Girls of Summer

by C. E. Hilbert

  “Just thought you might want to talk about why you are being abhorrently rude to your sister, aunt, and the entire county.”

  Heat burned her cheeks, and her stomach churned at the accusation that mirrored her own self-conviction. Lifting the bottle to her lips, she tried to muster the strength to fight the charge, to justify her behavior, but she couldn’t. Sure, she could rationalize her actions and words by explaining her mother’s deception or sharing the pain she was trying to understand over her father’s death. She could make Mac understand, but then she would have to explain, to share what was in her heart—and that was something she wasn’t willing or able to do. With him or anyone. Sharing equaled weakness. Weakness wasn’t Russian. And as much as she wished she could deny it, today, she was definitely Russian to her core.

  Licking the final drop of water from her lips, she crushed the bottle in her hand. The crackling of plastic echoed through the stillness of the December afternoon. She slid off the porch and moved to step around him, hoping if she ignored him, he would go away. The tactic had worked flawlessly with every other man who’d ever been in her life, including her father. Her jogging shoes squeaked with each step until her hand rested against the door.

  “Never thought you were a coward.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  He flipped his legs onto the porch and stood. “You’ve been a brat. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. But you won’t own up to it? You want to ignore the fact you’ve been a horrible person to your sister and your family. That you’ve acted like a fourteen-year-old sentenced to a summer at her grandparents in the middle of the backwoods without access to the Internet rather than a woman in her thirties who has been handed a multi-billion dollar business on a platter. Do you care about anyone but yourself? I never met your mother, but you certainly have given me a picture of what she must be like.”

  She whipped around, closed the two steps between them, and poked her finger into his chest. “Listen here. You may be my warden, but you don’t get to pass judgment on me. I can act however I want. As you pointed out, I’m in my thirties. I can be a jerk to whomever I choose. You might control the purse strings, but you don’t control me.” Her anger puttered to a stop. Slumping against the door, she felt the first exhausted tear trickle down her cheek. No! Not tears. Anger. Please, let me stay angry.

  Anger was easier.

  Anger was justified.

  Anger at her mom for ruining her business, setting her at the cliff of financial and possible legal ruin.

  Anger at her father – there weren’t enough therapy hours on the planet to work through her resentment and anger over their relationship.

  Even anger with her current situation—living with her twenty-four-year-old sister and away from her home in Manhattan.

  All these should definitely grant her an inkling of annoyed irritation.

  And, nearly being killed in the parking garage of her building should allow for a fit or two.

  But, no. She had to go all teary-eyed when one man called her a coward.

  Her shoulders started to shake, and her breaths came in short spurts. This crying jag would be a doozy.

  “Hey.” Mac placed his hands on her shoulders. “Are you OK?” In the space of a breath, his voice melted from ice-cold litigator to compassionate friend-savior.

  A subtle tremor zipped from her stomach to her heart. Shaking her head, she stepped away breaking the tender contact and reclaiming the space she needed to breathe. She sniffed back tears. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long couple of days. And, apparently my jog didn’t do its job.” Lifting her gaze to his, she rolled her shoulders and wrapped her arms around her middle.

  He leaned against the wall. Crossing one ankle over the other, he lifted a single thick dark eyebrow.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat, wishing she had another bottle of water. “Nothing to tell. I’m a woman. I can cry if I want to.”

  “You don’t seem like a crier.”

  She released a sigh, shoving her hand through her damp hair. “Well, looks can be deceiving.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve known criers. Some are my best friends. Your sister, she’s a crier. You,” he said, as his gaze stayed pinned to hers, “not so much.”

  His frank perusal sent a wave of shivers down her spine that had little to do with cooling down after her run. “Can we discuss this later? Maybe when I don’t have to twist myself into Savvy’s image of a New Yorker turned Southern belle in,”—she paused, glancing at her running watch—“well, in less time than I had to get ready for the Christmas party when I looked, and I quote, ‘Lahck a little refugee from funeraw camp’.’’

