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The pain I’d caused Savannah echoed through all the empty and rotted spaces in me.
“You can make this right,” Margot said, sympathy shading her voice.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered. “Everything I touch these days breaks.”
Margot patted my arm. “Savannah’s tough,” she said. “Now get to work.”
SAVANNAH
I refused, absolutely refused, to lie in bed, staring at the old lace canopy of my four-poster bed like some heartbroken heroine in a movie.
I should get a new bed. The overblown princess bed that had been my dream come true as a child was ridiculously irrelevant.
I told herself I kept it—the bed and the canopy and the lace and the pillows—for Katie, but I was the one curled up here at night.
A lonely princess.
What garbage, I thought, furious with myself for getting maudlin.
Since Katie was no longer in my bedroom—no doubt having gone on some eavesdropping mission—I decided to get some work done.
I kicked aside one of the gazillion useless little pillows I loved so much and dug out my laptop.
I pulled up all the files on religious mutilation in Indonesia.
Castration. I would do some work on male castration.
Perfect.
“Mom?”
I turned toward my daughter, who stood in the doorway in bright red rain boots, the silver chopsticks Margot brought back from her cruise pushed willy-nilly through her hair.
“I brought you something to eat,” she said, stepping into the room and heading right for the bed with a plate of food.
The plate had all of Katie’s favorites—Margot’s pralines, barbecue potato chips and an apple next to a pile of peanut butter.
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said, making room for my daughter. “How are we going to get that peanut butter on the apple?”
Katie picked up the bright red fruit and rolled it in the peanut butter.
I laughed so hard tears burned my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered when Katie handed me the messy apple. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Katie that.
“Hey, Mom? Who is Matt?”
My numb fingers couldn’t hold the fruit and it fell to the floor with a thunk, peanut butter everywhere.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “He lied to us.”
“Did you know him before?”
“Before?” I asked, looking down at her daughter. “Before what?”
“Did you have sex?”
I choked.
“You told me about sex, Mom.”
“I know,” I said. I’d told her daughter about death, drugs, Republicans, homosexuality and where babies come from. Just not where I’d come from. “But I don’t think I want to talk about my sex life with you.”
“But you had sex with that Matt guy?”
“Why are you asking me this?” I barked, and immediately regretted it. Katie stared down at her fingers, put back a praline and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a weird morning.”
“Is Matt leaving?” Katie asked, and I was grateful for an eight-year-old’s attention span.
I’d never claimed to be a very good single mother.
“Yes,” I said, feeling a door slam shut. No more sweat-soaked shirts in my back courtyard. No more green eyes watching me. No more thundering, soul-pounding music making its way up the stairs to my room. No more kisses in the moonlight. No more orgasms. No fun. No recklessness. No more O’Neill inclinations running amuck.
No more Matt Howe. Or Woods. Whatever.
No more Matt.
Tears burned behind my eyes for no good reason.
“Are you going to cry?” Katie asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good.” Katie grabbed a praline. “We don’t need him here.”
“You’re absolutely right.” I pulled my daughter close, tired from a night of weaving fantasies around a man who did not exist. A nap was what I needed, I decided, closing my eyes against the world. Maybe I’d sleep the day away and not have to watch him leave.
A few hours later, I woke to sunshine on my face and the snick and slash of Matt’s scythe through the vines of the back courtyard.
I pushed my face deeper into the pillow, my heart finding a quiet rhythm alongside Matt’s work.
Snick. Snick.
Snick. Snick.
It was a nice way to wake up. Calm. Comforting. Totally—
Wrong.
I sat up, flipping my hair out of my face. Pillows slid to the floor as bright white fury filled my heart.
Unless it was Margot herself out there doing manual labor, she was dead. Dead.
Flying down the stairs, my feet barely touched the treads. I swung my hair into a knot on my head, ready to do battle. This morning had been emotional, no doubt about it, but it had been settled.
Matt was supposed to be gone.
Sunshine blinded me when I threw open the doors to the courtyard and I nearly tripped over my daughter, who sat on the step.
“Hey, Mom. I thought he was leaving.”
“Hi, Katie,” I said, pressing a quick hard kiss to the top of her head. “He is, don’t worry. Where is he?”
“Back there,” she said, pointing to the wild area past the cypress.
“Go on inside,” I said, wanting to ensure my daughter couldn’t be called as a witness when I was brought to trial for murder.
