by Carrie Ryan
I’m pleased that when Grey finally opens the door, his eyes widen in surprise.
“I was worried about your mom,” I say, holding out the sweetgrass basket. “I don’t want to intrude, especially if she’s still not feeling well, but I did want to stop by and make sure she’s okay. See if there’s anything I can do.”
He hesitates, trying to reconcile my presence, wondering whether to sort me into the enemy or the friend camp. My hope is that after our walk on the beach yesterday, I’ve at least earned a “to be determined” designation. Just to be sure, I let my chin drop a fraction, allowing one corner of my lip to kick up higher than the other in a self-conscious smile.
In response, he glances over my shoulder at the empty driveway and must figure out that I walked up here. His grip on the door loosens and he steps aside. Having been born and raised in South Carolina, he well knows that manners dictate you offer someone refreshments when they’ve gone out their way like I have.
I nod my head in thanks as I step inside. When Grey takes the basket from me, his eyes linger for a moment at where I’d been clutching it against my chest. As I expected, the air-conditioning is running at full blast, and the thin material of my sundress does little to hide that my skin instantly prickles into goose bumps.
I cross my arms, rubbing at the exposed skin to warm it. It’s just enough of a natural response that I can tell Grey’s not sure whether I caught him ogling or not. Flustered, he turns and leads me through the house.
“It’s funny you showed up here,” he remarks as we walk.
“How so?” I ask, taking the opportunity to scan my surroundings as I follow him. The inside of the house has about as much character as the outside: furniture in various shades of white with severely sharp angles; walls that sport grayish-toned abstract paintings; and a polished concrete floor that echoes our every footstep.
It’s quieter than a church, less personal than a hotel suite.
“I’d been thinking about offering to show you around town.” He steps aside to allow me to enter the kitchen first. It’s enormous, the ceiling intricately vaulted and the entire far wall a row of French doors looking out toward the ocean. There’s nothing at all homey about this room with its twelve-burner gas stove and row of gleaming Sub-Zero refrigerators. If anything, it’s more designed to cater elaborate parties than family dinners.
“But clearly you don’t need that anymore,” he says, holding up the basket as evidence that I know my way around.
I lean against the marble-topped island and laugh. “Yeah, but I had to use the GPS to get to the store and relied on the clerk to let me know what your mother might like. Speaking of . . .” I pull free the extra bottle of Refreshergy and I pretend to slice my nail against the seal in order to uncap the lid. I sniff at the contents, bracing myself for the smell of rotting fish and honeysuckle. “What is this stuff?”
Grey sets the basket down and rolls his eyes. “Some organic crap my mom puts in her breakfast smoothies. One of her friends recommended it—convinced her it would somehow make her look younger and give her more energy.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Have you tried it?”
“God, no,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “Though she swears by it. Drinks it religiously every morning before her swim.”
“That’s what the clerk at the store said.” I place the vial back on the counter and riffle through the rest of the basket, holding up the contents and inspecting them as though I’d never seen any of it before. “I basically just asked him to grab anything he thought your mom would like.”
“You really didn’t need to do all of this,” he tells me. “But I know my mother will be very touched you thought of her.”
My smile turns rueful. Playful. “Well, I felt bad she fell ill at the fund-raiser. I figure poisoning the neighbors doesn’t give the best first impression.” There’s something reckless and delicious in the admission of truth.
Grey’s just started laughing when his father walks in, attention focused on a stack of letters in his hand. The sound chokes in Grey’s throat.
Senator Wells glances up and the moment his eyes land on me, his expression tightens. Ever the consummate politician, he quickly shutters his true thoughts behind a slick smile.
“Miss O’Martin,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “We weren’t expecting you.” His words are perhaps sharper than he intends.
THIRTEEN
Sensing the tension, Grey jumps in before I have a chance to. “She came to check on Mom.”
Senator Wells keeps his attention focused on me. It’s not surprising that he’s found so much success in politics—power radiates from him.
“I was so sorry y’all had to leave early last night and I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye in person.” I feel Grey’s eyes on me, his awareness that I’ve just lied to cover for him. “I also really wanted to thank you for continuing my dad’s legacy with the conservation efforts. It means a lot to me that he’s remembered that way.”
Senator Wells’s response is brisk. “Of course. I appreciate your support of my campaign. Now,” he says, turning toward Grey, “if we don’t want to miss our tee time we’d better be going.” He walks toward a door that leads into the garage and, just like that, he dismisses us both.
Grey’s eyes flick toward me, distressed by his father’s rudeness. “I . . . uh . . .”
I lightly touch my fingers to the back of his hand, cutting off his floundering. “It was good to see you again,” I tell him. I start toward a set of French doors that leads to the patio and the beach beyond. When I pry them open, a blast of hot sticky wind rolls against us.
“Ugh,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “It’s days like this that make me wonder why we don’t all move to Maine.” I’m just about to step outside when Grey stops me.
“We can drop you off on the way to the club.” He glances toward the garage and the muscles around his eyes tighten with wariness.
