White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Christy, Samantha

  Mason gives me an award-winning smile. I know he’s about to gloat. I hold up my hand to stop him. “It was the letter, not you, you dickwad.”

  He smirks at me. “The letter, huh? Has nothing to do with the ‘best sex of your life’?”

  I throw a dry waffle at him.

  “You really didn’t screw around this whole time you’ve been down here?” he asks.

  I shake my head and then take a bite of lukewarm eggs. “I tried. But every time I’d start getting somewhere with them I felt like I was cheating on her.” I lock eyes with him. “Cheating on Sky. How messed up is that?”

  “Sky?” He raises an eyebrow. “I thought she hated that nickname.”

  I laugh. “She does. It’s probably one of the reasons I use it.”

  “You two get off on rubbing each other the wrong way, don’t you?” He smiles. “Sounds like true love to me,” he jokes.

  Love. I’m reminded of Erin’s comment about Skylar being in love with me. I’m sure it was just another manipulation tactic on her part. Half the time I think Sky hates me. And I probably sealed the deal when I walked out on her, telling her it was a mistake. I wonder just how much work I’ve got cut out for me to make up for it. “Exactly how pissed off is she at me?”

  “Pissed?” he says. “I wouldn’t say she’s pissed. She’s trying to deal with things the best she can. You were both dealt a devastating blow, but now she’s been left with a kid she never thought would be hers to keep.” He lets out a long breath. “But, listen, it’s best you get back there soon. Grab your stuff and I’ll head to the airport with you.”

  “What happened to getting a tan?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss a second of what you’re about to walk back into.”

  I draw my brows in confusion. “I thought you said she wasn’t pissed.”

  “Well, she might not be. But I didn’t say there wouldn’t be a shitstorm coming from everyone else you know.”

  I run my hands through my hair before heading into the bedroom for my suitcase.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mason can fall asleep anywhere. Once, he fell asleep on the subway during rush hour. He just slumped over and started snoring. Me—I’ve got too much shit flowing through my head. What’s it going to be like being in the city without Erin? Who am I if I’m not the man taking care of her? Where will I stay? Am I even welcome back at my townhouse?

  But most of all, as I stare out the window at the pillowy clouds below, I think of Sky.

  I remember what seem like the most inconsequential moments. Moments like when I held her hair back as she puked into her waste basket. Or when she reached her arms around me to tie an apron. And when I put my arm around her at the baseball stadium to keep that creep away. Every one of those touches was innocent, yet with each one, I felt some sort of electrical current making its way through my body. Each touch hit me in the pit of my stomach and had me questioning my sanity if I were to keep being around her.

  Then, of course, there were the touches that almost wrecked me. When she put my hand on her stomach and I felt Aaron move for the first time. It was only minutes before Erin’s death. Minutes that separated one of the best moments in my life from one of the worst.

  And when we slept together—it was all I could do not to pour my feelings out like a pansy ass. Being with her was surreal. I know I was a little drunk, but that did nothing to dull the feel of her touch. It did nothing to lower the incredible sensation of her milky-white skin against mine. It did nothing to stifle the memory of every nuance in her face, every curve of her body and every taste of her skin.

  I reach in my pocket and wrap my hand around the small rectangular box wrapped in holiday paper. I’m still not sure I’ll give it to her. I’m not even sure it was ever my intention to give it to her, but it seemed too perfect not to buy.

  I reach into my carry-on and pull out the ultrasound picture I swiped from Erin’s room the morning I left. It’s the picture of him sucking his thumb. I can see the wrinkles on his little face and the creases on his tiny fingers. I touch the picture, tracing his face with my thumb. I’m glad he hasn’t been born yet. I’d hate for him to be old enough to understand what I’d done. I know what it’s like to hate your own father.

