When we get to Colette and Jackson’s house, Marco grumbles something under his breath as he turns onto the circular drive to park behind the other Rolls Royce that’s already there, the driver standing outside smoking a cigarette. The man looks into the windshield at us but doesn’t smile or greet us. Instead, he takes the last drag of his cigarette and flips the butt onto the manicured lawn.
“Prick,” Marco says.
“Who is he?” I ask, but before he gets a chance to answer, the front door opens, and Cornelius Holton walks briskly out of the house, his face red, his step angry and hurried.
I want to shrink away and hide. I will never forget that man. Never forget how he looked at me, how his fingers felt when he opened my robe as I’d tried to cover myself that horrible morning before the wedding.
God. I feel sick. But instead of allowing myself to cower, I take a deep breath in to steel myself. I narrow my gaze and look at him straight on.
He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it almost appears to surprise him when he sees our car, and he stops momentarily. Through the windshield, his eyes alight on me. Not Marco but me.
And I don’t look away.
“Wait in the car,” Marco tells me as he opens the door and steps out, then closes it behind him. He doesn’t approach Holton, but his hulking presence does drag the older man’s gaze away from me and I swear for a moment, there’s a flash of insecurity there. A twinge of fear or even panic. And I know Marco is making sure Holton sees him. Making sure he knows he’s been seen.
Holton clears his throat. I don’t hear it, but his hand moves to cover his mouth as he does. He nods once to Marco before he slips into the back seat of his own vehicle, and they’re gone.
“What was that?” I ask Marco as I climb out of the car.
“Like I said, a prick.” Marco closes the door and reaches for the bag I’m carrying.
“I can carry it,” I say. It’s a gift for the baby.
He nods, and we walk up to the house together, where even through the door, I can hear Jackson and Colette arguing, her voice higher than usual, her upset audible from here. His is lower but obviously agitated.
“What should we do?” I ask Marco, who is making no secret of listening.
He puts a finger to his lips.
“You can’t listen!” I ring the bell when there doesn’t seem to be any break in the conversation inside. As soon as I do, the house falls silent. Marco and I look at each other momentarily before I hear hurried steps and a baby’s cry. The door opens, and I see Colette. Jackson is a few steps behind her. The men exchange a look, but I don’t bother with them. I’m worried about my friend. It’s obvious Colette has been crying. Her skin is blotchy, and her eyes red and puffy.
“Ivy,” she says, trying to pull a smile together. I’m not sure if I should make an excuse or ask if it’s a good time which would reveal that we heard them arguing and possibly make things more awkward but I’m grateful when the baby’s crying grows louder. “Come in, come in. Ben must be hungry.”
She takes me by the arm, and we hurry through the living room and to the stairs. I barely have time to smile a hello to Jackson whose eyes are hard when I meet them. Unreadable. But there’s no mistaking the ice inside them.
Before we’re even at the top of the stairs, I see the woman I’d met last time come hurrying out of what I guess is the nursery, the screaming little bundle in her arms. Colette rushes to her to take the baby who must sense his mother—or the food source—nearby and his cry changes to a gasping catching of breath as he smashes his head repeatedly against Colette’s breast, his frustration growing again when he can’t get to her breast fast enough.
As I follow Colette, I hear the deep rumble of Marco’s voice but can’t make out what he says before Colette and I are in Ben’s nursery and she’s closed the door behind us.
She relaxes a little as soon as we’re alone and plops down onto the big rocker to feed Ben.
“I can come back. If it’s a bad time,” I say, looking at her worried face.
“No, it’s okay, Ivy. It’s good you’re here. I’m glad.”
I set the bag down and sit on the chair opposite Colette. I take in the room, the walls painted a soft blue, the same mobile hanging over the cradle that Santiago had had delivered to our house.
“We have the same one,” I say to fill the silence. The room overlooks the garden and it’s so peaceful and quiet, so different from the mood downstairs.
“The mobile?” Colette asks.
“Santiago bought it. It’s one of the first things.”
She smiles. “Stand up, let me see you while I get this guy fed. Then you can meet him.”
I do and turn a little so she can see the bump.
“You look beautiful, Ivy. Truly glowing.”
I sit back down. “Thank you. I feel good. Not much nausea and, well, things with Santiago are better so that makes a really big difference.”
“I bet,” she says, her face faltering again. Ben gives a cry and reaches a small hand up to cup her chin. She smiles down at him, using the muslin to wipe milk from the corner of his mouth.
“He’s beautiful, Colette.”
She’s teary-eyed when she looks up at me. “I love him so much already and honestly, I thought I already loved him before he was born but it’s nothing like when you first see his little face. When you first hold him.” She wipes her eyes with the same muslin.
“What’s going on?” I ask, worried.
She glances out the window and shakes her head and I get the feeling she’s replaying a conversation in her head.
Ben falls asleep and she runs a finger over his cheek to rouse him. He starts to suck again as soon as she does.
“I don’t like that man,” she says to me finally as a few more tears fall. “And Jackson,” she falters here, shakes her head and looks at me but I get the feeling she’s miles away.
“I heard you fighting. I’m sorry. We’d just walked up to the door and I could hear.”
“I’m sure the whole street heard. Everyone but Jackson, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs deeply. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“This is big, Ivy. Like really big. But I think Jackson is making a mistake and there’s no one I can talk to.” Her voice breaks and she’s openly crying now.
“Colette,” I get up, take some tissues from a box nearby and hand them to her, then crouch down to take her hand. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”
She nods, squeezes my hand.
The door opens quietly then and the same woman who’d served us last time brings in a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of small cakes. She smiles warmly but doesn’t speak and just glances at the baby. I know she’s trying to keep quiet for Ben.
Colette thanks her and a moment later she’s gone.
“I love those cakes. I can’t get enough. I’m going to be big as a house if she doesn’t stop baking them.” She’s attempting humor and I smile but it’s not quite working.
I get up, put one of the cakes on a plate and bring it and a glass of iced tea to her. She takes the cake and I set the tea on the nearby table then make myself a plate too. I don’t eat it, though. I’m too worried about her to eat.