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“To save our family,” Frederic snarls at me. “Don’t forget that.” I swallow, nodding my head, and I’m almost ashamed of not being able to see the good in all of this. My mum is my everything now and I can’t bear the thought of her sinking into poverty.
But still, I don’t want to get married. I want to go to school and study psychology. I want to help people, but now I’m simply a product to sell in order to regain more wealth.
“And Evangeline… if you want to blame someone for your future marriage, blame Chester because he took everything from us, stole everything our father worked so hard on for Mum and us.”
My cheeks turn red because I’m ashamed of the woman I was two weeks ago. Spying on my handsome neighbour, who lives a life, free to date, to have sex and decide when to go out and when to stay in.
I didn’t know him before the party, and my imagination had created a way better version of Chester than the real thing. One might even say the Chester of my imagination was a gentleman, a passionate one but also a man who didn’t take his freedom for granted. He was my definition of freedom.
But the truth hurts sometimes, and the real Chester ended up being judgemental, smug and rude. Well, at least now, I know what kind of man is leading those women to their cabs while kissing them openly after their one-night stand.
Aprick.
“We’re here.” Frederic says with his eyes focused in front of him. He taps his finger repeatedly on the steering wheel as his jaw tightens.
He slowly turns his head. With both brows raised, he motions towards the tennis club with his head. I nod, hating how he can’t seem to spare even a few words for his sister.
I might not like Chester, but Frederic is worse. Always worse.
“Goodbye,” I mutter, escaping the car as quickly as possible before I start replaying words and actions made by my brother and Chester.
I breathe out the tension as the familiar sight of The Rothshield tennis club warms my nostalgic heart. It hasn’t changed a bit since the last time I was here. It’s still the same large white Georgian house with bay windows and black wooden window shutters. White columns support the black roof and make it look impressive and gigantic. A porch runs around the entire building and forms a terrace at the back with a view of the tennis courts. The gardens around the club are kept beautifully maintained.
I used to play tennis here three times a week, starting when I was six years old. My mum would watch from the terrace while she drank champagne with her friends. I loved those days, where my only worries had evolved from learning the colours of the rainbow to wondering whether or not Peter Donovan was going to ask me out and then discussing my first-time having sex. They’d been the wholesome worries of a pampered girl living a charmed life.
I walk up the cobblestone pathway towards the main entrance with my heart rate slowing down and my thoughts about Chester disappearing. Spring is moving to the side so that summer can make an appearance. The sun likes to emerge occasionally before it starts raining all over again. The city is heating up, and people are soaking up the vitamin D.
“A Clairwater back in town...” a cold voice says, and I quickly look up at the woman standing in front of the steps leading to the entrance door.
It comes as no surprise of who the voice belongs to because Topper shared his gossip about her being a tough cookie with a lemon wedged between her lips at all times. But it’s quite a shock that she’s here.
The woman with the cigarette in her manicured hand looks like she stepped straight out of the roaring twenties. Her black hair is cut short, hovering at her jawline, and it’s kept so impeccable as if she gets it cut every week to keep it perfectly symmetrical. Her bangs fall over her forehead. She brings the cigarette to her dark red lips before she sucks on it and blows out some smoke. A gold necklace with an intricate sun pendant, and a white stone in the centre, lies on her chest.
Her expensive tennis bag is next to her and matches her soft brown tennis dress. Even her pearl earrings resemble her attire.
But it isn’t the outfit that demands attention. Her mixed-coloured eyes stare me down with a gaze of boredom and impatience. She stares and stares before a loud sigh leaves her, and she drops her cigarette to the ground before she steps on it with her brown tennis shoe.
“You’re Frederic’s sister,” she states with her attention on her shoe this time.
“How do you know that?”
“Jocelyn Hansley, a friend of mine, did some digging after you made your spectacular entrance into our society last night.” News travels fast. Not a day ago, these people didn’t know who I was, and I had no idea my family hated my neighbour.
“I’m Evangeline. You’re Moreen Callahan,” I state in a voice just as disinterested as hers was. Her head snaps up, and this time, it’s shock that’s written on her face, accompanied by a flash of irritation.
What did I say? I swear, this lady could eat me for breakfast.
“It’s Van Doren,” she clips out. “NotCallahan. My husband can keep his horrible last name, and I’ll keep mine.”
“All right,” I mutter, trying to digest her reaction. Moreen is not being rude, though her delivery could use some work. She’s proud of her name and of what it does — or could — stand for. Who am I to not abide by her desire to be seen, not as someone’s wife but as the strong woman she is?
It's easy to see just how fearless Moreen is.
“So, you met Chester Boyd,” she says evenly.
“I did.” I wince at the obvious disdain in my tone. His name makes me break out in hives. Moreen nods her head with a spark of amusement in her eyes. This ice-cold human beingdoesshow some emotions, but they’re hard to read.
“I’m certain the feeling is mutual. He wasn’t at all pleased after meeting you.”