  As the plane descends to JFK, I can still see holiday lights lining the streets of Queens. It makes me think of Erin and how she loved Christmas. She would go all out every year, decorating our house as if we were hosting a gala and not just a simple family dinner. She would put beautifully wrapped presents under the tree and mark them ‘from Santa.’ I’d roll my eyes at her every year, but she’d always pretend he was real. It didn’t matter that we were the only ones in the room. It was her favorite holiday.

  I was sad that she couldn’t make it long enough to see one more. I spent the entire day drunk, lost in the crowd, sitting on the beach surrounded by the masses of vacationing families. I wondered how Aaron would spend future Christmases. Would Skylar carry on Erin’s traditions? Would I send gifts, hoping that he’d get them and not deposit them directly into the trash as I did when my dad sent them to me?

  Suddenly it hits me. It hits me so hard that if I weren’t sitting down, I’d fall over. I will do anything to give my kid a good life. I’ll do anything to make sure Skylar will be a part of it. I’ll do everything I can to honor Erin’s dying wish and become a family.

  chapter twenty-three

  As night falls, I stand on the sidewalk staring up the steps at the door to my townhouse. I watch as the crisp, cold New York air turns my hot breath into quick puffs of smoke, making me acutely aware of how nervous I am. The fresh snow lining the stoop is a far cry from the warm beach I was walking on just yesterday. I take in the exterior of the townhouse that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. It’s only been two months. A lot can change in two months. The outside of the building looks the same, with the exception of a large wreath that still decorates the front door even though it’s mid-January. I smile. Maybe Skylar likes Christmas as much as Erin did.

  With as much trepidation as I’ve ever felt in my twenty-seven years, I climb the steps. There’s a soft glow of light coming from the sidelights surrounding the front door, giving me hope that she’s home. I gave her no warning that I was coming. I didn’t want to give her a chance to stop me. I can only hope she’ll accept my apology and allow me back into her life.

  Despite the frigid temperature, I’m sweating. I shift the flowers from one hand to the other as I wipe my damp palms down the sides of my jeans. It’s then I remember the box in my pocket. I’m not sure I’ll give it to her. Christmas was weeks ago. Maybe I’ll save it for her birthday.

  Shit. I don’t even know when that is. Just like I didn’t know what kind of flowers to bring. There’s a lot I need to learn about Skylar Mitchell.

  I take a deep breath and look up at the darkening sky. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better to do it. Maybe I’m asking God to help me through this. Maybe I’m asking Erin. Either way, I probably need all the help I can get.

  I ring the bell. I know I’m still part-owner of the townhouse, but after what I did, I think I lost the right to use my key. My body goes tense. I feel like a goddamn teenage boy calling on his first crush. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I see movement when I peek through the sidelight. My breath catches when she turns on a light and comes into full view. My eyes instantly fall on her perfectly rounded stomach before making their way to her face. I’m not sure what I expected. I knew she’d be bigger by now, but I didn’t expect her to be more beautiful. Her dark-blonde hair is long and down, bouncing around her shoulders with every step. Her legs look toned and shapely in the leggings she’s wearing, and her tight green blouse is stressed by her growing breasts, accentuating her belly that’s now the size of a small soccer ball.

  In the darkness of the porch, I know she can’t see me staring at her. It’s a good thing, because I can’t tear my eyes away. She’s so damn beautiful. Shiv
ers, that I’m positive aren’t from the cold, run down my spine.

  The porch light flickers on and she looks at me through the window. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she gasps. Her hand goes to her belly and she glances briefly over her shoulder before locking eyes with me. Those eyes—the shirt she’s wearing makes them an even more stunning green than they already are.

  I have the sudden urge to photograph her. It’s a desire I haven’t felt in months. I haven’t snapped a picture of anyone or anything since the days before Erin’s death.

  Right this second, I can’t wait to wrap my hands around a camera again. My fingers ache to move their way around the focus and bring Skylar into frame. I want to capture this look she has on her face. I can’t quite figure it out, but I think she’s warring with herself. I swear I see two different emotions behind those emerald eyes. Relief and . . . anger? Whatever they are, they contradict each other.

