by Jenni Wiltz
The closer she came, the better she could see the tears glistening in his eyes. “Ella, what on earth are you doing? I told you to stay in the house!”
“I wanted to see the raccoon,” she said. Her father held out his arms and she ran into them, burying her face against his neck as he scooped her up. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Don’t be scared,” her father soothed, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
One of the thieves snorted. “That’s what you think.”
She could feel her father tighten his grip on her. “You said you’d leave in peace if I let you have everything on that table.”
“The price just went up,” the man with the gun said, waving the barrel at her father’s second work table.
“Take it,” her father said. “Take everything. Just don’t hurt my daughter. She has nothing to do with this.”
The greedy thief continued dumping out all her father’s storage drawers and tossing the contents into his bag. The gun-toting thief shone a flashlight onto the stones as they fell from the drawers to the bag.
Ella watched them sparkle and shine. She loved how they captured and reflected the light, showing her what a shooting star must look like. What would her father do without them? What would she do without them?
She began to sob and her father set her down. “Sweetheart, please, don’t cry.” With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he guided her into place behind him. She had to peek out around him to watch the masked men load the stones into their big bag. They tossed in everything, including empty frames for dangly chandelier earrings and a paste mock-up for a collar necklace her father had worked on for weeks.
It only took them a few more minutes to finish loading the last of the stones. The greedy thief hefted the bag and slung it over his shoulder. The thief with the gun extended his arm. “I suppose we’ll be going now,” he said. “And so will you.”
Ella watched him move his finger so that it settled over the trigger. She knew what would happen if the man pulled the trigger, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. When she tried to scream, her voice stuck in her throat and she felt as if she were choking on her own spit. What finally did come out was a strangled shriek that no one heard over the sound of the gun.
She felt the bullets strike her father. His whole body shook like it had been hit by a wave. He stumbled backward against her and then slumped to the floor. She sank to the floor with him, both trapped and sheltered by his body. She heard the thieves laughing as they ran out the door with their bag of loot.
“Dad!” she screamed, scrambling out from under him. She bent over him and saw immediately where the bullets had hit him, in his chest. There was a red, round stain on his bathrobe and it was spreading. She was afraid to touch it, to touch him.
“Dad,” she whispered.
Her father blinked twice and then fumbled for her hand, as if he couldn’t see it and didn’t know where she was. “Ella,” he said.
She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it as hard as she could. “Dad, I’m right here.” He squeezed back and she tried to smile for him. “Dad, what should I do? Should I go call an ambulance?”
“Stay with me,” he said softly.
“Dad, I’m scared. What’s happening?”
“Don’t be scared, Ella.”
“But I am scared.” She felt the sobs welling up in her throat, choking her and cutting off her air. A wild panic spread through her. She wondered what would happen in the next ten seconds, the next thirty seconds, the next minute, the next hour.
What she imagined frightened her so much that she shut it off, focusing only on the strength of her father’s grip, holding onto her and to life itself as tightly as he could.
As long as he’s holding my hand, he’s still with me, she thought.
She could see her father’s eyes look from her face to some faraway point over her shoulder. “You are so beautiful, my girl. Wonderful things are going to happen for you.”
“Dad, I have to go…I’m going to get you an ambulance.”
But he wouldn’t let go of her hand. “Ella, wait. You have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” she sobbed.
“Promise me you won’t let this stop you from believing.”
“In what? What are you talking about?”
“In people, Ella. Promise me you’ll always believe in people. Remember only what’s good and forget about everything else.” He grimaced and coughed and she saw a streak of red flow from his mouth over his cheek.
“I can’t,” she said, feeling her shock turn to anger. “Dad, I’m going to find them.”
“Ella, don’t. You have so much more to live for.”
The pressure of his hand was growing weaker. Instead of them squeezing against each other, now she was the one squeezing, holding his hand up with the weight of her own.
“Dad! Come on, you have to squeeze!”
“You didn’t promise.”
“I promise, Dad, now squeeze! It doesn’t work unless you squeeze my hand!”
But instead of growing stronger, her father grew weaker. A soft exhale of breath swept over her cheek like a kiss. Then his hand slumped in hers and his eyes closed.
“Dad!” She shook him gently but nothing happened. His eyes stayed closed. “Dad!” she shrieked. “Dad!”
*
Ella woke up drenched in sweat, still screaming for her father. She clutched the covers to her chest and glanced around the room, hearing the echo of her own panting breaths. Her heart raced as if she’d just run a marathon and she felt just as exhausted.
The nightmares still hadn’t stopped, not completely. At first, they’d happened every day, tapering off to once a week and then once a month as she grew older. Now, they only happened when she let herself dwell on the events of that night.
She sat up and put a hand over her heart, hoping she could calm it down. Ella hated the nightmares, not so much for replaying the moments of her father’s death but for making her feel that the loss was still fresh. It hurt more to see him and hear him alive than to realize he was still dead.
