I snorted. Sometimes I wondered how CB had made it this far in life. “Set for how long?”
“Long enough to snag yourself another man.”
“Oh no,” I took a step backward, holding my hands out. “Two ex-husbands are two more than I ever wanted.”
“Third time’s a charm.”
“Unless it’s not.” I shook my head. “I tried the husband thing and it didn’t work. I need to figure out another way to support myself that doesn’t require relying on anyone else.”
CB rolled his eyes. “How noble. And ridiculous. You have a life in New York. Just come back. I’m sure it will all work out.”
“I know this will come as a shock to you, but here in the real world, planning is considered a good thing. Especially when it comes to finances. Not all of us are blessed to live like Kramer in Seinfeld.”
“Whatever.” He finished his wine and picked up the bottle to pour another glass. “So, what have you done with the place? I think I need the tour. Although what I’ve seen so far has been less than impressive. It looks like you haven’t changed a thing.”
“That’s not exactly true,” I said, following him as he headed for the stairs. “I got rid of the sewing machine.”
“You can’t even sew,” he scoffed. “And, besides, it probably didn’t even work.”
“That’s beside the point. I also got rid of that hideous lamp in the living room.”
“Chalk one up for the good side.”
I followed him up the stairs, relieved he had changed the subject. I didn’t want to share the real reason why I was afraid to move back to New York. My parents had always been my financial back up. They hadn’t approved of me marrying Stefan as fast as I had and I couldn’t bear to face them now that my marriage had blown up in such a spectacular way. I couldn’t go back to them now, hat in hand, after everything that had happened. No, I was going to have to figure this out myself.
We had almost reached the top of the steps when it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know where he was going to sleep. When we stayed here as kids, he had always slept in Chrissy’s room. While I supposed he could sleep there tonight, where was I going to put him tomorrow when Chrissy was here? Come to think of it, what was I supposed to DO with him when Chrissy was here? It was supposed to be a girl’s night in. Maybe I ought to reschedule. And while I’m at it, rethink the wisdom of putting Chrissy back in that bedroom.
He poked his head in Chrissy’s room. “Aw, that’s sweet of you to have my room ready for me.”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, it’s not for you. It’s for Chrissy.”
He turned to look at me in surprise. “Chrissy? I thought she was with a foster family.”
“She is. But, I’m trying to rebuild a relationship with her. She’s actually coming over tomorrow night for a sleepover.”
CB peered over his shoulder at me, his face surprised. “Is that wise?”
I sighed. “Don’t start, CB. If I don’t help her, who will?”
He made a face. “Your funeral. Whatever. Clearly you’re not listening to me about anything. I’ll make myself scarce tomorrow night so you can have your little girl’s party.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, touched by his offer. “I can reschedule.”
He turned away to saunter down the hall. “Don’t bother. I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the old gang while I’m here anyway.” He poked his head in what Aunt Charlie used to call the Magic Room, that had (briefly) been Stefan’s office. With the help of Daphne, I had restored it back to its Magic Room’s roots and was now using it for my own office.
He nodded as he took in the cleared-off desk, my laptop, the fresh flowers from the garden, the window open behind the desk and the light-green curtains covered with a daisy pattern dancing with the fresh breeze. “You taking over the healing practice?”
I stifled a second sigh. What was going on today? Was I somehow cursed to have the same conversations over and over? “Why would I do that? I have no training in it.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, moving away from the door. “I remember her explaining herbs and healing when we were kids. I’m sure it would come back pretty fast. Just study her files and you’ll be fine.”
I opened my mouth to argue with him, and then shut it. Now that he mentioned it, I did recall Aunt Charlie constantly feeding me information about the different herbs and their health benefits. And he was right about her files. But, still. If I was serious about it, I really ought to go back to school.
CB moved to the next room and poked his head in. “Why are you still sleeping in here?”
I went over to stand next to him. “Because it still feels like my room.”
He looked at me in disbelief. “Well, yeah. When you were a teenager. But now you’re an adult, and this is YOUR house. Why aren’t you sleeping in the master bedroom?”
I shifted uncomfortably. Stefan had asked the same thing, and I really didn’t have a good answer. Yes, part of it was that I felt more comfortable in the same room I had slept in when I was younger. And there was no question I still thought of the house as Aunt Charlie’s, rather than mine.
But, neither of those answers explained why I hadn’t even opened the door to The Room—otherwise known as Aunt Charlie’s bedroom—yet.
An image from my dreams flashed in my head. Aunt Charlie in the kitchen, telling me to drink the tea, her white pointed teeth glinting in the moonlight while blood ran down her chin. I shivered despite the warmth of the house. Did I honestly think I would run into Aunt Charlie’s ghost in The Room?