  Her eyes fall to the bouquet of flowers in my hand. Her gaze softens as she lets out a visible sigh and regards the white lilies with her head tilted to one side. She returns her eyes to mine as she reaches out to unlock the deadbolt.

  She opens the door and I feel a rush of warmth graze over me. She wraps her arms around her body and I wonder if it’s from the chill, or merely to protect herself. Both of us are quiet. I had rehearsed what to say a thousand times on the flight. But now, as I stand here, I’m not sure I can get my brain to form the words I need her to hear.

  She raises her eyebrows in silence. She’s stubborn. She’s not going to give me the satisfaction of her saying the first words. She’s right. She has nothing to apologize for. This is all on me. My mind races for the appropriate thing to say. What does one say to the woman you abandoned who also happens to be your dead wife’s best friend who is carrying your baby? I step forward and shove the flowers at her as my unfiltered words escape my mouth. “Let’s do this.”

  Her face falls. She was expecting so much more and I’ve let her down again. Let them down. Her disappointed eyes flicker to the flowers in my outstretched hand. I momentarily wonder if it’s the lilies that have made her sad, or the man holding them. Without a word, her arm reaches up to shut the door.

  I put my foot in the doorway so she can’t close it on me. “Wait! That came out wrong. I mean, yes, I want to do this, but I should apologize. I need to apologize first. I’m so sorry for running out on you that way.”

  She looks nervously behind her and then comes closer to the barely-open door. “You left, Griffin.” She shakes her head. “I know you loved her and I have no right to claim my grief was any worse than yours. In fact, I’m sure it pales in comparison. But you left. You said everything you needed to say in the note. It was a mistake. You can’t do this. So now, you show up after two months. After I’ve worried myself half to death that you would turn up dead. Or that you would leave the child that Erin so desperately wanted—that you’d leave him by choice. And now you come back and simply say ‘let’s do this?’ Do you expect me to fall at your feet? What exactly is it that you want, Griffin?”

  Before I can begin to answer her, I hear a grating male voice. A voice I already know belongs to a man I’ll hate. “Everything okay, Skylar?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine.” She opens the door to forge an introduction. “John, this is Griffin. He used to live here before his wife died.”

  I eye the man who may not even realize he just became the competition. He has short hair, cut precise and above the ears. His eyes are pale-brown and unassuming. He’s shorter and stockier than I am. He’s got a clean-cut military look and I momentarily wonder if she prefers her men that way. My hand comes up to run through my wavy mane as I finish my assessment of him.

  John winces, and then reaches out to shake my hand. “Oh, man. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  I get the idea he doesn’t know the whole story. I want to stare him down and tell him to get the hell out. That Skylar is carrying my baby and what right does he have to be here. I’m not sure why I don’t speak up. Hell, I did it to ward off men in the past. But common sense gets the better of me and keeps me from blurting out anything that could have the potential of upsetting her more than she already is.

  “Thanks. I, uh . . . just need a few things. My cameras. My phone. Is it okay if I grab them?”

  She breathes out a sigh of relief. She thought I was going to tell him. Ruin her date, or whatever this is. I stretch my neck around them to see the dining room table is set for two and there are candles lit in the center. Date. Shit.

  Why did I think this wouldn’t happen? Because she’s pregnant?

  She steps aside and waves me in. “Of course.”

  I suddenly remember the flowers I’m holding and feel like a dick intruding on her without warning. I nonchalantly place them on the entry table on my way by.

  John walks to the back door. “I’d better check on the steaks. Nice to meet you, Griffin.”

  I nod my chin at him as a foreign feeling courses through my body. He’s walking out of my back door onto my patio, to check on steaks he’s grilling on my grill. I want nothing more than to follow him out and pummel his unsuspecting head into my concrete wall. I’ve never before wanted to claim anything as badly as I want to claim her right now. She’s carrying my kid, dammit.

  Skylar’s eyes find my fisted hands and she questions them with a raise of her brow.

  It takes everything I have to relax them before I walk by her. “I’ll just be a minute,” I say.