  Her southern sounded like a bad comedy impression of a Civil War bride, but she brought a laugh out of Mac. Suddenly, she felt lighter. The load weighing on her only minutes before seemed cut in half.

  “She actually called you a refugee from a funeral camp? What is funeral camp, exactly?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I can’t even imagine. I assumed it was some weird southern thing I didn’t know about. I’ll be the first to admit it’s beautiful down here, but I often feel as if I’ve been dropped onto a whole different continent.”

  “When I first moved here, I felt like a fish out of water. I grew up in a small town, but I’d been playing ball for OSU for nearly four years and was accustomed to the pace of a bigger city. I found my way.” His gaze locked with hers. “You’ll find yours.”

  Her stomach twisted. Was it really possible for brown eyes to twinkle?

  “Any word from the FBI? The sheriff called me this morning to confirm it was a bomb.”

  Her heart quivered. She’d been trying to block the who, what, when, and why bomb situation from her mind because no matter what scenario she conjured, every option led back to her mother. And that was one secret no number of heart-melting twinkles of Mac Taylor’s chocolate eyes would ever rip from her.

  She refused to bring anyone else into the circle of catastrophes she’d created. Remy was likely one too many. She could handle the helping of retribution she was receiving. What she couldn’t live with was someone else’s blood on her hands, particularly this thorn in her side she was beginning to treasure. “Haven’t heard a word,” she said. “And I imagine it’ll be something silly. Some prank by someone who wanted to get my attention. Someone who is mad we traded Tony Lowery.” Her chuckle sounded stilted to her.

  “You have to take this serious. There’s no way to know who’s behind this stunt. They could try again. Do you want me to arrange for some security here and at the offices? The sheriff can’t offer the manpower, but we certainly can to keep you safe.”

  She wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. “That would be a waste. I’m sure we’re fine. Just an upset fan. Drop it, OK? We have a party tonight. Celebrate the New Year. You don’t want to make Savvy angry.”

  His forehead scrunched into a mass of waves. “I don’t know, Charlotte. This seems serious.”

  “Let it drop. Please. Just for now. I promise, I’ll call Special Agent O’Neal after the party.”

  “Promise?”

  She thrust her pinky finger toward him. “Pinky promise.”

  He chuckled as he wrapped his pinky finger around hers. “Deal.”

  “Well, if I don’t get a shower, I won’t find my way anywhere but onto Savvy’s ‘bad’ list.” She turned.

  He stepped toward her, and her heart quickened. “I’ll let you go.” He laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “But, we still need to talk. I’m not letting this drop. Not the accident and not how you’re treating your family. There are a little less than eleven months left in the terms of the will. You can’t keep fighting against everyone around you. You have to start trusting us.”

  “Yep, I get it. We’ll chat. Later.” She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. If she’d turned
around, viewed the same kindness in his eyes that she could hear in his voice, she would have fallen into his arms seeking the comfort she’d never found but always wanted. She needed to be strong, to keep her guard up. She couldn’t risk showing vulnerability. Not now. Not ever.

  ~*~

  Mac stepped back quickly to avoid losing his nose in the door. Releasing a sigh, he shoved his hands in his jean pockets and started the long walk to the main house and his car.

  What just happened? He’d gone to the guest house to rip into Charlie and protect his self-appointed little sister, but instead found himself wanting to comfort her. The same feelings of comfort and care had nearly overwhelmed him while he sat vigil by her hospital bed and now they returned with the same consuming need pounding through his spirit.

  He couldn’t explain or even rationalize the compassion tipping on obsession he was experiencing for Charlie Dixon. He didn’t like Charlie. Or rather, he didn’t want to like her. But since he saw her lying helpless in the garage, his feelings toward her had been rapidly changing her from adversary to…he didn’t know what exactly, but based on his heart’s rapid turn he had a pretty decent assumption those feelings were not temporary.

