Take it to the Grave Bundle 1

by Zoe Carter

  She races to the window and opens it wide, leaning out and inhaling deeply. “I love the smell of the ocean, don’t you? It reminds me of the beach house we used to stay in when we were kids.”

  Warwick would freak if he knew a window was open in this heat. Really, Sarah, do you want to cool off the entire neighborhood?

  “The bathroom’s through there,” I say, indicating a second door. If Maisey loves her room, wait until she sees her whirlpool tub. My sister has likely been showering with a garden hose the past few years. She deserves a little luxury. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. I can’t wait to hear about Thailand.”

  She beams. “It’s going to feel so good to have a hot shower, you have no idea.”

  “Well, enjoy. Take your time.” I pause with my hand on the doorknob. The metal is cold enough to sting my skin. “It’s great to see you again.”

  “It’s great to see you, too.” She runs a hand through her short crop. “I won’t be long. As you can see, I’m not exactly high maintenance.”

  For a moment I catch a glimpse of the girl she used to be. The tension between us seems to vanish. Maisey and I have always taken care of each other. It was insane to think that would have changed. Even after everything we’ve been through, we’re still the same people.

  * * *

  Elliot kicks off his blanket, and I snug it around his chubby body again, loving how round he’s getting. Now that I’m not forcing him to nurse, he’s gaining weight like a champ, which is a huge relief. Arranging my son’s favorite stuffed giraffe so he’ll see it the moment he opens his eyes, I attempt to hide the tears welling in my own.

  “It’s normal, you know.”

  I’m startled to find Bridget standing in the doorway, watching me. It’s beginning to feel like she’s my shadow lately. “What are you talking about? What’s normal?”

  “Being scared. Eleanor is wrong to give you a hard time over it. It’s perfectly natural to be anxious with your first child. When my Sylvie was a wee one, I was always scared I’d drop her. It does get easier.” She comes over and pats me on the arm.

  “Does it?” It’s not me I’m afraid of.

  “You have to quit being so hard on yourself, Sarah. There’s no such thing as a perfect mother.”

  I wish I could tell her it’s other people that frighten me. But how can I explain why it petrifies me when Eleanor scoops Elliot into her scrawny arms, stroking his head with those talons of hers? Bridget would never understand. How could she? I don’t understand it myself.

  If I thought I had a chance, I’d bundle Elliot in his sling and hightail it out of here. Then we’d both be safe. But, as tempting as running away is, it would never work. Warwick hadn’t given his heart to Elliot the same way I had, but that didn’t matter. A man’s firstborn son is a vital part of his ego.

  When he’d discovered I was pregnant with a boy, he was so thrilled he’d called the rest of the Taylor-Coxes over for an impromptu party, complete with champagne and Beluga caviar. The last thing I’d felt like doing was celebrating, and I’d spent much of the festivities bawling in the bathroom, hoping no one would notice my absence. The prospect of a baby boy was terrifying. I’d desperately wanted a little girl.

  Maisey pokes her head into the room and tiptoes inside, hair still damp from her shower. She grins as she spots the crib. “Oooh, is that my nephew? Let me see.”

  As she moves closer, I block her path without thinking, stepping between my son and my sister. My heart flutters in my throat like an escaped bird.

  Maisey’s smile disappears. Her amber eyes flick to the crib and then to me.

  Bridget watches us, probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. “Would you like to see the baby? It must be exciting, meeting your nephew for the first time,” she says to my sister, careful to keep her voice low.

  When Maisey nods, I see how wounded she looks and feel terrible. What is wrong with me? I need to get a grip. No one is out to hurt my baby; I’m acting like the worst kind of helicopter parent. At this rate, I’ll be clinging to my son’s leg and begging him not to leave me when he tries to go to college.

  “I won’t harm him, Sarah. I’ve taken care of lots of babies over the years—premature ones, even.” Her voice catches in her throat, and there’s guilt in her eyes. I rush to reassure her.

