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I shake my head, confused. “Who the hell is Rebecca?”
“Oh my God, Stone…” she gulps—and then she doubles over and vomits all over me.
I rush and pick her up, grimacing and gagging when the smell assails me before I can hold my breath. I rush us both to the bathroom and pray I’m not sick, too.
She groans and I strip her robe off and hold her up with one arm as I turn on the shower with the other.
“Oh, Regan.” I stroke her hair and when the water is warm enough, I carry her in and put her down on the bench. I strip my clothes off and get in with her.
I wash her hair with her ginger shampoo and comb all the snags and tangles out. I prop her in my lap, her back to my chest, and give her a good massage with a conditioner.
She lets her weight rest against me, with her eyes closed, and a small smile tilting up the corners of her soft, wide lips.
I lift her off my lap and sit her down on the bench beside me. Then, I drop to my haunches in front of her, grab her washcloth and douse it with the vanilla soap.
I start with her neck and work my way down. I scrub every inch of her and inhale a lungful of vanilla-flavored steam. I’m methodical, and don’t linger. She needs sleep and so do I.
I brush her teeth as best as I can, dry and lotion her, and dress her in a sleep shirt with the words, “No rain, no flowers,” scribbled on the front.
Indeed.
I manage to get her hair into one long braid that hangs down her back. She watches me through sleep-heavy lids the whole time. At one point, she reaches up to pat my cheek.
“Just making sure you’re real,” she murmurs.
I carry her to bed and she’s asleep before I pull her comforter up over her shoulders.
I watch her for a moment. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Goddess?” I run a thumb over the rise of her cheekbone.
A snuffling snore is my answer.
I leave two aspirin and a bottle of water by her bed, turn out all of the lights, drop a kiss on her head, then go wait for her to wake up.
My clothes sit in a sodden pile of vomit. I rummage through her drawer until I find some socks that might fit, wrap a towel around my hips and go in search of intel that will give me some insight into whatever else is going on with her…and find out who this Rebecca is.
I wander through her house. It’s a two-story rambling mid century modern with more windows than walls. It’s decorated elegantly - brushed gold and beachy blues accent white walls, white furniture and the dark wood floors are dotted with white rugs and gold accent tables piled high with books and toys.
The open concept living area has a vaulted ceiling with massive skylights that allow the bright moonlight. In between each pair of windows, huge blown glass chandeliers drop down low enough that I can touch them when I lift my hand. Pictures of her children cover every single wall, and her fridge. They are gorgeous. Her daughter is, but for her big hazel eyes and light brown hair, her spitting image. Her sons have identically mischievous grins on their faces in every single picture. There’s a painting of her holding them as infants, one in each arm, a wreath of flowers on her head like a crown. Her daughter sits at her feet, her hair woven through with the same flowers as her mother’s.
I can’t wait to meet them and see her with them.
I stop at a picture of Regan pregnant. She’s on a beach, in profile, standing in ankle deep surf. She’s wearing a brilliant blue sarong; her hair is loose and flowing behind her. Her hand cups her hugely pregnant stomach, and her head is bowed as if she’s talking to the baby.
I want to see her like that.
I never imagined that domesticity could be as thrilling as globe-trotting, but I’m getting that tingling just thinking about being in that backyard with her and the kids. I wonder if she wants more children.
I walk past her kitchen and enter a short hallway that has a door with a piece of paper with “Mom’s Office” written by a child’s hand in green crayon, decorated with huge red exclamation marks.
She’s got a small recording station set up at one end. At the other is a large, pristine white desk. The only thing on it is a small silver laptop, a cordless landline phone, and a huge computer monitor.
I sit in the white leather chair behind the desk and see a small business card tucked underneath the laptop. It reads simply, “The Jezebel” Herstory with a phone number on it and a URL.
I dial it. It goes straight to voicemail and Regan’s voice starts speaking. “You’ve reached The Jezebel. If you’ve got a tip, leave it after the beep. If you’re calling to try and scare me, you wasted your time.”
What the hell is she doing?
I go to the URL listed on the card and start reading. The logo is similar to the tattoo on her lower back, but it’s adorned with gold leaves.