It just seemed safer keeping the door closed.
CB watched me for a moment, then deliberately walked over to Aunt Charlie’s bedroom. “What do you think we’ll find in there, hmmm?” he said teasingly.
“No, CB. Don’t.”
He put his hand on the doorknob. “Think her corpse is in there? Or maybe ...” he turned and waggled his eyebrows at me. “Her ghost.”
My stomach dropped as I took a few steps toward him, putting my hand on his arm to stop him. “CB, it’s not funny. Let’s go back down to the kitchen. You need more wine and I should start dinner.”
“Of course it’s funny. You should be sleeping in here. It’s silly that you aren’t.” He started to turn the doorknob.
A panicky feeling fluttered in my chest and I squeezed his arm. “You’re probably right, but ... I’m just not ready. Okay? You know what I’ve been through. Can you just indulge me? Please?” I looked up at him imploringly, knowing he always had trouble resisting my puppy eyes.
He studied me for a moment then turned away from the door. “It’s true I could use a refill. I don’t know about you cooking for me though. Are you trying to kill me?”
The sweet feeling of relief bloomed inside me and I beamed at CB. “I’ve actually gotten pretty good at cooking. C’mon, let me show you.”
I led the way back downstairs, squishing down the little voice inside that wanted to know what the heck was so wrong with me that the simple act of opening a bedroom door nearly caused me an anxiety attack.
***
CB swept into the kitchen and struck a pose. “How do I look?”
I whistled approvingly. “Very dapper.”
He rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t going for dapper.” He wore dark, raw denim skinny jeans and a Burberry striped navy and white fitted polo.
“Well, you do know you’re going to be the best dressed person in all of Redemption tonight,” I said. “Including women.”
“And yet again, I’m reminded of why it’s taken me so long to visit,” he said. “What are you waiting for? Pour me a glass of wine.”
I reluctantly reached for a glass. “I figured you’d be leaving.”
He widened his eyes in mock horror. “I couldn’t leave without seeing my niece now, could I?”
Oh great. Chrissy was supposed to be here in the next half hour or so. I had really hoped CB would be out of the house by then. I was also hoping he would honor his promise about not returning until morning and decided to mention it again.
“I’m sure I can find someone who will take me in, since my cousin is so heartlessly kicking me out,” he said with a wink.
“No doubt someone in Redemption would let you sleep on his (or her!) couch,” I said.
He laughed. “The couch isn’t precisely what I had in mind, but maybe that could be fun, too.”
I handed him his wine. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”
He winked. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”
The doorbell rang. I felt my mouth go dry. CB was difficult to predict at the best of times, and after listening to more than a few passive-aggressive taunts in relation to Chrissy in the past 24 hours, I really hoped he wouldn’t end up sabotaging my efforts at reconciliation.
CB set his wine down. “Well, well. It looks like the woman of the hour is here.”
I made a face at him. “Just behave. Okay?”
He laughed. “Again, I ask ... where is the fun in that?”
I moved past him to answer the door, wanting to beg him to be good. I also considered simply pushing him out the door as I pulled Chrissy in. Typically, less was more when dealing with CB, so I resisted both of those urges.
Chrissy stood on the porch, holding a backpack, her eyes cast down. Normally, I would have been alarmed at her appearance—dark circles under her eyes, dull, lank hair hanging limply around her pale, nearly gaunt face—but instead, I was completely transfixed by the girl standing behind her.
Long, thick, wavy blonde hair framed a narrow, elegant face with jutting, high cheekbones, full lips, and huge, dark-green eyes.
I was staring at the spitting image of Jessica.
Acknowledgements
It’s a team effort to birth a book, and I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who helped.
My writer friends, Hilary Dartt and Stacy Gold, for reading early versions and providing me with invaluable feedback. My wonderful editor, Megan Yakovich, who is always so patient with me. My designer, Erin Ferree Stratton, who has helped bring my books to life with her cover designs.
And, of course, a story wouldn’t be a story without research, and I’m so grateful to my friends who have so generously provided me with their expertise over the years: Dr. Mark Moss, Andrea J. Lee, and Steve Eck. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Last but certainly not least, to my husband Paul, for his love and support during this sometimes-painful birthing process.
About Michele
Michele Pariza Wacek (also known as Michele PW) taught herself to read at three years old because she so badly wanted to write fiction. As an adult, she became a professional copywriter (copywriters write promotional materials for businesses, nothing to do with protecting intellectual property or putting a copyright on something) and eventually founded a copywriting and marketing company.
She grew up in Madison, Wisconsin and currently lives with her husband and dogs in the mountains of Arizona. You can reach her at MPWNovels.com.
It Began With a Lie: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 1) Page 36