  “Of course you won’t. Don’t pay any attention to me. My sleep deprivation makes me crazy sometimes.” I gesture for her to stand beside me. “Come meet Elliot.”

  Rather than move farther into the room, Maisey cranes her neck to peer over my shoulder. “He’s beautiful.”

  “He should be awake in an hour. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to meet his auntie then.”

  My hand reaches for the crib, and as my fingers close around its sturdy wood, I relax. Elliot is safe.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” Maisey says. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to see him.”

  My sister never could hide her emotions from me, and this hasn’t changed, in spite of so many years apart. I can see in her face that she regrets coming, that she wishes she’d never answered my email. I’ve ruined everything. Me and my stupid paranoia.

  “It’s not you. It’s the lack of sleep, honestly. I’ve been so stressed out lately, what with taking care of Elliot and planning the christening party and everything else. He hasn’t been sleeping well in this heat, and—”

  “And me coming was stressful, too, I’m sure.” Her eyes are glassy, as if she’s about to cry.

  “Not at all.” I put my arm around her, ignoring the fact that she’s as yielding as stone in my embrace. “Getting to see you again is the best part.”

  “I hate to break up this little reunion, but we should move it into the hall if we don’t want to wake Elliot. He’s such a light sleeper these days.” Bridget ushers us both out of the nursery, and as soon as we leave the room, it feels like an anvil has been lifted from my shoulders.

  Safe.

  Maisey

  “Uh, I’ll join you downstairs,” I said to my sister once we were out in the hall. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll wait,” Sarah offered.

  I shook my head. “No, you go ahead. I won’t be long. I’ll come find you.” I gave her a reassuring smile.

  Sarah nodded. “All right, but sing out if you need anything.”

  I waved as I stepped into my room. I could hear her footsteps echoing down the hall as I closed my bedroom door. I ran across the room, the classical style and opulence a blurred landscape, and hurtled into the en suite. I flipped up the lid of the toilet, and finally that barroom brawl erupted from my stomach in a violent, heaving mess. The skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I clutched the cistern and locked my elbows to prevent from collapsing headfirst into the bowl. The hot bile scorched my throat. Even after I’d lost the cheese and crackers Bridget had left in my room during my shower, my stomach muscles clenched rhythmically, as though I still had drunken stragglers just looking for a fight deep down in my gut.

  Elliot slept so soundly. He’d been so still...he had reminded me of another baby, so still...

  I grabbed at the toilet paper, pulling off some tissues to wipe my mouth with shaking hands. I took some more toilet tissues, blew my nose, then tossed the whole soiled mess into the toilet and flushed. I sagged against the marble tiles on the wall, and slid slowly down to the floor, my knees bent, and took a deep breath. Exhaled. Then another.

  I tilted my head back against the wall. It was so blessedly cool against my hot skin. The bathroom was...well, it was like nothing I’d ever seen in real life. Though the interior was dim, the late-afternoon light from the bedroom stole in. Cold, cream marble tiles across the floor and walls. A sunken corner tub that could fit all of the clinic crew from the Thai build. The fittings looked gold-plated. Fluffy towe
ls in a slightly warmer tone than the tiles were rolled up on a gold-plated rack. Good God. So much gold. This en suite was bigger than the tiny hut I’d shared with Rich.

  I focused on breathing. I sat there—I’m not sure for how long, just waiting for my stomach to stop convulsing, for my breathing to even out and for my heartbeat to return to a medically safe rate. What was wrong with me? I hadn’t thought about that baby in so long... Now, though, I found every child reminded me of him. Every child tapped on that black void, calling forth yet another painful memory.

  A baby’s cry, soft, warbling, leached through the walls. Goose bumps rose at the sound, and I wrapped my arms around my bent legs, holding myself tight, holding myself together.

