The bedroom door opens, and Mom steps out, bringing the humid, scented air of a recent shower with her. She's wearing a white blouse and khaki pants. A gold chain disappears into the neckline. I'd bet money a cross hangs at the apex. Her hair is still damp and pushed carelessly off her bare face. She gives me a big smile, and I stand, putting my tea on a side table to accept the hug she offers.
"I was so happy when I got your text saying you wanted to come see me," she says, leaning away but keeping her hands on my shoulders. Mom is slightly shorter than me, but we have the same eyes—an otherworldly mercury gray that instantly identifies us as family. James had them too. I almost start to tell her about the dream but stop myself. The skin around her eyes tightens. "What is it, honey?"
I take a deep breath and pull away, folding back down onto the couch and bringing my tea close, a defense against her watchful gaze, a scalding weapon if I need one...
"Nothing." I smile up at her, and she lets it go, turning to a nearby armchair and sitting.
"Would you like tea?" Veronica asks her.
Mom waves her away. "You're not getting anything for me. Don't be silly."
"I noticed the tea cozy. Are you still in touch with Nona?" I ask.
"Oh." Mom turns and looks back at it. "Yes, she's doing well."
"Do you travel with it?" I glance around the rental again. I recognize other items—a painting that hung in the entryway of the house I grew up in, another that was my maternal grandmother’s. "Wait, are you here full time? I thought this was just a short-term rental. Are you living in Miami?"
"We moved in a few weeks ago." Mom smiles. "Just made sense with how much time I was spending in Florida. Though I've hardly been here what with all the speaking engagements."
"Oh..." I don't even know where my mother lives. My head suddenly pounds.
"So," Mom says, crossing her legs, "how are you feeling? I was so sick with your brother I could barely move." She grins as if that's a positive memory.
"I'm fine," I say, leaving out the whole hemorrhage thing. "Just tired and a little nauseous now and then."
"Have your partner bring you crackers in the morning before you even lift your head," Veronica advices. "That really helps."
I nod, like I have a partner and a morning routine that might include them bringing me crackers. A subtle chime rings from inside Veronica's tunic. She reaches into one of the large pockets and pulls out her phone. "Time to take my medication," she says. Her face twists with pain as she stands. Mom gets up and tries to help her, but Veronica shakes her head. "I'm fine." She points to her seat. "Visit with Sydney. I'll be back in a little while."
Mom rubs Veronica's arm, her face all sincere concern. Veronica smiles back at her, adoration glowing in her gaze. I look down at Blue, uncomfortable with the reality that people think my mom is some kind of messenger from a higher power.
"So," Mom says, taking Veronica's place on the couch and pulling one leg up so that she can more fully face me, "I want to hear everything."
Blue sighs and rests his head on my thigh. I lay my hand on his ruff and massage him as I turn to her.
"I'm leaving, Mom, going somewhere I'll be safe." The words taste like ash in my mouth. I don't deserve to be safe. "Where the baby will be safe." That's better.
Mom sighs, relief wafting off her. "That makes me so happy." She laughs, reaching for my hands, scooting closer. "Of course, I'd like to be with you as much as possible. But I really want you to be safe." Mom grins. "All any mother wants is for her baby to be safe."
I guess. Wait. What is that smell? I narrow my eyes, and see guilt behind my mother's smiling gaze. Under the flowery perfume of her recent shower, a sharp scent lurks. As soon as my mind registers it, that's all I can smell. Alcohol. She's drinking again.
"She's drinking again," I hiss at Veronica when she shows me to the door. The taller woman meets my gaze, but her eyes are unreadable. "That doesn't concern you?"
"All is as it should be."
I shake my head. "No, it's not. She is not a good drunk."
"Your mother is on her path."
I take a step back, my anger needing more room to rage. "She might be on her path, but she is holding up a freaking flag, telling everyone that her path is the path. When really, she's a wandering drunk in the woods. I've seen her fall off cliffs. I won't watch again."
"Understood."
