Ivan grabbed my arm as I walked to my truck. “Hold up a second,” he said. “Why don’t you just take a minute and think about staying here, for good. I looked into getting a fake pa—”
“I thought you understood,” I said, trying to shrug him off, but his grip stayed firm.
“I’m trying, seriously, I am,” he said quietly. “But this isn’t just about you, and I’m worried about Lisa. I know she won’t tell you any of this, but she’s having constant nightmares, okay? And when those aren’t happening, she can’t sleep properly because of this insomnia that keeps her awake half the night. She’s still feeling sick, she’s dizzy all the time...”
I shook him off. “She’ll be fine.”
“Jesus, you don’t get it, do you?” Ivan’s voice got louder with every syllable, one of the veins in his neck throbbing as he towered over me. “I’m worried about her, and our kid. Meanwhile she’s freaking out about what’ll happen to you and Logan.” He paused, shaking his head. “She’s sure it’ll push you to drinking again, do you understand?”
“It won’t.”
“Then make sure by staying here. For once in your life, put your sister first.”
“Fuck you, Ivan.” I regretted the words when I saw the look on his face, as if I’d scorched him, but I wasn’t done. “It’s easy to talk down to someone when you’re sitting pretty on the highest rung of the privilege ladder, isn’t it? When you’ve had everything handed to you?”
Ivan put his hands up, took a step back. “Whatever, man, just be sure you’re going to Faycrest for the right reasons. Because, let me tell you, this...connection you think you have with Emily, it’s bullshit and—”
“Seriously?” I spat. “You’ve got a woman to put up with you for more than five minutes and now you’re an expert at relationships? Why don’t you mind your own fu—”
“Guys?” Lisa and Logan stood behind us. She glared at Ivan and me in turn, while Logan frowned, his expression a mixture of confusion and alarm.
“Are you okay, Dad?” he said.
“Yes, yes, of course, kiddo.” I forced a smile. “All good.”
Although I didn’t want to say it out loud, I knew Ivan had a point. Whatever I felt for Emily was irrelevant. I had to refocus, get her DNA and come home. It was the only way to move forward, and hopefully leave Grace—and all of her excess baggage—behind.
* * *
When I got to the cabin I trudged up the front steps, ready to collapse for the night, but something stopped me as soon as I opened the door. I looked around, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. At first glance nothing seemed out of place, nothing had been moved, and yet the air felt electric, as if the ceiling swirled with dark clouds from which a thunderstorm could break out any second. Perhaps my brain was playing tricks on me, the lack of sleep and the spats with Lisa and Ivan messing with my mind, but in case someone jumped out at me, I kept my fists clenched as I walked through the hallway. The kitchen and bathroom were both empty, as were the bedrooms, everything still exactly how I’d left it, the windows shut, the air-conditioning unit’s hum unchanged when I switched it on.
It wasn’t until I looked at my tool bag that I noticed some of my things were out of place. For years I’d kept all my tools meticulously lined up for speed and efficiency, an impossible habit to break, always returning them to the same place so I could practically work blindfolded. It was something Ronnie and Leila had complimented me on. One quick glance told me my pliers, screwdrivers and measuring tape had all been moved—only an inch or two—but enough for me to notice. The remaining doubt evaporated. Someone had been in the cabin, gone through my things, searching for...what, exactly?
Maybe Ethel had stopped by to check on the work I’d done, no doubt she had a spare key, but in my gut I knew it was unlikely. She was old school, not the kind of person to let herself in without permission and besides, why would she have searched through my tools?
After emptying my bag on the floor and inspecting each item twice, I felt around the empty pockets. Nothing. I did the same with the cabin, checked every drawer, every cupboard, looked under the mattresses and behind the curtains, and still came up empty-handed.
Doubt crept back in through the cracks in my mind. I knew stress made people do odd things—leave car keys in the fridge or put salt in coffee—maybe I’d misplaced my tools after all, and yet my nerves wouldn’t settle.
By now I wished I’d kept one of those beers that someone had left on the deck, thought about how easy it would be to get in the truck and drive to the liquor store. I didn’t need to get plastered, just buzzed enough to stop the questions rolling around my head, and to have a proper night’s sleep. Was that too much to ask? Would it really be that bad? After the last blip I had no trouble staying dry. I picked up my wallet and keys, made it as far as the front door before I stopped myself.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, my fists clenched. “Don’t.”
A good ten seconds went by before I grabbed the chair and shoved it under the door handle. Whether it was to keep people out, or me in, I wasn’t sure. Either way, as I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, I already knew this would be yet another excruciating night.
* * *
I spent the next day with Bill, but none of his clients were Emily. Although I’d given myself strict instructions not to think about her, my gaze swept the streets as we drove through town, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of her. I wanted to call her, pretend to inquire about the yard designs just so I could hear her voice, even caught myself running through our imaginary conversation in my mind. Bill asked me three times if everything was okay before I managed to pay attention to what I was doing, and even then I found my thoughts drifting again.
