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“Which Holiday Inn is she at?” I snap.
“The one on Lilywort Ave,” she snaps back.
“What room number?”
“603.”
“And she’s OK?”
“Well, obviously, she’s upset, but otherwise, yeah, she’s fine, and—”
I hang up.
On my way out, I stop by Nolan’s office. His eyebrows go up in pleased surprise.
“I have to go see my mom,” I tell him. “There’s been a fire.”
He jumps up too. “She OK?”
“Yeah, apparently she’s at a hotel with my sister. But I need to be there for her right now. I can make up the lost time a few nights next week.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You do what you need to. But Sierra?”
“Yeah?”
“Want me to come with you?”
I hesitate. That was the one thing I didn’t expect him to say.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “She doesn’t even know I’m dating you, to be honest. So, it might be… distracting.”
“Right.” He nods. “Yeah. Of course, no big.”
I head for the door.
“You sure?” he asks.
I throw a hand over my shoulder. “Bye, Nolan.”
And as I rush to the car, I can’t say why, but part of me wanted him to insist on coming.
I drive to the Holiday Inn like a maniac who doesn’t want to get caught by the police. I watch my rear-view mirrors like a hawk, and weave through traffic like a snake.
My hammering heartbeat seems connected to the gas pedal, keeps revving it up higher and higher.
Only once I’ve pulled into the packed parking lot do I stop to take a breath.
“She’s fine,” I tell myself. “It’s just her house, she’s fine.”
Though really, I know I won’t be able to relax at all until I see her myself.
I hurry upstairs without so much as a token smile at the concierge so she can see I’m not a crazy person. Too damn bad. This is my mom we’re talking about.
I find her in her room, sitting on the edge of the paisley-print bed, face aghast. Seeing me, she brightens. “Sierra.”
I rush into a hug with her. “Mom. Thank God you’re OK.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” She lets out a weak chuckle. “Your mother is an idiot, Sierra.”
“Don’t say that.”
Her silver head is hung, her lips turned down in a miserable expression. “But it’s true—wait until you hear how the fire started.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
“I was burning some of your father’s old things in the back yard—finally getting rid of the things,” she recounts, scowling. “I stepped away for a second, then the fire got out of control, caught on the main house, and then…”
“Did the firefighters manage to put out the fire?” I ask.
“Obviously,” Peyton says, sipping whatever latte she got from downstairs. “It wasn’t a forest fire or anything like that.”
I take a few seconds to consider pointing out Peyton’s own stupidity to her—of course it wasn’t a forest fire, it was a house fire—then dismiss it. Right now, Mom is the most important thing, not petty squabbling with my bitch of a sister.
“The whole back extension of the house is burned down,” Mom says hollowly. “Gone.”
“But your insurance…” I say.
She just shakes her head sadly. “I cheaped out. Figured I’d never had a fire before, so why bother being prepared for one. I’m going to have to pay for it out of pocket. But I don’t have the money. Probably won’t for years. I’ll either have to live with a giant hole in the back of my house, or move.”
“No,” I say. “No way. You love that house. Me and Peyton, we can—”
“Um, the stock market hasn’t been doing great lately,” Peyton grumbles. “And who do you think paid for this hotel?”
I wheel around on her. “What?”
She gives her blonde-haired head a toss, pouting. “Just that, just because Harvey and I drive Cadillacs and live in a mansion, does not mean that we’re just made of money with unlimited pockets.”
I gape at her, before it turns into a glare. “You’re not serious.”
“Your sister is overextended as it is,” Mom says, with a wave of her hand. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.”
“No,” I say. “You know what? You’re right. We don’t need to worry. Because I’m going to help you.”
Mom eyes me dubiously. “But, Sierra, you just got this new job, and—”
“Yeah, and I didn’t tell you, I nabbed another one too. It’s high paying. I won’t be able to cover all the repairs, but we can probably get an independent contractor to do some of it, or at least close that hole.”
Yeah, no way am I letting my mom live with a giant hole in her house.
I go into the other room to call up Maurice.
“I have some requirements, though,” I tell him. “I’m not doing anything prying or lying or negative on Mr. Storm.”
“What gave you that impression?” he crackles over the phone, although he sounds grumpy. Who knows, maybe that’s just the way he is. “That works for me, in any case. We can meet up every few weeks for progress reports.”