"What does that mean?"
"I can see you're upset."
"Well, you're really fucking observant."
Veronica slow blinks at me. Slow blinks. At me. I throw up my hands. "What's your plan? Are you going to follow her off the cliff? Or are you going to jump off it for her?"
That was a low blow. She saved my mother's life. I'm an asshole. Fuck.
"I wish you well in your travels, wherever they may lead you."
I swallow and nod. She is dismissing me. "I just hope you are as willing to save the poor idiots who think my mother is some kind of messenger from God as you are willing to save my mother."
She doesn't respond, just looks at the door, then back at me. She and Merl would get along.
I leave. What else can I do? I walk past cowboy security man, out the front door of the old mansion, and head for the airport. I have Blue, my duffle, and a one-way ticket to Barcelona.
My phone rings as I get in the Uber. It's Mulberry. I take a breath, bracing myself. He did not take it well when I told him I planned to leave. The fact that I didn’t say goodbye this morning might be why he’s calling now.
“What in the actual fuck, Sydney?" Mulberry yells when I pick up. "Did you plan to say goodbye? Or are you just running off without even a word? A word!"
"I told you I was leaving." I struggle to keep my voice down. Mulberry blew up at me this morning already. So I didn't come and say goodbye before heading to my mother's. Sometimes when you act like an ass, people don't want to be around you. I should know. "I'll see you soon."
"Soon!"
Big vocabulary this one.
"Calm down."
"What? Calm down! The mother of my child is running off to God knows where when she is supposed to be on bed rest. You show up this morning before I've even had my coffee to tell me. Then just—" He's sputtering now, unable to get any words out for a minute. I concentrate on evening my breath. "You just disappear. And I'm supposed to calm down! I'm not calm. I am freaking out."
"Look." I keep my voice low. What with the driver just a few feet away, I don't need to start screaming. "I understand you are invested in this situation."
"Invested!"
"But this is my life. My body—"
"It's not just you in that body anymore."
I take in a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes. After counting to three, I open them again. "You dumb fuck." I say it low, but the Uber driver's eyes jump to the mirror. "I am fully aware of what is happening to me. What you need to get is that you don't have a say here. You care. I get that. I appreciate it. I know what you want. You've been incredibly clear. But I don't know what I want. And it will be impossible to figure that out without some space to think and just be."
"Be!"
"Stop yelling," I grind out.
"Sorry! But..." He sighs. "Why, please, just." He is stuttering again. "People are trying to kill you. Kill all of us. Can't you please just go somewhere safe?"
"I am." Barcelona has a very low rate of violent crimes. "Besides, you know I'm hard to kill."
"Please," he's begging now, and I can't have that. I just can't.
"Stop it. This is necessary."
"I don't think I can lose you."
"You won't have to," I promise. Both of us are good at lying. The perfect parents. I should pick up an apron for me and a fedora for Mulberry—we can be the Cleavers.
He sighs again. "I wish you'd come and said goodbye. That you'd tell me where you are going. It hurts that you won't."
"Sorry. I didn't want to have to punch you." I smile. He chuckles low in his throat.
It's a sexy sound, and a zing of regret pulses through me. No. I need space to think. To figure out what I want and need. To figure out how I'm going to do this… any of it.
My phone beeps that there is someone on the other line. "I have to go. I'm getting another call."
"Let me know once you land, please. Just let me know you’re safe."
"Okay." I switch to the other line—an unknown Miami number—before Mulberry can say anything else.
"Hello, my name is Teresa Johnson. I'm Mr. Robert Maxim's estate attorney and the executor of his will. Do you have a moment to talk?"
My mouth goes dry. "Sure," I say.
"I have a letter from Mr. Maxim for you."
"Of course you do," I say with a laugh.
"He wanted me to give it to you in person. Are you in Miami?"
"I'm just leaving."
"I see. When will you be back? The transfer of assets is easier if you can sign some paperwork in person."
"Transfer of assets?"