After the last lawn had been mowed, the final tree clipped, I drove to the grocery store and filled a basket with supplies to last me another few days. I didn’t quite manage to walk past the beer without as much as a sideways glance or a pinch of desire, but I didn’t touch the stuff. Although it beckoned me, I put my head down and strode on, turning the corner in search of milk, almost bumping into the person coming in the opposite direction. Emily.
“Uh, hi,” I said. “How are you? How was your weekend?”
A shade of pink crept up her neck as she smiled. “It was okay. Rainy. You?”
“Fine. Good to be back,” I said. “Uh, because of the amount of work, you know?”
“I do,” she said with a nod. “I’m supposed to be submitting ideas for a commission—”
“A new one?”
“Yeah. Trouble is, I’m drawing a blank. No pun intended.”
“Painter’s block?”
Emily grinned, rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. It’s for one of the banks in Portland. They have this huge lobby and they want to see designs for some—”
“Trees?”
“Dear God, please don’t tell me I’ve become that predictable.” She covered her eyes with a hand, the dimples in her cheeks growing more visible than ever. “But yes, trees. And they have to be huge. The space is a hundred and forty square feet.”
“That’s massive, practically life-size.”
“Exactly, and not only that, but they’re looking for a different spin, and so far I haven’t come up with anything, so—” she lifted her basket, which was filled with bread, cheese and white-chocolate-chip cookies “—I’m procrastinating. Besides, a girl’s got to eat. Then I’ll work.”
“Want to help paint Ethel’s cabin kitchen? You can doodle all over the primer.”
I’d meant it as a joke, kind of, and at first Emily laughed, too, until she said, “You know, that might be exactly what I need. A bland and boring job so I can let my mind wander. Okay, why not? I’ll cook you dinner.”
In the back of my mind I heard Lisa’s comment about playing with fire, decided I should tell Emily I wasn’t doing any painting, had other
plans for the evening. There would surely be another chance of getting her DNA that didn’t involve us being alone in the cabin in the woods on a rainy Monday night. Yes, I should tell her... “You want to help paint and cook dinner?”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m buttering you up for a good deal on the yard.” She shrugged. “And I make a mean pasta sauce.”
“As do I...”
“Oh, yeah? Well, does yours have chorizo, basil and fresh tomatoes?”
I held my hands up in surrender. “You win.”
Emily laughed again. “Good decision. Shall I come over in about half an hour?”
“Are you sure? I mean...won’t Tyler mind?”
“Why would he mind?” she said, and looked at me as some kind of strange protective bubble formed around us in which nothing but she and I mattered, and everything else seemed to disappear. “I’ll see you in a bit?”
“Yes,” I replied, nodding slowly. “See you later.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Depending on the situation, thirty minutes can feel like thirty seconds or thirty years. In this case, it was the latter. Time had slowed right down, moving at a glacial pace despite my trying to speed it back up by jumping in the shower once I got to the cabin, and calling Logan, deciding not to tell Lisa about my expected visitor.
After I hung up, I tried to convince myself Emily coming over was nothing but an opportunity to finally get what I needed to prove she wasn’t Logan’s mother. All that did was make me feel like even more of a traitor, so I paced the deck, whispering, “Rebound, rebound, rebound.” When she still hadn’t arrived after forty-five minutes, I presumed she’d changed her mind. Disappointment sneaked into my chest, but then I heard the sound of an engine, and Emily’s car appeared from between the trees, big fat raindrops bouncing off its roof. I remembered seeing a tiny pink-and-blue-striped umbrella stashed away in the hall closet with the linens, and dashed toward the car with it as she pulled up.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, getting out with a bag of groceries in one hand. “Car trouble again. Battery this time.”
“Want us to have a look?” I took the bag from her, held the umbrella over her head.
“No need. I made an appointment at the garage tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, thanks, Josh. Can you believe this weather?” she said as we walked back to the cabin, the cold water dripping off the canvas and trickling down the side of my neck. “The amount of rain we’ve had is ridiculous. We might as well cancel summer. It’s fall already.”
I smiled and held the door open for her. “But it makes everything so green.”
Emily smiled back, wiped her sneakers on the mat. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? Okay, what’s first, food or work?” At the mere thought of a meal, my stomach let out a high-pitched whine. “There’s our answer,” she said with another laugh. “Great, because I’m starving, too. Let’s see what we can rustle up in this tiny kitchen.”
“You’ve been here before?” I said, setting the groceries on the serving tray-sized kitchen counter, wondering how both of us would fit in the space without our bodies touching.
She opened the cutlery drawer and peered inside. “Enough to know my way around to find...aha, there you are.” Emily grinned as she held up a corkscrew. “I wasn’t sure if you preferred red or white wine, so I got both.”
I could feel my face falling, and she must have noticed it, too, because she frowned and gently said, “Are you okay, Josh? Did I do something?”
