Page 152 of Perfect Satisfaction

“You will?” Her voice is incredulous.

“No more secrets between us, Sula. I promise you that.”

She chews her lip. Her head jerks toward the marble crypt nearby. “No secrets betweenus. He forced you into an untenable situation, Sula. I won’t force you to break your promises.”

Her relief is tangible but sends a shaft of pain through me. How can there be anything more important than what we are to each other?

Her expression shifts as she studies my face. I can read them so clearly now. There’s confusion, desire, and wariness. I’ve put all of them there. I tuck her against my body. “What’s your earliest memory?”

She surprises me with the answer. “My mother was...weak is the wrong word. Desolate? Yes. I think that’s a better choice. I remember from an early age her just waiting for him to walk through the door. She didn’t have any emotion left for me. It was all for him.”

“She must have been exquisite.” At Sula’s start, I remark, “You don’t look much like your father except for your coloring.”

“I said once to Carys that’s a small blessing. But, no, I don’t resemble him much.”

“Does the rest of your family?”

She gives me a look before saying, “You’ve met Brendan. So, yes and no. Coloring, yes. Features, no.”

“Ah, a non-answer. You’d have been great at PR.”

“Now you know what West was grooming me for.”

“I take it back. You’d have sucked.”

Sula’s lips curve against my arm. Then her smile fades. “I actually would have been extraordinary—had it been my choice. After all, when you cut your teeth writing obituaries for a parent, what else can be thrown at you?”

I wince. “You wrote your mother’s obituary?”

“Yes.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen. It was right before I came to live with West. Before that, I had very limited interaction with him—monthly visits, maybe. Always at the most inconvenient times.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, a homecoming I was asked to despite not going to the local high school. Sleepovers at friends’ homes. I didn’t have many friends and West made it harder for me to forge those kinds of relationships.” Before I can sympathize, she holds a hand out. “Don’t feel bad for me, Arek. I’m the quintessential poor little rich girl. I wasn’t beaten, but I wasn’t loved.”

“It sounds like you were hardly acknowledged.”

“See? This is why you’re the journalist,” She pokes me in the ribs. Instead of letting her get away, I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

Keeping her close.

“Was leaving the US difficult?” I ask all the questions I should have been asking all these months. Instead of doing my damnedest to sleep with my wife, fall in love with her, then get to know her, I should have reversed the order.

After all, it didn’t work out so great the first time around.

“Again, yes and no? Some people came to visit, Brendan—when he wasn’t on tour...” Her voice trails off.

“Who else?” I ask gruffly.

She hesitates before answering. “Well, Dani, of course. I’m close with her and her cousin, Jenna.”

The pictures from Fashion Week. Of course. “Anyone else?”

“A few others. But really, it was me and West and this new family. I was just as lost here.” She hesitates before adding softly, “Angie was my first real friend—more of a sister than a friend.”