"Yes, Ms. Rye."
I wait for her to say more, but when she doesn't, I prompt her. "What assets?"
"I'm uncomfortable saying more over the phone, having no way of knowing Mr. Maxim's wishes as to your knowledge of his bequest prior to reading the letter he left you."
This is so Robert Maxim. Fucking with me even from beyond the grave. The guy is unbelievable. "I'm on my way to the airport."
"May I suggest you come to my office first? You won't need to fly commercial ever again, Ms. Rye."
I take in a deep breath. "He left me a plane."
"Much more than that. Much more."
Robert fucking Maxim.
Teresa Johnson's blush pink suit flows over smooth curves, the pants narrowing to hug her ankles and accentuate the heels the woman is walking around in as if they are her slippers. The hair defies the laws of nature—a perfect platinum bob that frames her heart-shaped face with its pouty lips and perfectly applied makeup.
Next to her, I am a hot mess. A tire fire of a woman with my worn jeans, scuffed combat boots, and bare skin. At least my T-shirt is new. Her secretary offers to take my duffle bag—her kind eyes appearing not to judge me. "I'm good," I tell her. "It's not heavy."
Blue taps his nose to my hip, and I lay a hand on his head. "Coffee? Tea? Sparkling water?" Teresa offers as she moves around her yacht-sized desk, gesturing to one of the leather contraptions she's using as guest chairs.
"Just water, please," I say. "Some for Blue as well if you have a bowl."
"Of course." Teresa smiles at Blue, and the secretary leaves, presumably to get the water.
I sit in the chair, slipping deep into the low-slung thing. My boots barely reach the floor. I scoot forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Teresa sits across the expanse of glass desktop, her ankles crossing under it, her hands folding onto the black leather blotter. A slim envelope lays between us. "I'm glad you could come here first," she says, smiling perfect teeth at me.
"Sure." I give her a tight-lipped smile back. "Is that the letter?"
"Yes." She slides it across the desk to me. I have to stand a little, an awkward movement to grab it. Why does she have these stupid-ass chairs? Just to fuck with her clients?
She holds out a silver letter opener; it glints in the sun pouring through the window behind her. I wave her off, ripping the letter open with my hands.
Dear Sydney, if you're reading this, it means I'm dead.
Nice opening, Robert. Go on...
You know how much I've come to admire you over the length of our friendship. And you know I've hoped for it to be more.
He is not guilting me in his death letter, right? That's not what is happening right now. I roll my eyes. He's not even dead. I'm pretty sure.
I've always understood your hesitation to allow me to be more to you than a friend and benefactor. But please know that my love for you is the purest thing I ever felt. In the time I spent on the planet, my love for you is the greatest gift I received.
Shut the fuck up, you asshole. I glance up at Teresa. "Can I have a moment alone?"
"Of course." She stands just as her secretary returns with the water. I take the glass she offers me. She puts a dog bowl on the ground. Blue looks to me for permission, and I grant it. He laps at the water while the two women leave. I stand up out of the stupid-ass chair, putting my glass on the desk, and pace to the window, leaning against its sun-warmed smoothness for a second before returning to the letter.
We never became lovers, Sydney.
Oh, really, thanks for the update, dead guy.
But I loved you truly nonetheless. And that is why I am leaving you the majority of my fortune.
It is suddenly hard to swallow.
My homes, my stake in our shared company, my planes, my investments, and other assets.
What an asshole.
Don't worry, I'm taking care of my ex-wives. But you are who I care about, Sydney. You and your child. I want you to have the choice of freedom if you want it.
I know how much Joyful Justice means to you, how much you enjoy the work.
His smile, soft and careful, flashes across my mind. Stupid, stupid man.
Your dedication to your vision of what the world should be like is part of what drew me to you. But unlike so many people in your life, Sydney, what I truly loved about you… was you. The way you eat your pancakes in the morning, the way you turn your face into the sunset, closing your eyes and letting the beauty wash over you. The way you push your body to perform, trusting it to carry you forward. Your relationship with Blue and then his puppies. Your loyalty and faith are part of it, but there is something intrinsically you that I adore, admire, and love deeply.