It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the loss. Ella spent most of her elementary school years believing the world was against her, that she had to fight the universe itself to get anything she wanted. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she’d realized lots of other kids had terrible childhood stories, too.
One of the boys she’d dated had come from a broken home where his mother was too drunk most of the time to make his meals. One of the girls on her cross-country team had overcome a rare form of bone-marrow cancer and had the scars to prove it. Finally, it had begun to sink in that the universe hadn’t picked on her and her alone. Once she understood that life held its fair share of disappointment and heartbreak, she began to change her outlook. Maybe, she thought, I’ve just gotten through my share early. Maybe it’s all going to be easier from here on out.
That hadn’t really been true, but having a positive mindset helped her get through college and the first few hungry years of being out on her own in the big city. But when the dreams came back, like tonight, they took her right back to that scared, angry place—and she had to re-learn how to be happy all over again.
As her eyes took in her surroundings, the events of the previous day flooded back over her. She looked down at her hands, still wrapped in gauze, and she remembered everything that had brought her to the Cherbourg mansion.
She lay back and sighed, pressing her hands to her eyes to try and block out the horrible dream images. The nightmares were incredibly vivid, and she always had a hard time going back to sleep. In a way, she was grateful. If she slipped right back to sleep, the nightmare would probably just pick up where it left off.
But on the other hand, if she didn’t get some shut-eye, she had no idea how she’d face Sébastien with a clear head the next day.
She could only think of one thing that might help her get back to
sleep without the likelihood of a nightmare. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she knew she’d seen a crystal decanter with an amber liquid inside.
When she’d had the nightmares as a little girl, Aunt Molly and Uncle Mike had given her nips of blackberry brandy to help ease her back to sleep. She knew whatever was in that decanter wasn’t the mild fruit-flavored brandy they’d favored, but it might still do the trick.
Ella threw back the covers and padded out of her room. The marble floor of the hallway was cold against her bare feet and she wished she’d borrowed a pair of slippers or socks. The room—and the pajamas—both belonged to Sébastien’s absent sister Honorée. Judging from the way the pajama legs bunched at her feet, Honorée was as tall as a model.
Ella slipped down the stairs, holding the wrought-iron rail to keep from tripping on the too-long pajama legs. When she reached the ground floor, she slunk through the series of parlors and entertaining rooms until she reached the long hallway that took her to the kitchen.
Opal moonlight spilled through the window over the sink, illuminating the decanter set on the counter. She reached for it and poured half an inch of whiskey into a cut-crystal glass. When she’d replaced the lid in the decanter, she took a sip and held the liquid in her mouth.
The alcohol seared her tongue and her gums, stinging like the knowledge that she’d failed her father once again. One more lead that could have brought her closer to his killer, and she’d blown it.
Ella swallowed heavily. She tilted her head up to the moon and wondered if her father could see her now. Would he be disappointed in me? she wondered. Or would he just want me to give up and try to have a normal life?
She had never forgotten her father’s final wish—for her to forget what happened and remember the good in people. Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t approve of her quest. But it felt so disloyal to do what he asked and just move on. Aren’t there any consequences for what they did? she wondered. How can they just get away with it?
Every time she asked that question, she felt the anger burn deep in her belly. If she let it, it would consume her. Surely that hadn’t been what her dad meant when he said great things would happen for her. Was she wrong? Was he?
Ella looked up at the moon, hanging low and full over the Cherbourg gardens. Suddenly, she envisioned herself as a child again, wandering through tall garden hedges. Lost and bewildered, she wandered without direction or focus. Which path was the right one? Had she ever known? It wasn’t clear anymore—if it ever had been.
“Dad, I’m drowning,” she whispered. “Help me.”
*
Sébastien stood in the shadows and watched a single tear slip down her face. In the moonlight, it looked like a crystalline spiderweb traced onto her skin. His hands ached to reach out and wipe it away.
Thanks to Jake, he knew exactly what had happened to her all those years ago. Although he’d seen his share of dysfunctional family moments, nothing had come close to the tragedy and violence that she experienced at such a young age.
He couldn’t help but feel tenderness for her. Even though all she wanted was to catch him in a lie and prove his family had stolen from hers, he couldn’t stay angry with her. He understood, in fact. She was on a quest to avenge her father, the same way he was on a quest to reclaim his family’s leadership role after the fiasco with Amanda.
In Honorée’s silk pajamas, she looked like the little girl she must have been at the time of her father’s murder. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tousled at the back, as if she’d tossed and turned before coming downstairs. From his vantage point, he could see dark smears beneath her eyes, the remnants of makeup that had gotten smudged.
Now that he’d had time to calm down, he realized that everything he felt for her earlier was still there: the electric attraction, the unwilling sympathy, the begrudging admiration for her courage. But now, seeing how deeply the events of the past still affected her, he knew he’d underestimated her.
If her father’s death were still so raw and painful for her, it was incredible that she hadn’t caved completely and given into the soul-sucking grief. Instead, she was trying to do something about it. He had to respect that because it’s what he would have done.
