Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  “I’ll be right back.” Finn hurries off, leaving me alone with his fiancée. The strong, cloying scent of her floral cologne wafts in the air. It assaults my nostrils and trickles to my lungs, nauseating me further.

  My eyes stay fixed on her as she reaches into her bag and withdraws a slick silver pen. Clicking it, she marks up one of the binder pages, then looks up at me. Her snake-like eyes fixate on the fine white line that trails down my face, from my right eyebrow to my temple. The permanent reminder of that fateful night I can’t remember. The night that stole my husband from me. And almost my life.

  She snickers. “Since I can’t remember your name, maybe I should call you Scarface.”

  I swallow back the hurt, tears thickening in my throat.

  The snark-meister twirls her pen, then points it at me like a poison dart. “You owe me an apology.”

  Still battling tears, I narrow my eyes at her. “Excuse me?”

  She lets out a haughty huff. “Seriously? When you heard I was marrying Phineas, a congratulations was in order.”

  My breath hitches; my blood heats. I need to get away from this witch!

  I feel myself about to hyperventilate. My chest tightens; my pulse quickens; my breaths grow rapid. Just in time, Finn returns with a bottled water. He twists off the cap and hands it to me. I thank him. Lifting it to my lips, I gulp it down, not realizing how parched I was. The cool beverage quenches my thirst and calms me.

  “How do you feel?” Finn asks as I set the almost depleted bottle down on the coffee table.

  “Better, thanks.”

  “Good. I’ll show you to the guesthouse.”

  Kayla looks up from what she’s reading. “Seriously, darling, she’s a teacher. She’s supposed to be smart. Don’t you think she can find the guesthouse all by her itty bitty self?”

  Ignoring her, Finn helps me to my feet. His touch zaps me like a bolt of lightning. The electricity palpable. It obliterates the toxicity.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, every hair standing on end, my skin prickling.

  His hand moves to my lower back. “C’mon.”

  Kayla shoots Finn a dirty look. “You need to stop procrastinating. We have a lot of ground to cover.” Then, she looks at me dismissively. “I suppose I’ll go fix myself a Bellini in the meantime.”

  “Fine.” Finn stabs the word at her as she stands up.

  She, in turn, stabs a kiss on his cheek, one watchful eye on me, waiting for me to react.

  Mine. She doesn’t have to say it for me to hear the heart-piercing word.

  I want to spit the word back at her. But in my weakened, nauseated, still-in-shock state, I don’t have the wherewithal. I force myself not to show any emotion, focusing on holding back tears. And not throwing up.

  Finn leads the way out. I drag my feet as if I’m wading through mud.

  Kayla’s tart voice trails us. “Darling, please make it snappy. We’ve also got wedding plans to go over.”

  Suddenly, the floor turns to quicksand and I’m sinking fast.

  CHAPTER 20

  The guesthouse is located in the rear of the vast property and has a view of the ocean. It’s a lot older than the main house. A charming Craftsman bungalow. With its gray-blue siding, white trim, and gabled roof, it resembles the house we lived in years ago. A garden of lavender and succulents surrounds it. The scent of the wild purple flowers mixes with the salty sea air, creating an intoxicating perfume. Finn escorts me up the four steps to the porch, then turns the knob of the front door; it’s unlocked. Pushing it open, he ushers me inside, his fingers still splayed on the small of my back.

  I step straight into a narrow entrance that separates a cozy living room with a fireplace from a dining area. A staircase in the middle leads to a second level. The dark hardwood floors glisten and the white paint on the walls smells fresh.

  “I hope you like it,” he says. “It’s the original house that sat on this property. One of the oldest in Malibu. It’s what drew me here. It dates back to the early twenties. It reminds me a lot of the house I shared with my late wife.”

  It more than reminds me of the house we shared. It’s furnished with all the furniture we bought from Crate & Barrel along with our flea market finds and some of Finn’s early paintings. Memories of our old life swarm my mind. I mentally try to swat at them, but they buzz like a circle of flies in summer. I can’t make them go away.

