That earns her a winning smile from Zoey. “Would you like to attend a beautiful dinner party with all of Uncle Beau’s friends?”

She glances at me, unsure of her answer.

I give her an encouraging nod, but Zoey isn’t waiting for an answer.

“We’ll need to discuss the menu,” she says to Mrs. Fairfax. I wait for a comment about how Mrs. Fairfax isn’t paid to do that, but apparently no one says no to Zoey. “Flowers will be delivered. Guests will stay at the Lighthouse Inn in Portsmouth; I’ve already made arrangements for them.” Her gaze falls on me. “And you can be available to take Paige to bed when she’s tired. Our parties can go all night long.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jane Mendoza

The feeling of frustration continues through the next day, where only Zoey goes in and out of Mr. Rochester’s room. I haven’t even seen him in forty-eight hours, and it feels strange after living in the same house for months.

As I’m coming out of Paige’s room, I see Zoey stepping down from the attic. Wait. Why is that place forbidden for me but she can go there? It seems like if anyone needs access to Paige’s old childhood things, it would be the nanny. I’m tired of Beau’s secrets. I’m tired of being locked out, after he made me feel like I finally belonged.

When she goes into his bedroom, I approach the attic stairs.

Part of me still wants to pull back, to follow Mr. Rochester’s orders, to be the good girl. That’s what I’ve always tried to be. Look where it’s gotten me. Nowhere.

I open the door and climb the steps. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to find up here. What is so secretive that Mr. Rochester forbade me to go up here?

And why was Zoey here? Does Mr. Rochester know that she’s exploring his house?

Did you think you’d hook up with the playboy Beau Rochester and get your picture in the tabloids? Precious little of that here in Eben Cape.

I’m suspicious of Zoey, even though that’s ridiculous. She clearly has her own money; she doesn’t need his. And I have no right to be protective of him.

Not when he’s pushing me away.

The attic looks about the way I remember it, more sundrenched now than before, light coming in through grimy dormers. I see the same fine china and Legos. The same paintings and rowboat. Nothing that would make Mr. Rochester forbid me from coming up here.

Something in the box catches my attention.