My usual response in this situation was to fib, say I had an allergy or was taking medication, but I didn’t want to lie to Emily. Not more than I already had. “I used to drink a lot. Far too much, in fact, so I don’t touch anything now.”
She looked at me for a moment and then pulled two bottles from the shopping bag. “In that case, I won’t, either. Tell you what, let me put these in the car and it’ll be like it never happened.”
“Thanks for not making it a big deal,” I said when she got back inside. “And for not asking me a ton of questions, because most people do.”
Emily squeezed my arm, her touch light, fingers soft. “No problem, although I do have to ask you one thing... Want to chop the onions or the basil?”
Within thirty minutes the cabin smelled better than Casa Mama. We settled down at the rickety old table in the living room, plates of steaming hot pasta in front of us, the rain coming down even harder outside. As far as I was concerned, we could have been stranded in the Rockies or the Alps somewhere, miles from civilization, and it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least. Once again there had been a sense of familiarity, of ease, as we worked in the kitchen, chatting and moving together in the tiny space, her asking me to try the sauce for seasoning, me telling her it was perfect just the way it was, as if we’d been cooking supper with one another for years.
“This is delicious,” I said, taking a first bite. “Much better than what I’d have made in double the amount of time.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she said with a grin. “But I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’d better not eat too much or I won’t want to move afterward, let alone pick up a paintbrush. Although I brought some chocolate mousse, in case we need some energy for later.”
“Pasta and chocolate mousse?” I said. “I wish all my helpers thought that way.”
“Ah, but would you ever get anything done?”
I laughed. “Fair point.”
“So tell me about your weekend. I bet Logan was happy to see you.”
When my smile tried to slide off my face, I had to make a mammoth effort to keep it there, and to make my voice stay even. “Yes, he was.”
She looked at me, quietly said, “I know why you won’t talk about him, Josh.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to mention their kid in front of me because of Hunter,” she said, making the pasta turn into a clump in my stomach. “But...it’s okay, I promise. It helps me picture where he might be, what he might be doing. It hurts, but at the same time I can imagine him having a good life. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” I whispered, not daring to look at her.
“Then tell me something about him,” she said. “Please?”
“He’s amazing,” I said. “Clever and generous, and whip-smart, too. Since Grace died...he’s the one who’s been holding me together rather than the other way around. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without him. I love him with everything I have.”
“He’s very lucky to have you,” she said quietly, “and from what you’ve said, he sounds exactly like you. Like father, like son, right?”
“Except he isn’t,” I said. “I met him when he was two.”
“I didn’t know you adopted him,” Emily said, and I let the assumption sit there without comment. She twiddled her napkin between her fingers, hesitating before she continued. “I was adopted, too. I was six.”
There hadn’t been anything about that in my research. The articles had only ever mentioned her parents being an older couple in Florida. It almost felt strange for her to share details about her life that I hadn’t read about, and which I didn’t have to pretend not to know.
“So when you said your dad taught you all about cars—”
“I meant my adoptive father, Malcolm. Best man in the world.”
“What about your parents?” I said. “Do you know who they are?”
“I remember a few things,” she said, smiling slowly as if she were watching the memories play out on a screen somewhere in her mind. “My dad taking pictures of my mother, my little sister, Morgan, and me, the three of us twirling in the garden. We had the same dresses my mother had made, a light green gingham, I think, and I had a blue satin ribbon in my hair... I’m not sure how much of it
is real, though.”
“Can I ask what happened?” I said. “Why did they give you up?”
Emily didn’t reply for a long time, and when she did, she whispered. “My father.”
“Your dad didn’t want you?” I said. “Why?”
“It wasn’t that,” she said, her eyes welling up as she spoke, and I could tell from the strain in her voice that each of her syllables took an increasing amount of effort.
“You don’t have to—”
“I was at a friend’s house one day. A sleepover I’d begged my mother to let me go to, and she’d finally given in an hour earlier. Morgan wanted to come, but I told her no, she was too small, even when she cried.” She paused, took a deep breath. “When my father came home after work, he went straight to the kitchen, picked up a knife and slit my mother’s throat—”
“What?”
“—and then Morgan’s, who was playing in our bedroom.”
I leaned forward, grabbed her hand. “Jesus, Emily, are you saying he killed them?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And then he hung himself in the basement. Nobody knew until my mother didn’t pick me up the next morning. That’s another memory I have, sitting on the staircase, wishing she’d come and get me. I hated the sleepover after all. The girls made fun of my dinosaur pajamas, and I’d wished I’d stayed at home.” A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away.
“But why did he—”
“They said he had so much debt he couldn’t see a way out, didn’t want to let us down. I think my father loved us, as bizarre as it sounds. He couldn’t see a future but wanted to keep his family together. I can only imagine what he went through when he realized I wasn’t home, that he couldn’t take his other daughter with him. I’ll always wonder what he would have done if Morgan hadn’t been there, either, if they might all still be alive.”
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