. But even though I’d seen her do the same thing with countless other boys, it bothered me tonight. I remembered the feel of David’s hand in mine as we ran across the lawn, the way he’d said we’re alike, you and I.

Our eyes met across the room, and I shivered, because suddenly not caring about David Dana seemed unimportant… impossible. I wanted to go talk to him. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to dance with him in the cloud of smoke and music.

I excused myself from the noise and retired to the library. As soon as I shut the door, the echoing sounds of revelry vanished, replaced with the hush of thick carpet and untouched paper. A fire licked quietly at massive logs. Almost on autopilot, I grabbed a book from a stack on the table and sat, opening the book to read but thinking a million scattered thoughts instead.

The door opened, and the sounds and lights of the party spilled into my solitude. David appeared in the doorway and came inside, closing the door with a click. His jacket was off and his bow tie undone, the white shirt setting off his bronze skin.

He dropped into the chair across from me. “Leaving the party so soon?”

“I wanted to read.”

“Ah. Of course you did.” David reached over and plucked the book out of my hands. “A History of the Last War,” he read aloud. “Sounds riveting.”

“I like history,” I said.

He tossed the book carelessly on a nearby table, then leaned forward. “What else do you like?” he asked.

“What?”

He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. “What other things interest you? What do you do when you’re not reading? What’s your favorite food? Your favorite season?”

“Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Why don’t you go ask Cara what her favorite things are?” I’d meant it playfully, but it came out sounding jealous. Which it wasn’t. Because I wasn’t jealous.

Was I?

“I want to ask you,” he said, his voice low. “I want to know what Madeline Landry thinks. How she feels.”

The intensity of his interest unsettled me. This was far beyond my usual conversations with the opposite sex: ballroom observations and comments about the weather. This was something else altogether—something bewildering and irresistible. Something like that afternoon in the maze. My heart began to beat loudly, as if I was dancing a fast reel.

“How I feel about what?” I asked cautiously.

David looked around the library, as if casting about for a subject. “What about what happened to your house? It’s all anyone has talked about today.”

I stiffened, the red words flashing in my mind, the horrible premonition of Landry Park submerged in radiation and decay. “I can’t believe you would ask about that, of all things.” My voice sounded strange. Brittle.

He stood, rapping his knuckles against his leg. “I am sorry. I’ve offended you.”

I realized I didn’t want him to leave, not yet. “Wait—”

He stopped. “Yes?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude. But you can understand why it’s a sensitive subject for me.”

“I understand.” His kept his eyes on me. “I can see that you love this house.”

I nodded, trying to steady my voice. “I think it’s the most beautiful house in the world. It took Jacob Landry several years to build it after the gentry won the Last War and cleared the city to make room for the estates. He wanted it to be perfect.”

He stepped forward, looking down at me. “Is there a but?”

There was, and I hadn’t even realized it until he asked. “But,” I admitted, “sometimes I feel trapped. By the inheritance, by my family. I may not be able to go to the university; the will stipulates that all Landry heirs are to be married by the age of twenty-one.”

“Maybe you could marry after you take a degree? It would only be the difference of a year or two.”

I examined my hands. “I’ve already asked. Father said no.”

He considered. “Do you want to get married at all?”

I blushed and immediately felt ridiculous for blushing. “Someday, perhaps,” I said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice my discomfiture. “After I go to the university and if I meet the right person.” I cleared my throat. “What about you?”

“If I meet the right person,” he echoed.

We stared at each other for a moment. I wanted to ask if Cara was the right person, if he could see himself as the co-owner of Westoff Castle someday, but the idea of him saying yes was too upsetting. I don’t care, I reminded myself. He was only another bachelor, interested in parties and women, while I was bound for the university and something different and exciting.

The fire popped loudly and he started. “I have taken up enough of your time,” he said slowly. He crossed the rest of the distance between us in two long strides and gave my hand a swift and warm kiss, before turning and heading toward the door. I froze, barely daring to breathe, wanting to call him back.

But he was gone, walking back to the ballroom where Cara waited among the music and laughter.

Liberty Park perched on a high hill overlooking the skyline and river bottoms. Set in the exact center of town, it was a war memorial from the twentieth century that the gentry mostly ignored because it was close to the rougher edge of town. It was mostly frequented by the shopkeepers, factory owners, and others who made up the small but steady population of middle class in Kansas City, along with a handful of working-class factory types and visiting farmers with their families.

I liked the park because it was free of hairpins and waltzes and awkward conversation. I liked the wide leafy trees that rustled in the wind and the velvet grass that stretched out like a blanket down to the road below. Close to the top of the hill stood my favorite tree. It had a wide, smooth trunk, perfect for sitting against, and a view of the skyline that was unrivaled anywhere else in the city, save for the view from Landry Park’s observatory.

I snuck out the servants’ door early on Saturday morning, knowing full well my mother wanted to take me shopping for new dresses to impress David. I didn’t know what I thought about this, but I could still feel his energy from last night, that sudden surge of interest in me that fled as quickly as it came. Why did he always seek me out when I was alone? Was he embarrassed to talk to me in public?

He certainly wasn’t embarrassed to talk to Cara.

I’d brought my tablet to finish slogging through the Burke essays, but instead found myself engrossed in La Morte D’Arthur, trying not to think about David and the way his lips had felt on my hand the other night.

I was so caught up in my world of Arthurian knights that I didn’t even notice the Rootless girl trudging past me until she fell down and cried out. Her lead-lined bag landed with a thud and several spent nuclear charges tumbled onto the grass, their red lights flickering.