Page 80 of The Summer of Us

Except my anger. And that was burning hot and bright.

* * *

I showered, dressed in a suit, then threw the last few things in my bag that had reappeared in the apartment. No doubt, Sunny had given it to Abby. I paused before heading out the door, laying the key on the table. My fingers brushed the metal, the dull ache in my chest I had been feeling for hours becoming more toxic. With a low curse, I picked up the bag and headed down the staircase. My steps faltered as I reached the bottom, the sound of Sunny’s voice reaching me. I listened as she gave instructions to her staff, her tone calm, steady, yet authoritative.

“We’re taking the list one item at a time. Once it’s done, we’ll move on to the next. I’ve closed the bakery for the day so we can concentrate. Together, we’ll get it right.”

I paused, unable to move. I turned my head, catching a glimpse of Sunny. She was beautiful under the lights of the kitchen. She looked as exhausted as I felt, but her smile was firmly in place. Leading her staff. Positive.

Despite everything, I was proud. She was capable, smart, and a real leader.

And better off without me.

She moved her head, spotting me in the back. For a moment, our eyes locked. All the love I felt for her was in my gaze. The words I would never get to speak. The memories we would never create together. I shouted all my pain at her in that glance.

She turned her back.

I walked out the door and left.

* * *

My mind was blank as I drove to my father’s house. I sat at the desk, motionless, then reached for my phone and placed a call.

“Martha Tremont, deputy mayor, speaking.”

“Martha, it’s Lincoln Webber.”

“How did you get this number?”

I chuckled, the sound without humor. “You should be far more concerned about why I’m calling than the fact that I have your number.”

In truth, it had been very easy to get. The town hall staff really needed to be updated on privacy policies.

“What do you want, Mr. Webber?”

“I’m at my father’s house. You know it well, Martha. I’m sure you’ve been here many times.”

There was silence.

“I’ll be waiting. And Martha, like my father, I’m not a patient man.”

I hung up.

* * *

I heard her car arrive, the sound of her BMW engine breaking the silence. I hadn’t moved from behind the desk. My legs wouldn’t let me. I felt out of control of my body, as if my limbs were no longer attached.

The front door opened, slamming shut behind her. She stalked into the den, leaving no doubt how well she knew her way around this house.

I swallowed the bile that threatened to escape.

“I am not one of your flunkies you can command,” she announced, crossing her arms.

“And yet, here you are.”

Silence stretched. The ball was firmly in my court. I only had to say a few words, show her the pictures, then assure her they would remain a secret as long as she stopped harassing Sunny. It was a scenario I was certain had been played out many times in this room by my father. Countless people he held under his thumb.

“Slippery slope,” Sunny’s voice whispered. “You are not your father.”