  The estranged daughter of his surrogate father had been nothing but an irritant these past few weeks. And before Bent’s death, she had been the only person in Bentley’s life who brought a cloud of sadness into his world. From the time of Bent’s diagnosis with lymphoma two years ago, he’d tried to reach out to his eldest daughter, but she’d blocked him at every turn.

  With each effort, and each time she ignored him, Mac had grown angrier. When he finally came face to face with Charlie at the funeral, he wanted to rail at her, but seeing her pain had pricked at his heart. His desire to chastise Charlie transformed into a need to save her. In their first encounter, Mac felt God had given him a mission to ease her pain. But after the explosion in the parking garage, he wasn’t sure he was equipped. Seeing her small and broken in the hospital bed, his want shifted to a near desperate need to protect. He wasn’t even sure who she needed to be protected from.

  Could he save Charlie without losing himself?

  13

  “And then Bent shoved Savvy in the pond! Can you believe?” Billy Jack, a second cousin twice removed, snorted as he recalled a story from her father’s childhood.

  Charlotte watched him. He stood nearly two feet away from her and yet, his shaking, round belly brushed her hand in jolly excitement. His breath, laced with tobacco and something oddly sour filled the tiny space.

  Taking a small step backward, she plastered a perfected cocktail party smile across her lips. “Funny story. Thank you for sharing. I’m sorry, but my aunt has asked me to keep drinks moving, so if you’ll excuse me?” Before he could stop her escape with more anecdotes, she slipped from Billy Jack to her newfound sanctuary—the kitchen.

  Clanging pans and swift moving catering staff greeted her. The chaos was a welcome reprieve from the near constant stream of relatives and family friends who wanted to kiss her cheek or “squeeze the stuffing out of her.” She glanced at the clock above the sink. At least three more hours left until the New Year rang and revelers would find their way off the grounds. She could almost feel the light weight of the down comforter she was loathe to leave this morning.

  The breakfast nook was empty, and she slid into the seat she had vacated earlier. All the muscles in her neck and back seemed to ooze into the booth. She closed her eyes and rested her throbbing head against the wooden frame. Slowly releasing a sigh, her mind began to argue with her heart about returning to the party.

  Savvy would track her down, ready to foist on her some third-cousin-seventeen-times-removed-from-her-grandmommy’s-side. A part of Charlotte welcomed the distraction of long-lost relatives. While the party whirred, she could ignore her new reality of enemies circling. Before yesterday, she only had to deal with one known adversary, but now she not only had to deal with invaders from the north, she had the added adventure of skating around the FBI as well. A few more hours of Savvy’s little shindig was looking better and better.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  The rich baritone slid through her like hot cider on a cold New York night. Her eyes opened and locked with deep brown warmth. “Are you following me?”

  “Naw, I came in to sneak some cold roast beef from the fridge.” He pointed to the white bread sandwich on the table in front of him.

  “Not enough southern goodness out there for you?”

  He chuckled. “My palate is out of practice. I was away from Colin’s Fancy for nearly ten days.” He lifted the sandwich and chomped a manly bite.

  “So instead of eating the elegant spread, you steal leftovers?”

  With a shrug, he swallowed his bite. “You can’t beat cold roast beef. It was my favorite treat as a kid. We had roast beef once a month, and then I would get crank-up sandwiches for every lunch the following week.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “Crank up?”

  “It was a kind of roast beef salad—mayo, some pickles, celery, and something I’ve never been able to nail down. It was one of the comforts of my childhood. And I was the only brother who liked it.”

  “You got all the crank-up to yourself?”

  “Not an easy feat with two brothers who could eat double their body weight on any given Sunday.”

  Leaning her elbow on the table, she cradled her head in the palm of her hand. “I can’t figure you, Taylor.”