I bite my lip. “You think your dad will be okay with that? I don’t want to make you late.” It’s obvious to both of us his father would like nothing to do with me. Even though this is only something minor—a simple ride home—I’m asking Grey to choose between me and his father.
Though I doubt he sees it that way. And that’s the whole point. Choosing me now makes it easier for him to choose me again in the future.
Grey lifts a shoulder as though it doesn’t matter. “It’ll be fine,” he says, but tension still radiates off him. He motions toward the garage, and as we walk, I feel the barest glance of his fingers against the back of my dress, ushering me forward. It’s a casual gesture, even a common one in the South, but with Grey there’s a familiar intimacy to it that causes my breath to catch.
Because my body remembers so strongly the feel of him and reacts accordingly: heat flushing, throat tightening, stomach squeezing. I ball my hands into tight fists, swallowing over and over again to bring myself under control, so that my expression is neutral again by the time we step into the garage.
Unsurprisingly, it’s huge—at least five bays wide and stuffed with a variety of gleaming cars. Grey’s father already sits in a sleek black convertible, engine purring softly, and Grey leads me to it.
“I told Libby we’d give her a ride home,” he explains as he opens the passenger door for me. He doesn’t give his father time to object, but instead flips the backseat forward, preparing to climb in.
I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “That backseat is tiny,” I protest. “Your legs would never fit.”
He’s about to argue when his father interrupts, snapping, “Greyson, we’ll be late to the club.” And that solves that.
The car is low and sporty and I’m intentionally ungainly as I contort myself into the backseat. The hem of my dress rides up my thigh, high enough to reveal a small sliver of lace edging along my underwear. Hastily, I tug it back down
but it’s clear from the way Grey’s ears blush red that he noticed.
Once we’re all settled, the Senator pulls the car out of the garage with a jerk. He drives angrily, engine revving once he hits the main road. The way I’ve positioned myself in the back, I have a clear view of his eyes in the rearview mirror. I pretend not to notice how he flicks his gaze back to me, over and over.
He’s calculating, trying to figure something out about me. I keep a smile plastered to my face, refusing to give him anything, and focus on my cell phone.
The drive is short and uncomfortably silent. Grey’s fingers dig into the sides of his leather seat, bracing himself as his father takes the circular drive in front of my house too fast.
Grey gets out first, holding out a hand to help me from the backseat. I’m well aware of how my dress gapes open when I bend over trying to maneuver myself free. But my foot catches on the seat belt, and I pitch to the side, dropping my purse into the footwell. The contents spill everywhere.
“You okay?” Grey asks, reaching toward me.
I nod, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Sorry,” I mumble. The Senator lets out an exasperated sigh as I drop to my knees and scurry to shovel my belongings together. With a glance I confirm that the call on my phone is still connected before shoving it farther under the passenger seat.
Once out of the car I thank the Senator for the ride before turning to Grey. It’s clear he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. I save him the effort. “Thank you,” I tell him softly. I keep my voice low, as though intending only Grey to hear me while knowing very well the Senator is listening in.
“I was glad to see you again after our abrupt good night . . .” I drop my eyes a moment and smile, one side tilted higher than the other and it has the desired effect, eliciting a brief flicker of hungering interest.
And then his father barks at him that they’ll be late and the moment is broken. Grey’s barely able to shut the door before his father takes off down the driveway, engine revving. He turns to wave, but his father grabs at his shoulder, pulling him back around to face forward. Even though the car’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, it’s clear the Senator’s berating him.
FOURTEEN
I walk straight through the house and into the kitchen where evidence from the reception the evening before still clutters the countertops. Chafing dishes stacked next to crates of glasses waiting to be collected by the catering company; the remains of the bar arranged neatly on the island.
Careful to avoid clinking them together, I sift through the liquor bottles until I find the one I’m looking for: a squat round bottle with a cork stopper in the shape of a galloping horse and jockey. Mrs. Wells’s favorite kind of bourbon.
Uncapping it, I pour the remains down the sink, running the water in an attempt to mask the musky odor. Had anyone else become ill at the party last night, I’d have just blamed it on a bad batch of seafood. It’s not like that’s the kind of thing anyone would be able to check. It’s doubtful that anyone would put together that those who became sick all drank the same kind of bourbon.
But even so, there’s no reason to tempt fate by keeping the evidence around. Once the bottle’s empty, I rinse it out and toss it into the recycling bin with the rest of the empties and head out to the pool.
The sun’s arcing high overhead, and along the horizon over the mainland dark clouds sit, heavy and promising. A high wind kicks from the ocean, pushing against the storm, and it’s still too early in the day to know which side will prevail.
I settle onto one of the lounge chairs, digging my toes between the rope slats as I pull my phone from my purse. It’s a clone of the one I “accidentally” left in the Wellses’ car when I dropped my purse and it shows one missed call—from myself thirteen minutes ago.
