When the World was Flat (and we were in love) by Ingrid Jonach Page B

looked like it belonged in Versailles with its mirrored walls and chandeliers, and, as I stood on the polished parquet floor with my reflection multiplied a million times on either side, my stomach was filled with the same sensation I got when I looked at old photos. A longing.
    â€œWho would use this in Green Grove?” I wondered aloud.
    â€œNo one in Green Grove,” Lorraine said, coming into the room with Jackson in tow and smiling at me like I was a stupid child. “The owner used to throw lavish functions here, before it became a hotel.” She must have seen the incredulous look on my face, because she added, “Long before you were born. A good forty years ago, I would say.” She laughed softly, looking around the room, as if imagining a bygone party. “My, my, that shows my age.”
    Jackson wandered around the ballroom, holding up his hands like a photo frame and squinting at the view. I should have been taking photos, but I peppered Lorraine with questions instead, wanting, needing to know all about Rose Hill.
    Luckily, Lorraine was keen for company. Apparently, she had worked at Rose Hill on and off since she was a teenager. “This place has a hold on me,” she admitted. “I came back last year after a decade working at the Bellagio in Vegas.”
    â€œHas the owner come back too?” I asked, wondering who would own such a decadent estate.
    Lorraine shook her head. “Her daughter and son-in-law used to pop in now and then. The last time I saw them was before I headed out west. They brought their son with them. I spoiled him rotten. I have to say, I was tickled pink when he returned this year.”
    â€œSon?”
    â€œTom,” she said lightly, as if she were jogging my mind instead of blowing it.
    I did a double-take as I thought back to him standing on the front steps, looking like he owned the estate. He did.
    Lorraine bit her lip, accidentally smudging her front teeth with lipstick. “He skipped out on his grandmother in England,” she said and then lowered her voice, as if his grandmother could hear across the Atlantic. “She thinks he is at boarding school in Kent. I agreed to keep mum about it.” She sighed and patted her wavy auburn hair. “Can you imagine saying no to that boy?”
    â€œNo,” I answered honestly. It was as clear as the crystal chandeliers that hung above our heads that Tom was used to hearing the word “yes.”
    Lorraine sighed. “It seems someone did say, ‘No,’” she confided. “A girl.” Her lips pursed. “She broke his heart and that was why he came to Green Grove.”
    My mind went to the photo of the girl again. I suddenly realized that they were in the middle of an argument, not me and Tom.
    I lowered my eyes to the gilded columns that lined the room and homesickness settled in my stomach again. I thought back to when Deb had brought me to Rose Hill as a kid. We had walked around the gardens for what seemed like no more than ten minutes before Deb had asked the woman at reception – Lorraine? – about a man called William.
    It was such a small detail that I wondered how it had made it through eleven years of schooling without being overwritten by fractions or verbs or the capital of Sri Lanka, not to mention my amnesia of the past few months.
    â€œDo you know someone called William?” I asked Lorraine on a whim.
    She smiled. “You must mean Tom’s father.”
    I frowned. Why would Deb be asking about Tom’s father? I was about to ask Lorraine if she remembered us coming to Rose Hill all of those years ago when we heard the phone ring at reception, tinkling like wind chimes.
    â€œEnjoy the estate,” Lorraine said, as she trotted towards the passage. “But please note the out-of-bounds signage in the garden.”
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    I would have moved on when I saw the black lettering that dictated “Keep Out” if not for the