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George settled in one of the living spaces downstairs with another book. I have no clue where he always pulls them from. It's like he has a secret bookstore in one of his many green duffel bags.
I am left wandering the mansion.
Not knowing what else to do, I make my way to the library on the second floor. Why rich people all have these massive accumulations of books is a mystery to me, but I won't complain. I’d rather read than watch TV anyway. Shelves dominate the two walls flanking the door from floor to ceiling with the center wall across being one large window overlooking the back of the property. This room is in complete contrast to the vineyard's decor with white shelves and a cognac-colored leather seating area—two big armchairs and a matching couch divided by a low white coffee table—on top of a white-and-beige oriental rug. I browse until I find a section with romance novels. Seeing Rhys earlier has made me miss him even more, and reading about someone else's tragic love story sounds better than wallowing in my head for the rest of the night, questioning if I made the right decision. The books were all published prior to the last decade, which I guess makes sense with the house sitting empty for so long. I pull them out one by one, scanning the back until I find a plot that piques my interest.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
My groan at the constant vibration coming from my bedside table is muffled by the comforter over my head. Whyyy won’t it stoppp?
The book ended up completely sucking me in, and I finished it at three in the morning. Last thing I remember is plopping face-first into the pillows. Pulling the blanket down, I glance to the side where the alarm clock sits next to my phone, alerting me to yet another message. It’s past noon.
Oh, crap.
I bolt into a sitting position and reach over, unplugging my phone from its charger. The number of messages on the screen explains why my nightstand sounded like a beehive had taken up residence in the top drawer.
Nate: Good morning, sis. Heading to the office and will try to swing by after work.
Nate: ?
Nate: Lilly, where are you?
Rhys: Hey babe.
Nate: George said you’re still in bed. Everything okay?
Rhys: Called G since ur not answering. U sick?
Nate: Call me!
Chewing on my bottom lip, I wonder if George came up to check on me. I should’ve kept the volume up. I reply to Nate and Rhys that everything is fine, and I slept in. Both text back immediately, and I apologize several times for making them worry. I can’t fault them; I would be freaking out if they were the ones not responding.
After breakfast, I trail the second floor twice—both times stopping in front of the same door—before finally gathering the courage to step into Payton's studio.
An easel sits near the window with a stool in front, a small roll table next to it with jars of brushes and paint tubes. There is no canvas on the stand, but several large frames are stacked along two walls covered with white tarps. If it weren't for the layer of dust, you'd think Payton would be home any minute to continue her hobby. A sudden wave of sadness crashes down on me. No wonder Nate hasn’t set foot into the house in years. The memories are everywhere.
With my emotions somewhat back under control, curiosity wins out, and I slowly pull one cloth off of a stack of three pictures.
Oh, wow.
I didn't know what to expect. I couldn’t draw a stick figure if my life depended on it and automatically assume most people are as artistically challenged as me. Payton clearly wasn't. In front of me is a stunning mountain range with a vast lake. The detail is breathtaking.
I move from stack to stack and marvel at her talent. Most of them are landscapes, but the last pile of smaller canvases contains portraits. The first one is of Audrey; the original picture is taped to the top corner. Behind that, I find a young Nate with Audrey on his lap, looking back at me. The reference photo she used is attached as well. Based on the backdrop, it seems like a professional photograph. The last one is of a small Nate and makes me suck in a sharp breath. He is around five or six, and the similarity between his and my own features at that age is shocking. But that's not what makes me pause. It's the teddy he is holding in the picture.
"Bobo."
The word hasn’t fully left my mouth when my head is assaulted by what feels like several icepicks at once.
Owwww.
I grab my temple, and tears pool in my eyes. Why does it hurt so much worse than it used to? A groan breaks free, and I let myself drop to my knees.
Make it stop.
I’m at a small, round table at an outdoor café. Emily sits to my right, Brooks to my left, and they are arguing. My mother’s expression is furious, and Brooks looks at her with an equally angry expression. Like in the dream I had at the vineyard, I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m clutching something to my chest. Bobo? Brooks places a hand on my shoulder, turning to me with an unreadable gaze. His mouth moves. I try to read his lips, but Emily grabs my arm and yanks me away from him. His eyes turn wide, and he’s trying to hold onto me, but I’m no longer in his reach.