My voice mail is set to record for a full twenty minutes—enough time for Grey and his father to drive to the country club. Already, impatience nips and I tilt my head back, waiting. Trying not to dwell on the ghost of Grey’s touch against the small of my back. Because thinking about that makes me think of other things too.
Like the sound he made, deep in his throat, the first time he kissed me on the Persephone. Like the way his fingers twisted in my hair as he pulled me closer. Like the way his eyes shone when he looked at me, as though I were all that mattered.
The Frances part of me frolics through these memories, pulling them tight around her, and with a growl, I wrench free of them. Thankfully, my phone chirps that I have a new voice mail and that promptly ends the internal struggle.
As I hold the phone to my ear and press play, I smile. A real one—not the crooked grin that belonged to Libby or the sweetly shy one that belonged to Frances—one more monstrous. Cold. A smile born of this new hybrid creature I’ve become—with razor edges and calculating intentions.
The message begins with the sound of tires crunching over the cracked oyster shell driveway. And then comes the clunk of my purse dropping and me apologizing to the Senator. There’s the sound of me shuffling to gather everything back together, and then Grey says good-bye, the Senator growls that they’ll be late, the car door slams.
At first there’s nothing but the sound of popping shells as the car retreats down the driveway. Then the tires hit the blacktop with a vibrating hum and I can hear their muffled voices.
Senator Wells, his voice tight: “. . . with her last night. You told me you’d left to walk home and now I learn that you two were together? You lied to me!”
“It’s not like that,” Grey protests.
There’s a squeal of brakes and then it’s just the sound of the engine, vibrating against the phone. I frown—I know the route to the country club and there aren’t any lights. There’s no reason for them to have stopped for this long unless the Senator chose to.
“You will tell me exactly what happened between you two.” His voice is venomous.
“Dad, it wasn’t that big—” Grey’s response is cut off by the sound of a thump and a sharp inhale. For a moment there’s only breathing.
I close my eyes, picturing the car pulled to the side of the road, shaded by stunted oaks and untouched by the breeze. The air would feel heavier, more claustrophobic. Someone shifts, the sound of leather squeaking. “I don’t think I need to tell you how serious this is,” Senator Wells says.
When he answers, Grey’s voice is more subdued. “Libby and I went for a walk together during the reception. She told me she doesn’t remember anything about what happened.”
“You just happened to talk about the attack?”
I freeze at the Senator’s use of the word attack. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone else actually refer to it as an attack and there’s something fiercely validating about it. My fingers tremble as I press them to my lips, relief and rage warring in my stomach.
“It wasn’t like that, Dad,” Grey insists. “It’s just—I mean, of course it was going to come up. How could it not?”
“Was it you or was it her who brought it up?” the Senator demands.
“It was . . .” Grey hesitates. “I don’t . . . I’m not—” He’s cut off.
There’s movement and then Grey hisses in pain. “Do I need to remind you how much is at risk here?” the Senator growls.
“It was—I think she brought it up,” Grey gasps. “But it wasn’t like what you think. I swear! She didn’t ask anything at all. It was just obvious it was something everyone was thinking about and she was right.”
“What were her exact words?”
Grey talks fast, his voice laced with pain. “That she didn’t remember anything. It was all blocked out. She’d tried doctors and therapy and medicines and nothing worked, and she liked it that way. She’s doesn’t want to remember.”
I almost sense a note of regret in his last statement. As though he wished I did want to remember. That maybe he wanted someone else to t
alk to about what really happened. And I wonder for a moment, could it be that easy? That I only have to ask and he’ll spill it all?
My pulse pounds at the possibility but then I shake my head. If it were that easy, the truth wouldn’t have stayed buried that long.
“She didn’t ask me anything about how the Persephone went down,” Grey insists. “Not one thing.” There’s a pause, more shifting, and then Grey exhales slowly in relief. Whatever pain the Senator had been inflicting seems to have stopped. “And she promised she never would,” he adds.
“I don’t care. I’ve told you before—she’s dangerous.”
There’s a long moment of silence before Grey finally sighs. “I know, Dad.”
“I’m not sure that you really do. This isn’t something I control anymore,” the Senator spits.
I sit bolt upright in my chair, pulse pounding. Control? Anymore? I press the phone harder against my ear.
“I can only protect you so much,” Senator Wells continues. I’m surprised to hear a slight hitch in his voice, making his statement more of a plea than a threat.
“Maybe I don’t need your protection,” Grey snaps back.
There’s a long pause. “Do you really believe that?”
Another stretch of silence as I wait for Grey’s answer. And then a long exhale ending with a “No.”
The car pulls back onto the road and I check the phone to see how much time is left on the voice mail. Not a lot. Maybe not even enough for them to get to the country club.
I swing my legs off the side of the lounge, knee bouncing anxiously as I wait for them to say more. “Come on,” I whisper, as though this conversation were taking place now and not over twenty minutes ago.
“I don’t want you going near her, Grey.”
My jaw clenches. At least I’d been expecting this response and have built it into my plan. The Senator may order Grey to keep his distance, but our paths will most certainly cross again—I’ve guaranteed it.