  “It’s small but functional,” Finn continues as the buzz in my head overwhelms me. “Your bedroom and a small study are upstairs.” I briefly glance up. “Rosita stocked the refrigerator with food. I hope you’re not a vegan. And I bought a Keurig for you to make coffee.”

  “Thank you,” I mutter. “That’ll be fine.”

  “Of course, you’re always welcome to share meals with us in the main house.”

  I thank him again.

  “Rosita brought your bags up to your bedroom, so unless you need anything more, I’m going to split.”

  I need you. I practically choke on the thought, my breasts aching with desire.

  “You’re sure you’re okay, Scarlet?”

  I nod. “Yes. I’m getting over something, but I’m perfectly fine.” Who am I kidding? I still feel sick to my stomach. Worse than before.

  Finn looks concerned. “Will you be able to start with Maddie tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” I pause. “I just need a good night’s rest.”

  “Excellent. If you’re up for it, why don’t you join us for dinner?”

  The temptation is great, but I need to get away from him. Gain clarity. Gain composure.

  “Um, uh, thank you, but I want to settle in and go over your daughter’s first day of school. I want to personally evaluate her reading and math levels with some testing. We’re going to start with an integrated unit on food groups and nutrition. And I plan to introduce her to French.”

  Finn’s face lights up. “That sounds perfect. I have a good feeling things are going to work out. My daughter has already taken a strong liking to you.”

  And me to her. Understatement. I already love her so much. I always have. Even in my bleakest times. She’s born from my flesh and bones. Our flesh and bones. Our love.

  As I reflect on what my wise savior, Sister Marie, once told me—love never dies—Finn glances down at his watch. The vintage one I bought him for his thirtieth birthday. The worn leather band is now covered with paint flecks. A small victory for me. He still wears it!

  “Hey, let me know if you need anything. Rosita left the keys on the kitchen counter. Please lock the door at night.” His cell phone pings. A text. He slips it out of his pocket and looks down at the screen. His dense brows knit. “Shit. I need to get back to Kayla.”

  At the mention of her name, the nausea that subsided rushes back full force to my chest. I desperately need to get to a bathroom. Without another word, I dash up the stairs, hoping it’s en suite with my bedroom. Behind me, I hear the front door slam shut. Finn’s gone.

  My hand gripping my gut, I find the bathroom and dart inside it. Falling to my knees on the cold tile floor, I fold myself over the toilet and do what I’ve needed to do since finding out Finn now belongs to another.

  I vomit.

  Except I don’t wretch my guts. There’s nothing inside me. Sobbing, I vomit tears. Tears upon tears.

  I watch as they drip into the bowl, making tiny starbursts as they collide with the water. I cry and I cry and I cry. The tears endless.

  My husband lost me. Now, I’ve lost him.

  The tears still spilling, I flush the toilet and watch my old life whirl away.

  CHAPTER 21

  The next couple of weeks keep me busy. I spend them mostly in my studio readying my final paintings for my first solo exhibition. My time spent with my daughter is limited, but according to her new teacher, she’s doing well. Maddie substantiates it, excitedly telling me about the things she’s learning day after day. She’s even impressed me with her French.

  “Je t’aime. Tu
es mon héro.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask over breakfast, unable to speak a word of the language.

  “It means: I love you, Daddy. You are my hero!” she says proudly, scooping up a heaping tablespoon of Raisin Bran.

  Unusual words for beginner’s French. But nonetheless, I’m touched by them. So charming and heartfelt.

  Maddie hasn’t stop telling me how much she loves her new teacher. Wanting to get to know her better, I’ve asked Scarlet to join us for dinner on more than one occasion, especially because Maddie wants her there, but she’s politely declined. She keeps to herself. Sometimes, I think she’s deliberately avoiding me and whenever Kayla is around she disappears. A sadness often washes over her. She seems like an old soul. Hiding something behind her eyes.

  Things with Kayla are on edge. She’s more preoccupied with our pending nuptials than my first solo show. Frustrated that nothing is falling into place. Two weeks after Scarlet’s arrival, she insists we go out for dinner to talk.