  I take the stairs two at a time and race to my room. The sooner I can get out of here, the better. I stop cold when I reach the threshold of the master suite. The room has been transformed. The furniture Erin and I had in here is all gone, replaced by some pieces from the guest room, the couch that was in my studio, and some stuff I recognize from Skylar’s old place. I briefly close my eyes as the light scent of her flowery perfume hits me.

  My eyes fall on her bed. The bed we made love on. The sheets are rumpled and I have a moment of unbridled anger wondering if John has been on it.

  Then I see the picture on her nightstand. It’s one I took at the picnic when Erin and Skylar both had the same shade of brown hair. Skylar is standing, looking down at Erin who is kneeling next to her, touching her barely-there baby bump. It’s the kind of picture you would expect to see of a husband as he admires his pregnant wife. Yet it speaks volumes of their special friendship. I think Erin might have been right about the two of them being soul mates. This picture is a testament to that. Even being the professional I am, I couldn’t have picked a better picture to display.

  “I’m sorry,” Skylar says, coming up behind me. “I know it must be hard for you seeing my things in here.”

  “It’s fine.” If she only knew. If I could only tell her that’s not it at all. If I only had the balls to say my reaction is not because this room is no longer Erin’s, but purely because I want nothing more than to take Skylar in my arms and have another incredible night with her. Only this time, I wouldn’t run away. I would stay and worship every single inch of her over and over again. But I can’t say it. Especially not with him just down the stairs.

  “I had Mason move your belongings down the hall, and I boxed up Erin’s clothes and moved them to the basement.” I turn to look at her and she says in barely a whisper, “I didn’t know what to do with them.”

  “I know. It’s okay.” I walk past her, taking one last glance back at the bed. On the way to the guest room, I pass the nursery. I pause in the doorway and see it hasn’t been changed a bit since Erin decorated it. I make my way into the guest room to see my furniture. It overtakes the room, this huge, oak, four-poster bed Erin insisted we buy as our first piece of furniture in our new home.

  When I see the nightstand on my side of the bed—do I even have a side anymore?—my breath catches as I spot the picture of Erin when she was young and going through chemo. Skylar set up this room exactly like it had been before. Right down to my cell phone that still sits plugged in
and on top of a book I was reading.

  I retrieve my phone and charger and I open the closet to grab a few of my favorite shirts. I walk out into the hallway to see Skylar leaning against the wall. “I’ll come back another time for more.”

  She doesn’t say a word, she just nods.

  Going back down the stairs, I look over the family pictures that Erin had so tastefully displayed on our wall. Skylar hasn’t removed any of them. The photo from our wedding is still in a prominent place in the center of the wall. There are new additions in the mix, however, that include pictures from Skylar’s family. There’s even a picture of Erin and me holding the ultrasound photo. It was one of the last pictures taken of her before she started looking really sick, right before she asked us not to take any more of her.

  Walking through the living room, the silver urn on the mantle catches my eye, making me stop in my tracks. I go over to it and trace Erin’s etched name with my finger.

  “I didn’t know what to do with that, either,” Skylar’s soft voice speaks behind me. “I couldn’t bear to put it in storage with her clothes. It didn’t seem right.”

  “No, it’s the perfect place, until we can figure out a better one.” I thought about it a lot the past few months, where to scatter her ashes. I have an idea. But it’s not entirely my decision to make.

  I glance out the back door to see John pretending to mind the steaks, which are probably overdone by now. He’s shivering, having gone out without a coat. I debate telling him it’s okay to come back inside, but then I think better of it. Let him freeze his balls off out there. Cold balls, tough steak, unwelcome visitor. Makes for one bad date if you ask me.

  I head down to the basement. My studio is exactly as I left it, with a few exceptions. The couch from my bedroom has been switched with the couch that was once here. On the couch is a picture of me. One Skylar took of my dad and me at the picnic. Sitting next to it is my favorite camera. I know for a fact I didn’t leave it there.