by Lee, Nadia
Bastard. My hands clench tightly, and for the first time, I actually feel an urge to punch something. I loved what he did, the heat he made me feel, making me forget all the fumbling kisses I’ve had before. I thought he felt the same way. Or at least he liked it from the way he ravished my mouth.
Why is he being so mean? Did I do something to upset him? Is it because I defended him to Mrs. Wentworth? Or because I did it front of his mom? Or that I teased him about hanging on to his bad-boy rep? I only wanted to make him smile and realize how silly he was being, trying to make me think he’s so much worse than he is.
Throwing myself on the bed, I think back over what happened. He was okay when I thanked him for the aspirin. He only tensed up when I said I told that horrible woman what really happened at Caleb’s party, and his mother heard it.
That’s it! He was upset his mom knew…
Suddenly I realize he always calls his parents “Mother” and “Father,” while his brothers don’t. Why so formal? Why the distance?
It’s like pieces of a puzzle are missing. I gaze at the ceiling, letting my mind relax, and two words float up…
Sister killer.
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t say it loud enough for Aunt Margot to hear, but she definitely wanted me to. Is Tony worried she might announce it publicly and upset his mom? Katherine is a delicate topic in this household. When I first arrived, Jonas warned me not to mention Katherine, ever, lest it upset my aunt. And it’s true. Nobody talks about her in Aunt Margot’s presence.
But over the years, I’ve pieced together some facts. Katherine died in a hunting accident when she was six. She wandered off into the woods, and a hunter shot her by accident. She was in a fawn-colored top and brown pants. The deputy sheriff decided it was an unfortunate mistake, but not a crime.
But somehow Mrs. Wentworth thought she could call Tony a sister killer. And her husband has been the sheriff of Tempérane since forever.
What does she know?
I pull out my phone and start typing. I spend the next hour lying on my bed and poring over Google results for articles or mentions of the death of Katherine Blackwood. If it later came out that Tony was the one who really killed Katherine, there should be some coverage…some mention somewhere.
But no. Nothing.
So why did Mrs. Wentworth say that? He was only twelve at the time. The man who shot her was twenty-six and from Birmingham, Alabama. It’s clear Tony didn’t pull the trigger.
What could it have been? He wouldn’t have dressed his sister in the outfit; it isn’t the kind of a thing a boy his age would’ve done. Was he somehow was responsible for her going along on the hunting trip?
I wish I could ask someone who was here when it happened, but I can’t just walk up and say, “Hey, how did Katherine really die?” Jonas probably knows—the man knows everything about my aunt’s family—but he’s so tight-lipped that it’d be easier to chip an answer out of a statue. Harry was too young to know, and I don’t feel comfortable approaching Uncle Lane or Edgar. It might still be too painful for them to talk about.
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
So. Are you okay? Mom caught me sneaking in and got all pissed off. Like having a few drinks is a big deal.
I stare at the text. Sue Ellen. What makes her think we’re still okay? She stood by while Caleb attacked me. Apparently helping a friend ranks lower than whatever she thought she’d get waiting by the door like Caleb and his buddies wanted. And this tone-deaf text isn’t going to help me forgive her.
I start to type, ready to give her a piece of my mind, but end up deleting the text. No response could be sufficient. Calling her a bitch would be anemic, but text-ranting until my fingers fall off isn’t the way to go either.
Honestly, I can’t even. If she’s expecting sympathy over her mom getting mad at her… I hope she’s not holding her breath. Asphyxiation is a crappy way to go.
The clock says it’s already five thirty. I need to change if I want to be presentable for dinner.
Tossing the phone on the bed, I walk into the closet and pull out my lucky dress. It’s ivory, sleeveless, with a modest square neckline, and ends two inches above my knees. It’s made of two layers; the bottom one is almost sheer, while the top one is all intricate lace. Aunt Margot bought it for me when I started auditioning. Every time I wore it, I killed. She told me it wasn’t the dress, but the confidence a good outfit inspired. She was so proud of me, her entire face glowing. It’s one of many, many times I felt unconditionally loved by her.
