You Turn

by Marion Croslydon

  Is it still beating?

  The man turns towards me. Shock flashes through the emerald tint of his eyes. Not for long, but surely that lack of control is a record by his standards.

  “I’ve called an ambulance. She OD’d.”

  Chapter 2

  For someone who prides herself on her self-control, I pretty much lose it.

  I don’t break down in tears or anything like that. Even in full freak-out mode, that’s not my style. But I turn into a totally useless girl who can’t talk and can only mumble a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ That’s it.

  Thank god I’m not the one in charge. He is.

  He manages the paramedics when they burst into my mother’s plush bedroom. He manages the race to the hospital, the bumper of his Porsche glued to the ambulance cutting its way through the Parisian morning traffic. He manages the paperwork when we finally make it to the E.R. at the Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière.

  And he manages me when my mother is rushed into a room behind a grey sliding door.

  “How much longer?” I ask out loud. We’ve been here waiting two hours. I wrap my arms around my bare shoulders and cross my almost bare legs. My tiny dress isn’t appropriate for this place. The corridor of the E.R. is over-heated but I still shiver.

  “I’ll chase them for another update soon.” I feel a soft fabric cover my shoulders. His jacket. I breathe in the scent I have never forgotten. Musky. Elaborate and sophisticated. I kick back at the assault of memories.

  Zachary.

  Zachary Murdoch III.

  His name echoes and ripples through my brain.

  He sits next to me on the plastic bench that runs along the grey corridor. His knee brushes against mine and my fingers clasp the collar of his jacket pulling it tightly around me. I keep my gaze stubbornly downcast, stuck somewhere on the scratched linoleum of the hospital floor. Anything to keep myself from looking at him. I’m that little girl again, star-struck by the older, mysterious boy. My brooding neighbor from youth.

  Only I’m not seven years old anymore. I raise my head and meet his gaze for the first time. His eyes rest on me, the same green color from my memories and my regrets. I blink under their scrutiny.

  I really have to put an end to my dumb act. “What were you doing in our house?” And since I’ve chosen the questioning route, I add, “And what are you doing in Paris?”

  He hands me a plastic cup. Tea, by the smell of it, with a dash of milk. The way I like it. I bring the liquid to my lips, enjoying its warmth.

  “I moved here three years ago.” His voice has that same old tempo: smooth and edgy, smoldering and cold. “As far as your mother…” A frown creases his forehead then disappears. “… She’s been in touch with me since she moved to Paris.”

  “What the hell?”

  His hand reaches out to my thigh and I have to try hard to ignore the touch of his skin on mine. “She thought I could help. After what happened to my mother…” He leaves his sentence hanging between us.

  His mother who ‘overdosed’ on painkillers five years ago. His mother who committed suicide.

  I shuffle my leg away from his touch. “Still, why were you there this morning?”

  He curls his hand into a fist as if my rejection has hurt him. “She’d left me voicemails throughout the night. I didn’t check them. Then she called me again at five a.m. in full panic mode. She left a message saying she couldn’t go on anymore, that she was fed up with trying to make things right. I knew…” He swallows, “… I knew then that she must’ve had a stash of pills hidden somewhere...”

  But still, how did he make it into the house if mom was already out cold in her bedroom?

  “Lenor, c’est horrible. Je n’arrive pas a y croire.” That’s horrible, I can’t believe it.

  And that’s Charlotte, my only friend in Paris. Before I have time to stand up, she envelops me in her arms. The girl has done some hardcore partying the night before. I know it because I was with her until my vanishing act into Pierre’s bedroom. Still, she’s all freshly showered and sprayed with that delicate fruity perfume she abuses.

  “Who’s this?” Charlie has already diverted her attention toward the handsome man sitting beside me. Even when life throws the worst at her—like her aunt at the doorstep of death—Charlie still has her radar switched on for appetizing male samples. God knows it’s difficult to pass on this particular sample.

  “I’m Zachary, a family friend from back home,” he fills, using almost unaccented French.

  My gaze keeps ping-ponging between the two of them but my mouth remains shut.