  “Jacques, this looks divine,” coos my fiancée as our meal is served. She’s seated across from me at her new favorite French restaurant. Le Petit Peu.

  Maddie, who was thrilled to stay home and have dinner with Scarlet, translated it for me. The Little Bit. A fitting name. I glance down at my plate of artfully arranged baby-sized samples of dishes I can’t even pronounce. Kayla tells me it’s a special gourmet dinner—from the chef-selected tasting menu. Trust me, I’m going to want an In-N-Out burger after we leave this joint. This frou-frou meal is strictly for the birds. I’m a man with a big appetite and this ain’t gonna cut it.

  “Merci, ma chérie,” replies the beaming proprietor, a slight, dark-suited man with a handlebar mustache. “Can I get you something else?”

  “Another Bellini would be wonderful.”

  It’s her third. He turns to me. “And you, monsieur?”

  “I’m fine.” I take a sip of my sparkling water.

  The restaurateur’s eyes zoom in on Kayla’s ring as she lifts her flute to her lips.

  “Ah, ma chérie, mes félications!” The sparkling three-carat diamond captures the light of the blazing fireplace we’re seated by. The restaurant’s most coveted table, which, of course, my fiancée had no problem snagging. For Kayla, the world is her oyster.

  A wide toothy smile flashes on Kayla’s face. “Merci, Jacques!”

  “And when eez the special day?”

  My stomach knots. Kayla’s been pressuring me to lock a date, but for some reason I’ve procrastinated. Something I excel at.

  We’ve only been engaged for a short time. A month. Our relationship was purely professional and platonic until one night four years after my wife’s passing Kayla seduced me. While the sex wasn’t great, it made me realize what I was missing. That I had needs. We began to have regular sex—appointment sex as Kayla calls it—at her place once a week. Kayla likes to be in control. She only likes me to fuck her from behind—so we don’t have to see each other come. Immediately after sex she likes to take a hot bath alone and get her beauty sleep while I go home to my daughter.

  The art world began to perceive us a couple. It was Kayla who proposed. Or should I say made a proposal. To get married and become the next powerhouse couple to take the art world by storm. To join the long list of others including, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, Jackson Pollack and Lee Krasner, Man Ray and Lee Miller. And to knock the reigning king and queen—John Currin and Rachel Feinstein—off their pedestals. Kayla wanted not only to conquer the art world . . . she wanted to rule it. She convinced me that we were perfect for each other. Me, the ruggedly handsome, mysteriously widowed abstract painter; she, the stunning golden girl promoter who can wrap anyone around her finger. Including me.

  I thought about her proposal. While my relationship with her was nothing like my passionate relationship with my late wife, it made sense. Moreover, I thought my daughter, now entering her formative wonder years, could use a strong female role model. Someone with ambition. Class. Power. Culture. And taste. So, I said yes.

  And now as I approach the biggest moment of my career—my first solo show at a major art gallery—a cloud of regret hangs over me. Kayla has failed to embrace the single most important thing in my life—my precious daughter. As much as I’ve tried to get my new fiancée to warm up to her—including inviting Maddie to all our glamorous dinners including tonight’s—Kayla wants nothing to do with her. She treats her like an annoying puppy that jumps up against your legs for affection, and constantly shoos her away. Whenever she’s at my house, she insists on Rosita taking my daughter up to her room or outside to play. I’ve more than once seen her do her signature eye roll whenever Maddie’s needs have come before hers. She has failed to understand that no one comes before my daughter. Not her. Not me. Plain and simple. I’d kill for Maddie. And die for her.

  Hijacking my thoughts, Kayla answers the mustached man’s question. “Darling, we haven’t set a date yet, but you can be sure you’ll be invited.”

  Grinning, the restaurateur leaves us to enjoy our meal. Bon appétit. Easier said than done. After a heated argument about me moving back into town—something I’ll never do as I relish the privacy and protection our secluded Malibu house offers us . . . the ocean views which inspire me . . . and the fresh, clean air given Maddie’s asthma—Kayla drains her drink and then slams the flute on the table. Not getting her way, she leaps up from her chair and stalks out of the restaurant. I pay the three hundred dollar bill. Fucking Kayla and her champagne taste.