I need that confidence now. Realizing that someone’s not really your friend, and that the guy who rocked your world with a kiss wasn’t all that into it, can really mess with your mind. It makes you wonder about your judgment and desirability.
Chapter Nine
Anthony
There are two good ways to go when I want to stop thinking. One: drink until I pass out. Two: exert myself until I’m too tired to think.
Option One is out of the question. It makes me lose control, and the hangovers aren’t pleasant. Besides, I’m here to see if I can mend my fences with Mom, not to embarrass her by getting roaring drunk before six p.m.
So it’s option two, another round of physical exertion. Thankfully, there’s a perfect place for that—a boxing gym over in the next parish. It’s a utilitarian space with harsh fluorescent lighting, punching bags, a couple of rings and a locker room that smells faintly of old sweat and liniment. There are only three concrete slab showers, but they’re clean. Dalton, the owner, might not spend money on frills, but he takes pride in his business. And he was nice as hell to me—patient, too—when I first came here as a wide-eyed ten-year-old, trying to learn how to throw a decent punch.
After taping up my hands and donning some gloves, I work a heavy bag until my shoulders burn and air is sawing in and out of my lungs. Despite the cold air blasting, sweat is pouring down my body in rivulets. When I can’t lift my arms anymore, I let myself collapse, legs stretched out on the cool concrete floor.
But no matter how exhausted my body is, my mind keeps bringing Ivy up. Troublemaker. Bad-boy rep. She’s acting as though I’m some misguided idiot, trying too hard to look cool.
Although I hate that she’s so deluded, I’m glad she doesn’t know the truth. That way, she won’t recoil in horror every time she sees me. She seems too honest and guileless to hide her true reaction if she knew.
“Need some help getting up?” Dalton has a permanent squint, like Dirty Harry eyeing a scumbag.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Glad to hear it. I had that extra-soft cement laid in there just for you.”
Good old Dalton. I heave myself up and trudge over to the shower. The workout took the sharpest edge off my sexual frustration and restlessness. Now I need to stop thinking about Ivy and focus on the dinner to come. There’s a chance it might result in Mother softening toward me, realizing maybe I should be forgiven after all these years. Katherine’s death hurt her to the point that Father had to send me away, hoping my absence could help her recover. I guess it did…somewhat. It’s a special kind of hell, trying to go on while knowing you’re the reason your perfect family fell apart.
On my way home, I pick up a large bouquet of pristine white orchids. Then I change into a black suit with a tie and a crisp white dress shirt—de rigueur for one of Mother’s formal dinners. My hands shake a little as I knot the tie. She taught me how when I was eight.
“Every little gentleman should know how to tie a perfect Windsor knot,” she said, her voice warm, her smile so radiant it felt like the whole world was awash with love. “Let me help you.” Her slim fingers moved, showing me how to loop, pull and tug until the knot was done perfectly.
“Like this?” I said, showing her.
“Yes! My, what a smart, clever boy you are!” She cradled my face in her palms, kissed my forehead and rubbed her nose against mine, making me laugh.
Her cheeks used to glow with health and joy. Now, hav
ing seen her, it strikes me that she’s pale, rarely smiles, and even when she does, the smiles never reach her eyes. Father said Mother needs to forgive me in order to heal, and I suspect he’s correct. He usually is about Mother. And I want her to be able to feel the joy and happiness she used to. I want both of us to be light and happy and free from the painful past.
I time things so I arrive exactly two minutes before six. My parents enter the formal dining room together at precisely six. Father’s in a suit, and Mother is in a sleeveless floor-length wrap dress in deep royal blue. Her hand rests in the crook of his elbow, sapphires and pearls around her neck and wrist.
“Mother,” I say, my mouth dry. I search her face for any sign of the panicked anger and accusation from yesterday.
“Tony,” she says, looking at me. Her expression is blank.