  The sound, God, that sound...that sound that could reach into your skull like steel scraping against stone. Frankie. Frankie had made that same strangled-cat howl. Constantly. Over and over, 24/7. My baby brother had been born premature—we never mentioned that night when Alice had gone into labor, or the fight that had let up to it. Frankie had arrived early, and was so pale, so thin, so damn sickly. Reflux. At that age, I had no idea what reflux was, just that it must be excruciating, because that baby had cried and cried and cried.

  I rocked forward and back, the cool marble against my back as Frankie—no, Elliot, wailed behind the wall. I remembered Frankie. My hands crept into my hair, curling and clenching at the short strands, as though I could yank out that painful echo within my head. I squeezed my eyes shut. I remembered trying to press the pillow over my head as my baby brother howled. I remembered Peter, who was so tired and cranky, yelling at Alice. Why can’t you get him to stop crying? What is wrong with you? What kind of crap-house mother are you that you can’t get your son to shut up? I’d closed my eyes, trying to shut it all out: the sound of my mother apologizing to Peter, my stepfather’s yells and the baby who could cry forever—unless Peter picked him up, because when Peter picked him up, little Frankie would fall asleep as if on cue. Which made Peter more frustrated that he was always the one to rock the baby to sleep, and not my stupid, lazy-ass, incompetent mother. His words, not mine.

  Elliot warbled again, the noise making me want to crawl out of my skin. I rose from the floor and stepped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me in the hopes it would provide a buffer against the noise that was even now scratching at my sanity.

  It didn’t.

  I could still hear it, fainter, yes, but not by much. I clenched and unclenched my hands, feeling my heart rate spike, my deep breaths from before turning into panicked panting—oh, wait, that was a raspy sob. Oh, God, I’m about to lose it. I could feel my control trying to rip free, trying to desert me and thrust me into this whirlpool of excruciating chaos.

  I heard footsteps, and my sister’s cooing. The crying paused, and then I heard my sister walk back down the hall, with her son’s muted wails accompanying her.

  I caught sight of myself in the mirror, in triplicate as the dressing area of the bedroom fanned out in a corner. My hair was standing on end, my face sickly pale beneath my Thai tan. My eyes were wide open and wild, my lips were tightly compressed, almost white. Lucy came forward, shaking her finger at my reflection.

  Don’t you dare, she whispered to me. Don’t you dare lose it.

  I took a deep breath, grateful for the stern command Lucy had given me. I nodded, breathing again.

  Lucy stared at me. It’s okay, Maisey. Don’t panic.

  I nodded again, a small smile of gratitude curling my lips. I let my breath out slowly, lifted my chin.

  It’s okay, Maisey. Lucy’s got this, don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine.

  I clenched my hands together, willing myself to relax my grip. My fingers slowly uncurled. Good. Lucy was back in control.

  I dug my toiletries out of my backpack and brushed my teeth, gargling a sip from my tiny bottle of mouthwash to try and get rid of the taste of puke and the smell of it on my breath. I finger-combed my still-damp hair. Wash and wear. I tried to convince myself that tousled hair was the trend for this summer, especially among the Hamptons set. I fumbled through my bag until I grasped my brush, and quickly dragged it through my hair. Then I found the hair dryer—of course it was a brand I didn’t recognize, and had all sorts of settings, as though many hours in a hair salon would give the guest a clue how to use it. I managed to turn the thing on, so I was happy. My short pixie crop didn’t take long to dry, and I fluffed the sides and top a little to try and restore some of the body the summer heat was sapping from it. I reapplied my tinted moisturiser—it doubled as foundation for me these days, and touched up my mascara. Darkening the lashes made the golden flecks in my amber eyes pop, and I blinked rapidly. Okay, my eyes weren’t too red. Good. I pulled out the lipstick I’d purchased at the airport and wrestled with it for a moment before I managed to pull the annoying wrapper off it, then made that pout that looked like a cat’s bum—or a really bad Kim Kardashian impersonation—and spread the warm rose color across my lips. I smacked my lips, then pouted. Yep, that would do. Lucy knew exactly how to look casually chic when Maisey’s life was going down the crapper.