  “I’m Charlotte de Launet, Lenor’s cousin… Louise’s niece.” Charlie extends her delicate hand and Zachary shakes it while giving her an elegant nod.

  Apart from our hair color, my cousin and I don’t look anything alike. She’s petite, her eyes a sparkling brown, in contrast to the cold blue of mine. Her skin has an olive hue I’ve given up pursuing after too many days on the beach experiencing various shades of lobster.

  Behind me I hear a cough. I swivel and see the middle-aged, bearded doctor who’s been taking care of my mom. My right hand rests flat on my stomach to calm the knot that has formed there. But I feel fingers lacing with those of my left hand. I steal a glance at Zach and my eyes must be begging him to be my voice.

  “How is she, Doctor?” he asks.

  Another short cough. “She’s stable now. We pumped her stomach and she’s going to be monitored closely in intensive care. This was a very close call.”

  I shudder, but the gentle squeeze of Zach’s hand brings me comfort. The doctor turns away and moves to his next case.

  “What a relief.” Charlie claps her hands together.

  My mother has almost died because I wasn’t there when she needed me. Instead, I was rolling in the sack with a guy I don’t even like.

  The vibration of a cell phone cuts through my guilt. Zachary takes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and checks the I.D. He rejects the call.

  “You should have taken it. Surely you must have a job to do and places to be.” I don’t mean to sound bitter and ungrateful, so I add, “You’ve done so much already.”

  As always with Zachary, his face doesn’t betray his feelings or thoughts. “I was supposed to be on the first Eurostar to London.”

  “You should still go if it’s not too late.”

  “I’ll reschedule.” His gaze stays wrapped around me in a way I don’t remember. “It’s just work.”

  I have to break the spell he’s casting on me. My mom needs me. “Please, don’t. I can manage on my own.”

  His gaze turns speculative as if I’m a riddle. “I’ll be back late tonight, but I’ll call you to check on Louise…” I tear my hand from his, and he looks down at the empty space between us. “… and on you.”

  I answer with a nod and give him my cell number.

  He steps back. Before he walks away, he turns toward Charlie. “Take care of Lenor, please.”

  Charlie answers with one of her charming smiles that say she’d love to take care of him too. But Zachary doesn’t pick up on it and starts toward the elevator. I swallow a cry. I don’t want to be left alone.

  “Zach!” I’m so totally pathetic.

  He looks over his shoulder and there’s something in his eyes that I know matches mine. I can’t let myself down completely, so I scratch my head for some non-committal words.

  “Thank you…for everything,” I let out in a whisper.

  The corner of his mouth curls upwards and warmth crosses his eyes. The elevator doors open and he steps inside. “No worries, Duchess. You’ve always had my back when the going got tough.”

  Seconds later, he is gone.

  Chapter 3

  ZACH

  East Hampton ~ 4th July, five years ago.

  “Don’t let it get to you.”

  The words come from behind me. I sit on the edge of the pier, my feet hanging over the churning water of the Atlantic. I don’t need to check who�
�s behind me. It’s my shadow, the one that follows me pretty much everywhere, every summer since I was twelve.

  Without waiting for an invitation, she sits down next to me. My eyes roam over the lower part of her body. When did this girl grow that pair of legs? And what have I been doing not noticing it before?

  “What do you want?” I don’t even look at her face. Instead, I focus on the blazing line splitting the ocean from the sky. It has been a long day and I don’t feel like chitchat.

  I picture her leaning back on her hands, but keep staring ahead. It must make her tiny breasts point forward. I kick the image out of my mind. This is really not the time or the place to think like a dog, and really not the girl.

  “Don’t worry. They will soon forget about your father’s BDSM fiasco.”

  My father, an underground club, his tight latex lingerie, and some very unfortunate photos that went viral on the web.

  I choke and my eyes shoot toward her. Her head is tipped forward, the messy mass of her hair dancing in the wind, but she’s still looking all prim and proper.

  “Isn’t that a bit racy, coming from someone as sweet as you?” I don’t even try to hide the sarcasm. I’ve known this girl forever but I’ve never talked to her. Not really.