I hope you are happy in life. I hope that you raise your child with that same love and lust for justice and existence even as it is… We cannot wait for perfection to enjoy this lifetime. You brought me great joy. I hope that the protection and love I offered in life is easier to accept now that I'm gone.
When did you become a philosopher, you asshole? A tear lands on the paper in front of me, and I grit my teeth. Fucking hormones.
Turning away from the window, I return to my side of the desk and chug the rest of the water. It goes down, washing the emotion with it.
My gaze returns to the window and the city beyond. Blue tarps are pulled across missing roofs, and windows are boarded with plywood. And here I stand in a fucking tower of safety, about to be showered with the kind of extraordinary wealth that could cushion the rest of my days. Yet, I throw myself constantly into the fray… throw myself in front of bullets. My hand comes to my belly, to the scars there… to the life under those scars.
I glance down at the letter again.
See you next lifetime. Eternally yours, Robert.
Grief grips me, sucking me under the waves, shocking in its ferocity. He's gone. He's really fucking gone.
Robert fucking Maxim.
Chapter Eight
Dan
I pull out my phone as Mom disappears into the kitchen. No new messages.
I open the Facebook ads app and check my advertising spend and reach for the day. My new "Be Brave" meme with the photo of a woman holding up a bottle of water to a burned koala bear's lips is doing well. It's reached a half million people in the last twenty-four hours at a very low spend. People love cute animals. They love to share images of humans helping cute animals.
I'll get into the dashboard later to check on my latest profile scrubbing.
I switch to my tracking app. Sydney's phone is off. She must be in the air. Mulberry is still in Miami. Anita said he planned to fly to Costa Rica today though. I'll keep an eye on that.
The extraction team is en route to Lenox, and he has reached location Zed.
"That's nifty," Mom says as she comes back into the kitchen, gesturing to the pop socket on the back of my phone. It sticks out so that I can slip my pointer and middle fingers on either side. I close the app and put my phone down on the couch next to me.
"Thanks," I say, taking the cup of tea she offers. "It makes it easier to hold. I can get you one."
Mom waves a hand. "Oh, I don't need that. I don't use my phone that much."
Only about forty-five minutes of screen time a day. Mostly she watches TV the old-fashioned way or listens to music on Alexa while she reads real books. She refuses to use the Kindle I got her for Christmas, preferring the smell and feel of paper. Though she's told me several times how much she appreciates the gift, I know from the spyware I installed that it ran out of batteries several months ago and has not logged onto her network since.
Mom sits on the other end of the couch, sunlight from the bay windows slanting across her pale skin—it looks thin and translucent. The circles under her eyes tighten something in my chest. She smiles at me. "Don't look so worried, Dan. I'm going to be okay."
She holds her teacup with both hands, and steam drifts up around her face as she blows on the hot liquid. "I know you will," I say. "When is your next treatment?"
"Well—" She sips the tea and smiles. "—I had the first yesterday, after we spoke. So two weeks." I can't believe I missed this. "I'm happy you're here, honey." She beams at me, the lines that bracket her mouth deeper than my last visit two years ago, but she is still so beautiful it makes me ache just a little.
Mom never remarried after Dad died from a sudden heart attack. No time to say goodbye. No time to watch the lines deepen, the skin turn transparent. I sip my tea, tasting the familiar comforting chamomile—heavy with honey and lightened with milk.
I force a smile and meet my mother's gaze. She breaks eye contact and looks down at her mug. "You shouldn't put your life on hold for me; that's not right." She meets my gaze again. We share the same eye color—a unique pale green that always draws attention. I guess you two aren't related, people have always joked.
"I can take some time off."
"I know you're important."
I huff a laugh, my eyes darting to my phone as a message lights the screen. "I'm not that important, Mom."
She stiffens at that. "Yes, you are."
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