  Trust me, we won’t be setting a wedding date soon.

  And there’s another reason why.

  Though she avoids me, I’m inexplicably attracted to my daughter’s new teacher.

  I leave the restaurant on an empty stomach. And with an empty heart.

  A juicy cheeseburger would be good, but what I really hunger for is love.

  Even a petit peu.

  On the drive home, Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart” plays in the car.

  CHAPTER 22

  That first night after purging my old life, I sat against the bathroom door, my legs curled to my chest and thought about my new life. I had one option: Love it or leave it. My tears gave me strength to go forward—to stay here with my beloved husband and daughter. Each day I’ve grown stronger, more attached to my amazing Maddie.

  Tonight I had dinner with her—a first—and every minute was special. Full of chatter and laughter. Questions and answers. Joy. In conjunction with her unit on food and nutrition, I taught her how to say all of the things we were eating in French. My brilliant girl soaked in the words like a sponge. After dinner, I put her to bed and at last read her Madeline, with the two of us alternating pages. Now, with Maddie fast asleep upstairs, I’m back at the kitchen island, my laptop open on the counter. My fingertips dancing across the keyboard, I google her: Kayla Phillips. Know your nemesis, I learned in a grad course on crime reporting.

  The first few entries confirm her privileged upbringing, impeccable education, and illustrious career. That doesn’t stop me. People aren’t always who they say they are. I, of all people, should know that. The investigative journalist in me surfaces. Dig deep, then dig deeper.

  On a hunch, I google: Yale University, Class of 2006. An alphabetical list of graduates comes up. I scan it quickly. Kayla Phillips isn’t listed. Already I feel adrenaline rising in me like I used to when I uncovered a story. My fingers are itching.

  Following my instincts, I type: Kayla Phillips/Yale in the search bar.

  A single entry comes up. The Yale Daily News dating back fifteen years. I click on the link. The headline: Legacy Letdown.

  Kayla Phillips, the daughter of wealthy film financier and Yale alumni, Stanton Phillips, was ousted from the university this week on the grounds of unlawful possession, use, and distribution of illicit substances. The stunning announcement comes just after Ms. Phillips was caught last month in a swank New York City hotel lounge snorting cocaine with friends. A spokesperson for Yale
president, Richard C. Levin, said that regardless of her status as the daughter of one of the university’s most influential donors, she won’t be welcome back this fall. He cited Yale’s strict no-drug policy.

  My pulse speeds up. Anxiously, I type: Kayla Phillips/Sotheby’s Institute of Art in London in the search bar. Almost instantly, a flurry of articles from various UK gossip magazines appears. One after another, I click on the headlines.

  OK!: American Heiress Drug Bust!

  Daily Mirror: Kay-Lo’s Rock Star Drug Orgy

  Daily Mail: Sotheby’s to Kay-Lo: Get Clean or Go Home!

  Tatler: American Princess Royally Screws Herself

  Party after wild party. An endless orgy of sex, drugs, and booze. I click on the last article and discover that Kayla was indeed expelled from the prestigious academy after having a drugged-out affair with one of her professors and plagiarizing one of his scholarly papers.

  A Yalie and art school grad? Bullshit. She’s a fucking fake. But what really alarms me is her reckless, drug-addict past. Does Finn know about it?

  Suddenly, the thud of footsteps drums in my ears. I swivel my head.

  Finn. He looks stressed out. And tired.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks, trudging my way.

  Quickly, I slam my computer shut. I don’t want him to know I was stalking his fiancée.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I told Rosita to leave early. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  Finn lifts his brows. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Just a bad headache. Since she has the weekend off anyway, I thought she should get an early start. A good night’s rest.”

  Finn nods in approval.

  “I cooked dinner and put Maddie to bed.”

  Finn perks up at the mention of his daughter’s name. “Did she give you a hard time?”

  With a laugh, I tell him that she was perfectly behaved and that we read Madeline together. The delicious memory of her kissing me goodnight is not one I share. Finn seems pleased.