  “I’m eighteen and it’s not as if my parents are saints. I just pretend I don’t see what they’re up to.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and I chuckle. “Very matter of fact.”

  “You and I are very much alike, you know.”

  I very much doubt that, but I ask anyway, “How so?”

  “Emotionally unavailable fathers and emotionally unstable mothers. In other words, we’re both from very messed-up families.”

  “At least my mother hasn’t slept her way up and down the East Coast.”

  “Ouch, that stings.” I’m back not looking at the girl, but I imagine she’s shrugging right now. When she starts again, her voice has lost any chirpiness. “You should be more like me.”

  “More stuck-up and hypocritical?”

  “No, less immature.”

  “Thanks for the support anyway, but there must be some decent guy waiting for you over there.” I wave towards the lights of the Carrington’s house, where the Fourth-of-July party is in full swing. “You don’t want to make him wait.”

  She gives me another one of her shrugs. “I have a decent guy right next to me. Why would I go anywhere else?”

  For the first time in weeks, I burst out laughing. “I’ve just been a dick to you.”

  “You’ve been a dick to me my whole life. Always ignoring me or pretending I wasn’t there, even when we were the only kids at our parents’ dinner parties.”

  Her voice has cracks in it and guilt slashes through me. “Sorry.” I mean it.

  She nods. “That’s fine. I know you aren’t nearly as moronic as you look.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “You’re welcome.” She stares back at her house. “Should we go back over there and try to have a good time?”

  “I can’t go back there sober. I need alcohol to make all the bullshit bearable.”

  Our eyes meet and I relax. The way she looks at me, it feels good. It feels right.

  “I know where my dad hides his best liquor.”

  Eleanor Carrington isn’t at all how I thought she was. “That sounds like a plan.”

  She stands and extends her hand. I seize it, stand up and keep hold of it. Her smile starts erasing the anger that has piled up inside me since my father fled to Bermuda with that crazy slut from the Club, his now mistress. Lenor strolls up the pier, lacing her fingers with mine. She’s still a kid but it feels like she’s kind of mothering me. My own mother is somewhere at that party, absorbed in getting the Murdoch name back on the social map.

  Eleanor starts chatting about herself, about Georgetown where she’ll start soon and about her mother who doesn’t seem to give a shit about her daughter. And just like that, I’m back at the party I got the hell out an hour ago. Most of the guests—including my mother—are gathered on the grass overlooking the beach, but Lenor skirts silently around them and leads me inside the house. I welcome the receding sound of the music the small orchestra is playing.

  “Eleanor!”

  The voice startles her and she spins around. “Daddy.”

  I turn to face Bruce Carrington, a man I loathe. He was supposed to be one of our family’s closest friends but he turned his back on us as soon as the scandal exploded. We have been invited tonight by the good graces of Louise Carrington, Lenor’s mother. As if Bruce Carrington’s own lifestyle was any less seedy than my father’s.

  “Where are you going with him?” Carrington’s eyes are stuck on me.

  “I’m showing Zachary around.” Eleanor’s voice has lost its confidence.

  Carrington takes a few steps towards us, using his broad shoulders as a not very well disguised threat. “The last thing I want is for you to be associated with this kind of man.”

  Eleanor stiffens. Her fingers tighten around mine. I can’t stand her being bullied by that jackass because of me. “Sir, I was on my way out. I—

  “He wasn’t.” Eleanor cuts me off. She’s moved even closer to me, her body nestling against mine. “I want to show him the library and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  The shock on Carrington’s arrogant face is something I deeply enjoy. Before he can recover, she pulls me down the corridor, hurrying along. When we make it to the library, she shuts the door behind us, leans against it, and lets out a loud breath.

  “God, I’ve never talked to him like that.” Her hand is now pressed against her chest and her flushed cheeks are the cutest things I’ve ever seen.

  “He’s not going to let it go that easy.” I bury my hands in my pockets.

  “He’ll survive,” she giggles and moves towards the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. “I hope you’ll find the scotch worth all the drama.”