  Swallowing another bite, he wiped his mouth and leaned back against the booth. “What’s to figure? I’m a simple guy. Simple food. Simple clothes. However, my job’s not so simple at the moment.” He raised a single eyebrow. “But I suspect that, too, will make itself a little more manageable in the near future.”

  Leaning back against the bench, she laced her arms across her chest. “You think?”

  He nodded. “Yep. I do.” He lifted the sandwich to his mouth. “So, back to my original question, penny for your thoughts?”

  With a shrug, she bit her lower lip. “Not thinking of anything in particular.”

  “Then why are you hiding?” He ate a bite.

  She sat straighter. “I am not hiding.”

  “Liar. I saw you with Cousin Billy Jack. Does his breath still smell as if he smoked twelve packs of cigarettes and chewed on old sweat socks?”

  She felt the muscles relax at her neck. “That’s an excellent description.”

  “Not hiding. But self-preservation?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You can’t hide forever, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just a little…much.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d be used to parties. Didn’t you do the whole Manhattan socialite thing?”

  She shrugged. “But, those guests didn’t regale me with story after story of my father when he was a child or a teenager or just starting out as an adult or last year at this party. Pretty much, every cocktail party I attended in New York was ‘your daddy’ anecdote free and not a single person was twice removed from being a full relative.”

  “I can see why that might be hard. But aren’t you curious?”

  “Curious about what?”

  “Curious about your father,” he said. “Talking to all those second and third removed’s might give you some insight into Bent. You might find he isn’t the villain of your story after all.”

  “Thanks for the counseling, Freud.” Scooting out of the booth, she glanced over her shoulder. “However, I think I’d rather take my chances with the party than listen to any more about my daddy issues.” She took a step away from the table. “Enjoy your crank.”

  He took her wrist in his hand. “You can’t get away that easy.”

  “Please, let go of me.”

  Mac released her wrist. “I gave you a pass this afternoon. But, we still need to talk about how you’ve been treating everyone. You have to start trusting us.”

  “Is that nice act just an act, Tayl
or?” She kept her voice low, trying to control the wave of guilt mixed with anger that seemed to want to swallow her whole. “Do you want me to confess how horrible I’ve been to Georgie and Savvy? You want me to talk about my father? You want to shower me with more waves of guilt than the Palms Isles beach? Don’t worry. If that is your end game, I already beat you to the guilt washing punch, and I don’t need more from you. I can’t deal with it. Not today. I have to get through the next three hours. Smile plastered across my face. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find another third removed cousin.” She pivoted, pushed the connecting kitchen door and walked into a wall of conversation thick with Southern drawl. Charlotte shoved her argument with Mac and her worries away. No matter how right she knew Mac was, she couldn’t face the why behind her behavior these past few weeks. Instead Charlotte would do what she did best. She hid in plain sight.

  Stretching her lips into a broad smile, she dove into the party.

  14

  Two hours later, leaning against a pillar supporting the archway connecting the formal dining room to the expansive sitting room, Mac watched Charlie work the room. She efficiently replaced the dry glass of Bent’s cousin Merle with a fresh drink while chatting with Merle’s wife Lydia—likely about her beloved cats Wiley, Scratch, and Tippers. Mac had been cornered by Lydia last 4th of July and spent the better part of an hour listening to the crazy antics of the motley trio. To Charlie’s credit, she appeared enthralled by the story, but he noticed she changed the direction of the wait-staff’s circulation, had the shrimp and grits refilled, and directed a steaming cup of coffee into the chubby paw of Billy Jack.

  She was good. If he wasn’t so frustrated with her, and confused by his own feelings, he would take her a glass of water with lemon—her beverage of choice—and a well-deserved compliment.

  “She’s good.”

  Mac shifted his attention to the diminutive blonde standing to his left and nodded. “Seems to be in her element.”

  Savvy laced her arm through his. “It’s more than being comfortable in a large party. She clearly has orchestrated many of these events in her life. She likely took the responsibility instead of relying on her mother.”