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I've seen my father's handwriting on thousands of papers and his signatures on assets and lawsuits. The letter isn't from him. And while I’ve never known my mother to take another lover, considering how often my father had strayed from their marriage, I can’t exactly blame her for doing the same.
The photos on the bed, however, are of my father. They look to range over a few years' time, and each of them shows him with a different woman in less-than-platonic situations. Some girls half his age with their arms draped around his neck, a woman with her thighs wrapped around his waist. My father never brought other women to our home, but in public, he’d made no qualms about his inability to remain monogamous.
I stuff the photos in the envelope and go back to the nightstand, not sure what I’m looking for. I find a dime-store paperback with a bookmark halfway through it, just waiting for my mom to come pick it back up as if she hasn’t been dead for almost four years, a beaded bracelet that was one of Rhea's first art projects, and a sleep mask to block out light. The next drawer reveals a stack of more books and an unmarked velvet bag.
I have a good guess what’s in there by the shape alone.
My instincts prove correct when I slip the pistol out of the bag. The silver glints in the moonlight shining through the window at my back. And judging by the weight of it, I’m guessing…
It’s loaded.
As much as I want to believe there is no blood on my mother's hands, I am certain that she knew a good deal about what her husband actually did. It’s not like he was just living a double life—everything about his dark, sordid business bled over into this life… his family.
The gun is either to protect herself from him or to protect him from others. I can't imagine her using it, but having it, particularly having it loaded and ready, is a clear enough indication that she wasn't as innocent as she had wanted people to believe.
I place it on top of the nightstand just in case I need it. The gun I came here with is on the dresser in my old room… the room where Claire sleeps. I chose not to grab it in the chaos of our first meeting because I think my sister would have had a heart attack. Now I guess I’ll find out if the innocent little co-ed is really as innocent as she claimed. She won’t hurt Rhea—if she wanted to, she’d have done it years ago. And if she tries to use my own weapon against me, I guess I’ll be ready.
Chapter nine
Claire
We don't last long after Remy leaves. Rhea starts to drift off to sleep and I debate a long time over whether I should let her stay there or if I should wake her and make sure she makes it to her room. After the chaotic events of the evening, I don't want to deprive her of the peace of sleep. But Rhea has to be up and ready to go in the morning. She needs a good night of rest... something more than a few hours on the couch with a movie playing in the background.
We trudge to our rooms in sleepy silence, and I practically drag Rhea to her bed, where she immediately rolls over and passes out.
I can’t say the same for myself.
My mind won’t turn off as I lay in the bed I've long considered my own. But now I know better. The man who this bed belongs to is just down the hall, and somehow, my thoughts keep circling back to him. How he'd acted so quickly when he thought I was an intruder was so protective, powerful, and oddly satisfying. Like watching Wes take charge back at The Piazza, only somehow sexier. Having been raised in a multitude of homes with a variety of people, and then at university, surrounded by childish behavior the past three years, it’s somehow refreshing to see a man so fierce and possessive. It also doesn't hurt that he is incredibly gorgeous with those thick lashes and stormy eyes that make me feel both safe and oddly vulnerable.
I groan into the pillow, not sure why I can't stop thinking about being so close to him. Clearly, there is something wrong with me for being so hot when thinking about our first encounter. Most women would have been angry or scared, and I was in the moment. But now I’m obsessing over the feeling of his hand on my hip, his intoxicating scent, the muscles rippling under his gorgeous skin. Perhaps I drank too much. Perhaps it’s just been too long since I’ve had a sexual encounter of my own. Or perhaps I’m just drawn to him because he is my best friend's brother, and that’s an obvious no-go.
Most likely of all, it’s just a side-effect of my emotional damage. I teased Remy about daddy issues, but what does it say about me that I’m obsessing over the touch of a man who had me at his mercy in such a compromising position? What does it say about me that I am thinking about his hands on me?
Whatever the reason, at least I won't have to deal with it much longer.
In all the years Rhea and I have been friends, Remy has never come around before. A family death is an extenuating circumstance. Tomorrow he'll get on his private plane with Rhea, and I’ll never again have to think about how badly I want to be in his arms with his hands on my body. And I... I don't know what I’ll do. Rent a room in town and stick out the rest of the summer there? But what I make working for Mama will barely cover a room in a posh town like Cove Harbor. I’d probably be better off going back to school and spending the rest of summer... working out? Cleaning? I don't know, because I don’t know what I do when I’m alone anymore.
I hate to admit it, but it strikes me again just how dependent on Rhea I've become. And it’s terrifying.
After a lifetime of looking out for myself because no one else was, I sort of latched onto her freshman year. When we met, she came on strong, assuming we'd be best friends just because we lived together. I'd been hesitant, at first, to let her in. After all, we had nothing in common. But it quickly became clear that Rhea must have known something I hadn't because we were inseparable by the end of our first semester. It hadn't seemed like a bad thing then, but now it makes my head spin with things I never needed to consider. Am I holding her back? Am I holding myself back? We’re closer than any other friends I've ever known. Is it normal to be so inseparable that the thought of returning to school without my best friend is depressing?
I roll over, burying my face in a cool pillow. I know I’ve got to stop analyzing myself; It’s only making me crazy—or crazier. But my thoughts continue to spiral beyond my control until I can't take it anymore. Finally, I stand and strip down before digging a swimsuit out of the back of one of my drawers. The gun that sits on the dresser is a stark reminder of what sort of man I'm obsessing over. I've never even seen one until today, and yet Remington Boudreaux is apparently the type to keep one on hand. We are not the same.
I slip out of my room and cast a glance down the hall where I know he is.
Is he awake in there, texting someone about the business that demands so much of his time? Is he sleeping? I can’t imagine that—he has too much presence for me to be able to imagine him turning it off. I can’t picture him vulnerable, but everything remains quiet. Rhea's room is dark, too. I creep down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaks a little under my weight, pad through the halls, and slip out the back door.
The pool is nearly Olympic-sized, with a small waterfall at the deep end. The whole patio is cased in by giant glass panels so that the sun shines through in the day and the stars blink serenely over the water at night. It’s my favorite thing about this house, which otherwise makes me feel like the portraits on the walls are judging me.
I don't understand why just seeing water always calms me, but it does. It’s part of why I’m so happy to spend my summers here. Apart from being with my best friend, being so close to the ocean just seems to soothe my soul, no matter how chaotic everything around me gets to be. From the minute we step out of the car and stretch our muscles, I feel lighter here.
The water is perfectly still, a mirror image of the sky above it. Tranquil. I sigh as my concerns slip away and then pull my hair back before stepping into the pool.
Rhea once mentioned that the housekeeping staff keeps the water at the perfect temperature throughout the year, so they'd never be too cold or warm. That seems to hold true as I slip easily into the deep end, the water rising to cover me up to my neck. I take a breath and just allow myself to float a minute, dumping all of the anxiety and frustration out of my mind.
I taught myself to swim, just as I taught myself most things in life. Margaret and Dan White had been a decent couple who lived near the community center. I lived with them for two years until Dan got arrested for tax fraud, and then it was on to the next place. During those two years, I spent most of my free time at the community pool. While the other foster kids played sports, read books, or made macaroni art, swimming was my escape. It still is.
The cool water soothes the burn that has raged over my skin ever since I felt Remy’s touch. I slip under the surface, letting the water baptize me.