  When she passes by me, I grab her elbow and make her face me. “Thanks Lenor.” I avoid looking at her by staring down at the tips of my shoes. I don’t often open up, and I don’t like doing it even then. But this girl deserves better, so I force my gaze to meet hers again. “Thanks for giving a shit.”

  She gives a quick nod, stands on her tip-toes and drops a kiss onto my cheek. “That’s what friends are for… Having each other’s backs.”

  Chapter 4

  LENOR

  Paris ~ Present.

  “I’ve been cooking inside this house for two days now. Can I please get out?”

  Dealing with my mother after her release from the hospital is like handling a hormonally-challenged teenager. Not that I’ve ever been one. Mom had it easy with me. I was as low-maintenance as a sixteen-year old can be.

  I look up from the latest edition of Vogue to where Mom is filling the drawing room of our townhouse with contagious restlessness. Trying to focus on anything when she’s around has always been mission impossible. “The doctor said you need to take it easy. So I’m making sure you’re taking it easy. The weather is terrible anyway, so you can’t really go outside.”

  “Who said I wanted to go outside?” Mom shifts on the sofa, readjusting her silk bathrobe over her age-defying body, without an ounce of fat and breasts that haven’t heard of gravity. “I just need a quick lunch with a girlfriend at Le Fumoir or Costes. Nothing over-the-top, just a change of scene.”

  Louise Carrington is the Queen of Over-The-Top. I don’t trust her to be out of my sight for one minute, let alone for an entire lunch. And certainly not with one of her spoiled and compulsively unfaithful girlfriends. But if my mother is the Queen of Over-The-Top, I’m the Princess of Compromise. I’d do pretty much anything to fight this fragility I’ve never seen in Mom before. “I could ask Benedicte to come around for tea.”

  Benedicte is my aunt and Charlie’s mom. I don’t trust Benedicte an inch, but I have leverage over her. My dad bank-rolls Uncle Edouard’s fledgling business. The
y need the money and I need someone who won’t give my mother the keys to the drinks cabinet. Mom has to stay liquor-free and, more crucially, pill-free. Although, based on my experience, the two often go hand-in-hand.

  “Benedicte is a bitch. Always has been, always will be. I’d rather have her daughter around. She’s more fun.” Mom leans against the back of the sofa and stretches her legs. More than ever, she looks like one of those sexy kittens. More than ever, I feel like a washed-out carbon-copy of her. “You spend an awful amount of time with Charlie these days. That’s unexpected.”

  “How so? We’ve known each other forever.” I hiss, as I know what she has just implied.

  Mom pouts as only a full-blooded French woman can. I’m only half-French and pouting looks downright ridiculous on me.

  “I don’t know…” She shrugs while brushing her hair back over her shoulders with the tips of her permanently manicured fingers. “You’ve never struck me as a party girl.”

  “People change.” Whether I’m referring to my cousin or myself, I leave vague.

  Mom doesn’t pry any further. Bizarrely, she chooses to remain silent for the next five minutes. A lifelong, record-breaking occurrence for her. But all good things must come to an end.

  “You were with Charlie the night when…” Mom abruptly shifts position, sits up, her back stiff, her hands grabbing her knees. “…when I had that unfortunate accident.”

  Accident? The doctors pumped an entire jar of those goddamned pills out of her stomach.

  I sigh and put my beloved—but practically untouched—Vogue on the armrest of my Louis XVI chair. I strike a position that mirrors my mom’s, trying to be casual but feeling anything but. “We went to the same party. Afterwards we came back to her place. My cell was on mute and I didn’t get your messages. I’m sorry.” That last bit is the truth.

  But my mother is milking it. Big time.

  “Mademoiselle Carrington?” The softly-spoken Jeanne has slid into the drawing room.

  She’s been hired her right after my mother’s accident to help around the house while she recovers. Hopefully Jeanne will meet Louise’s exacting standards for house help and she’ll stay on a permanent basis. She’s as discreet and efficient as she is plump and friendly. My type of girl. Plus, her English is flawless.