  I fluffed my hair again and stared at my reflection, then nodded. My white capri pants could almost pass for linen, and the turquoise tank top I wore could be a Walmart special, or it could be a designer label, for all anyone else knew. Lucy smiled. We were ready. Straightening my shoulders, I turned and left the room, walking down the hall with my chin up and a small smile playing on my lips.

  My sandaled feet slapped quietly against the tiled floor. More marble. Funnily enough, it didn’t seem ostentatious, just classy and contemporary. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in someone’s home that wasn’t held together by twine and bamboo or dry-packed stone. One side of the hallway was entirely made of glass, and looked out over a terrace and pool, before the scrubby landscape dropped away to sandy beach, and then there was crystalline blue as far as the eye could see.

  I scrutinized the glass. It was spotless. We once used a glass window at a triage setup, and the amount of fingerprints that would spring up—we were constantly wiping it down.

  I couldn’t help myself. I approached one pane of glass and pressed my hands against it, oddly satisfied that I’d left a mark on Sarah’s otherwise pristine existence. I had arrived. I trailed my fingers along the glass as I continued down the hall.

  I almost passed the living room—well, if that’s what you would call a room full of tile, chrome, glass and chic furniture that looked so immaculate one didn’t want to ruin it by breathing on it. More of an admiring room than a space for a family to actually live in, perhaps. I halted, then stepped back, looking at the people inside.

  It was so...quiet. As though just a little chatter would shatter the illusion of cool, tranquil Zen. Despite the contemporary design of the room, I felt like I was stepping back into a scene in one of those silent movies from the 1920s. A gentleman sat on a white leather sofa—and that was the only way to describe him. His clothes would have cost more than my flight back to the US. His leather loafers were casual but expensive, and his skin showed how a lifetime of an exquisite diet, man products and a physical regimen could really make a difference as you got older. He was handsome, a silver fox with a strong jawline, clear skin, straight, broad shoulders and an agelessness that had to come out of an expensive toiletries range.

  He looked up at my entry, and smiled as he folded the paper, then rose from his seat. “Ah, you must be Maisey,” he said, coming toward me, his hand outstretched.

  I wanted to correct him, tell him I was Lucy, but Lucy just told me to go with the flow. I placed my hand in his, and was surprised by the warm strength in his clasp. “Yes, I am,” I replied.

  “I’m Edward Taylor-Cox, Warwick’s father.” He seemed friendly, warm, although I could see a shrewdness in his gaze that made him just short of benign.

  I couldn’t
help noting the contrast between this man and the older people in the Thai village I’d just left, those who were stooped from years of backbreaking work, whose teeth may or may not be present, whose faces were lined with years of strain.

  A woman spoke, and my gaze shifted. Her tone was commanding and just a little condescending as she spoke to Patrick, the butler. My sister had a butler. And a maid. And a gardener. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing hysterically. The man’s expression remained politely attentive as he listened to the woman give him an order for some drinks. The woman’s hair was cut in an expensive platinum bob, and I self-consciously tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. She turned finally to acknowledge my presence, her smile so polite it was almost chilling.

  “Ah, Maisey. We’re so happy you could make it.”

  Just like the man on the lounge, this woman’s face showed an elegance in her age, as though time only flirted with her while it hit the rest of us mere mortals with a hockey stick. She stepped toward me in her dainty, elegant heels. Even her feet were classy. How the hell do you get classy feet?

  She clasped my arm and leaned forward, and I realized I was expected to kiss her cheek. I complied, hopefully before it looked as awkward as it felt.

  Her complexion was smooth and creamy, with just the right amount of color blooming on her cheeks to make you think it was natural. Although her skin showed some lines around her eyes, they were lightly set, and her forehead was polished smooth. I would bet everything in my backpack this woman had regular Botox maintenance, but she must go to a clinic that knows what they’re doing, because although her forehead was unlined, it didn’t look like the fake, frozen veneer most stars ended up with. No, this woman actually made botulism look classy. “We were so pleased when you finally responded.”