Well, blank is better than yesterday—a vast improvement, I tell myself. Hopefully by the end of the dinner, she’ll warm up to me a bit more. Even hold my face between her hands and forgive me.
“For you.” I hand her the flowers, praying they help bridge the distance between us.
A faint smile ghosts her lips. “Thank you.”
The fist around my heart eases a little. This has to be a good sign.
I start to step forward to give her a kiss on cheek, but Harry and Ivy’s arrival distracts Mother, who turns away to greet them. Father gives me a fractional nod over her shoulder, and I nod back, my belly full of nervous hope.
Dinner starts as soon as we’re seated. I’m sitting on my father’s right, while the seat next to Mother stays empty.
Harry taps an index finger on the table. “Is Edgar coming?”
“He called. Going to be a few minutes late,” Father says.
“Must be busy at work,” Ivy says.
She looks so innocent and beautiful in her lace dress, not to mention entirely too composed as she glances in my direction. It’s as though the kiss never happened…and she never moaned my name with a voice thick with need.
It pisses me off for some reason.
Keeping my face calm, I merely drink iced tea so sugary, it feels like my teeth are rotting. This dinner isn’t about Ivy. It’s about Mother.
There aren’t any mushrooms on the menu…which is odd, since Mother’s very fond of them. I comment on it, hoping she’ll notice I still remember the small details.
“We don’t eat them anymore,” Mother says. “Ivy’s allergic.”
So Mother just gave them up altogether? I glance at Ivy, who squirms. Father wasn’t exaggerating when he told me how much she means to Mother. Hell, he might’ve understated things.
“Nothing life-threatening,” Ivy explains. “Just some itchiness.”
“It’s always important to be careful,” Mother says smoothly. “You never know when some mild allergy could turn deadly. After all, seemingly harmless things can be more fatal than overtly dangerous ones.”
I suck in a breath. Suddenly the small hopes I’ve had look smaller…even pitiable. My hands clench and unclench around utensils as I try to calm the self-loathing swelling in my chest.
Harry glances at me, concerned. Ivy is studying me as well. Father is pretending he heard nothing. So long as Mother doesn’t become physically violent, he won’t object or interfere.
On cue, the amuse-bouche and soup are served. The dining room descends into silence except for the sound of silverware and china clinking. Edgar finally arrives to take his seat. Unlike me and Harry, Edgar takes after Father one hundred percent, face and body. Since graduating from Harvard, he’s been working in the family business.
He smiles. “Great to have you home, Tony. Does this mean you’ll be joining me in the salt mines?” He winks good-naturedly, trying a little too hard to act like everything’s normal.
If it were under any other circumstances… If Mother forgives me, then it’s only logical I join the business. Blackwood Energy is privately held, and the family has always run it, ever since its founding.
My gaze slides to Mother briefly, searching for a sign that she won’t mind me joining the company, but all I find is blankness. “Well, I—”
“Such a dry topic for dinner,” Mother chides, her tone mild.
“Of course,” I say. “What would you like to talk about?”
She regards me for a moment, then smiles vaguely. “You’ve been away for so long you probably haven’t heard what’s going on in the family. Did you know Ivy is studying at Curtis? It’s one of the best conservatories in the world. Harder to gain admission there than to an Ivy League school. Not even five percent of the students who apply can get in, and those who do receive full scholarships. And Ivy got accepted when she was only fifteen.” She beams at Ivy. “I couldn’t be prouder.” She turns to Father. “Don’t you agree, dear?”
“Of course. A remarkable achievement.” Father smiles, but I have a feeling he doesn’t care one way or the other about Ivy’s “achievement.” As long as she’s doing something to put a smile on Mother’s face—even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes—he’s satisfied.
Her lips pulled in, Ivy looks down at her plate.
“What are your plans, Tony?” Father asks me after a few moments of silence.
“You must’ve studied hard to graduate from Princeton in three years,” Edgar adds, doing his part to highlight my accomplishments, although I don’t think he’s picked the right one. Still, I’m grateful. One of the first to defend me nine years ago, he’s been trying his best to reconcile me with Mother. Harry’s too young to remember everything clearly, but as the eldest, Edgar knows the toll the painful past has exacted from all of us.