Still, even though he could admit his feelings, there was no point. He knew it as surely as he knew this house belonged to him and always would. No matter how much he admired her or wanted to kiss her, she was from a different world.
As a test, he imagined replaying the horrible moment when Amanda had broken off their engagement, crying and shredding the pre-nup with both hands. Only this time, he imagined the woman was Ella. And he wasn’t convinced the ending would be any different. That look on Ella’s face, in the vault when she eyed his mother’s brooch…it meant she wanted one thing and only thing only from him.
Everything he’d experienced in life had taught him that people with money had to have thicker skins than anyone without a penny to their name. The attacks came from all angles, disguised beneath kisses and hugs and smiles. Everyone wanted what the Cherbourgs had and no one, especially not someone whose father was killed for his most valuable possessions, could understand that.
Let her go, he told himself. Don’t make more of this than it has to be. It’s okay to feel sorry for her because of what happened all those years ago. Just don’t think she’ll be different, not for one damn minute.
But the longer he stood there and watched her, the less convincing the voice in his head became. Her grief wracked her through and through and it would have taken a devil with internal organs of steel to stand there and watch her suffer. Every time she choked back a sob, he felt his gut twist and clench painfully.
Hell, he thought. I can’t do this.
He stepped forward from the shadows and said her name softly, quietly. “Ella.”
She gasped and spun around, wide eyes meeting his. “Sébastien!”
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. It was a reflex, obviously. She wasn’t, not at all. “I’m fine,” she lied.
He moved closer to her, close enough to pry the glass from her grasp and pour another half-inch of whiskey. “People who are fine don’t sneak downstairs to drink and cry.”
Through the pain, a faint smile turned up the corners of her lips. “You’re fine too, I take it?”
He couldn’t lie to her, not after witnessing her pain. “Not tonight, Ella, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sébastien thought about telling her to ignore his remark and then realized he didn’t want to. It would be a relief to talk about it, just this once.
In the year since Amanda left him, he’d been planning how to regain his family’s trust. Never once had he felt the urge to talk about it. But here, with her, he felt like what he said could matter and would be taken seriously. It wasn’t like talking with his absent-minded mother or power-mad uncles. Ella couldn’t use what he said against him the way they could. For once, he could speak the truth. “It’s the exhibition,” he said.
She tilted her head, studying him quizzically. “Anyone with a pulse can tell that it’s the most important thing in the world to you. But why?”
He took a deep breath. “I made some wrong decisions, and a man in my position can’t afford to do that. Not in my professional life or my personal life.”
“What happened?”
“Because of a few bad decisions, I lost the trust of my own family, and the board of our foundation. I’ve been out of the public eye for almost a year now, waiting for the right time to jump back in and prove that I’m still the right one to lead this family. But it might be too late.”
Ella frowned, drawing perfectly arched eyebrows together. “How could it be too late?”
He took the empty glass from her, poured some more whiskey in it, and drank it himself. “They’ve started to talk about replacing me as CEO of Cherbourg Enterprises.”
“Who else would they prefer?”
He shrugged. “One of my uncles. Believe me, the
y’d love to get their hands on this company.”
“Why are you so determined to stop them? If you’re a Cherbourg and they’re Cherbourgs, the company would still be in your family.”
“It isn’t just that,” he said. “My whole life, I’d been told this company was my legacy, my inheritance. It’s what I dreamed of, every night when I went to sleep. It was my chance to make a mark on the world. To show everyone who I am.”
Ella put a hand on his arm. Just the lightest touch from her fingers and he felt his blood begin to come alive. It was both comforting and unsettling. “Why are you talking about it in the past tense?” she asked.
“Because I feel like it’s slipping away,” he answered honestly. “I need this exhibition to prove I’m still in it, that I’ve still got it.” He paused. “That it’s still my destiny to lead this family and this company. I don’t think anyone has two destinies. If I screw up this one, what’s left for me?”
He thought briefly about describing Amanda and explaining that she was the reason his family didn’t trust him anymore. But he wasn’t ready to share that part of the story yet—the pain was still there and somewhat raw. The fact that his family had immediately pegged her as a gold digger while he’d trotted after her like a lovestruck puppy still made him feel like an idiot. He wasn’t ready to let anyone see that part of him yet. Change the subject, he ordered himself. Before this conversation gets too dangerous.
“Let’s talk about you,” he said. “What are you running from?”
Ella let her hand slip off his arm. She looked down at the counter, unable to meet his eyes. “I thought the nightmares had finally gone away. I haven’t had one in months.”
Even though he already knew what they were about, he wanted to give her the chance to unburden herself. Return the favor she’d just done for him. “Nightmares about what?” he asked.
“My father.” Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her pajama top while she told him about the robbery and murder, confirming everything Jake’s file had said. “I watched him die, Sébastien. I saw it happen. One minute he was there and then the next he was gone. I felt his last breath on my face. It was like his soul, flying up and away from me. I can’t stop replaying it over and over again in my mind.”