“I only wanted to make you proud,” I say, my eyes on Mother, praying for some kind of reaction from her, hopefully something positive and warm.
She sips her wine, then studies her salad fork. “I am proud. I didn’t expect you to come back after you left for Europe.”
A hard lump sticks in my throat at her choice of words. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay and earn her forgiveness. But when Father told me it would be best for everyone if I left…
It upsets your mother too much every time she sees you. I can’t hold this family together as long as you’re around.
Acid floods my belly. Mother is like a field of landmines. One wrong step, and everything I’ve done will go up in flames.
Harry starts telling a funny story I can’t process through the fucked-up concoction of desperation, remorse, anguish and frustration I’m feeling. It makes me wish I were anywhere but here…or better yet, had taken Katherine’s place nine years ago. I don’t register the rest of the dinner—what we eat, drink or talk about. I laugh when everyone laughs, shut up when everyone grows quiet. Only when dessert is served do I notice that Ivy’s watching me, her eyes worried.
Fuck. I don’t need her pity.
I shoot her a sharp look, then polish off the chocolate mousse on my plate.
“Tony, why don’t you sing one for us?” Edgar says.
It’s like the proverbial bolt from the blue. “What?”
“We were talking about a performance we saw on a skiing trip to Switzerland two years ago,” Harry mutters. “You nodded when Ivy said she’d love to hear it and if anybody knew the songs.”
“Ah. Sure,” I say, pasting on a smile, chagrined that I completely lost track of the conversation. What an impression I must be making.
“We only want you to sing if you still have the voice,” Harry adds jokingly.
“I enjoyed the folk songs in Switzerland,” Mother says, a hint of life in her tone. “It’d be silly to go back just for the songs, though.”
“I’d be happy to sing one for you,” I say. She loves music. Maybe my performance will remind her how she used to enjoy listening to me play the piano and sing. Maybe giving her some musical pleasure will make her realize I’m not such a terrible monster.
We move to the room with the baby grand. I wait until everyone sits down. Only then do I flex my fingers and play a
sweet folk song I learned in Switzerland, singing the words in German. I hit all the notes perfectly, my baritone voice soaring effortlessly. I pour all my longing and love into the music, hoping Mother will notice and finally give me the absolution she hasn’t deemed me worthy of for the past nine years.
I want to be home. I want all of us to be happy…as much as we can without Katherine. I want to be able to live without the crippling weight of guilt.
When I’m done, I stand and take a tentative bow. Everyone claps except for Mother.
She lets out a soft sigh. “That’s excellent, son.”
Son. Hope and yearning twine around my heart. My pulse accelerates. Am I forgiven?
She stands. “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
I reach over and start to lean closer to give her a goodnight kiss.
Before my lips can touch her cheek, she takes a small step back and places a hand on my jaw. “Good night,” she murmurs, not meeting my eyes.
She and Father walk out together. I stand there, my hands clenched tight. It’s all I can do not to smash the fucking piano.
Edgar pats my shoulder. “Mom’s trying,” he says quietly. “Give her time.”
I’ve taken something from her that can never be replaced—and left a hole in her heart that can never be filled. So perhaps I deserve to lose her love and suffer, but that doesn’t make my disappointment any less bitter.
Chapter Ten
Ivy
The bedside clock reads one twenty-six. Sighing, I stare up into the dark.
I’m really tired, but Tony’s face at the dinner haunts me. He was trying so hard to appear stoic and strong, but I saw the tiny tremor in his mouth and chin before he clenched his jaw.
I wanted to reach out to him, but I held back, afraid he wouldn’t react well. People as proud as Tony hate to show vulnerability, preferring to lick their wounds in private. I know because I’m like that, too. But now I wish I’d given him a hug. Or maybe a quick squeeze of his hand before I left. No matter how proud or strong, everyone needs comfort when they’re hurting.