“Oh, God, they love when I study bamboo. The professors get sweaty when I talk about them. They’re the thugs of the flora world. They spread faster than any other plant. Border grass. Chinese lanterns. You should see them when I talk about tansy. They come in their tweed pants.”
I have to laugh at that. “I thought you were a spy or something.”
“Yes,” he says drily. “The government needs someone to study the terrorists known as weeds, destroying every flower bed outside their offices.”
I stick out my tongue at him. “Are you staying the rest of the week?”
“I fly out tomorrow morning.”
“But you just got in last night.”
He shrugs. “My presence is required.”
“For what? Are you meeting with the Queen or something?”
“Yes,” he says with a wink. “She wants to know about the mysterious Daphne Morelli, the famous painter in New York City.”
I snort. “Tell her I’m open for commissions.”
Someone calls his name, and he pats my shoulder and leaves. I continue my quest for a server. Eva will want to make sure they’re circulating appropriately.
Before I find the champagne, I find my mother. She’s trying to make an exit from a conversation with two people I vaguely recognize from other Morelli parties. Her eyes land on me, and I see the moment she decides to use me as her excuse.
“My daughter,” she says to them. “Come this way,” she murmurs when she’s close enough. I fall into step and go with her to a standing table near the stained glass window. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“Good.” It’s an honest enough answer. I’m okay, and I also feel hyper-aware of everyone in here. There’s no way Emerson gets into the reception. The church is one thing. Leo’s house? No. But if he did, if he did. “How did you like the ceremony?”
“It was lovely.” Her tone goes a little flat. “You and your sisters looked beautiful.” She reaches out and fluffs at my hair. “And you seem so…” My mother studies my face, her eyes brighter than they normally are. Sharper. “You seem happy. Do you have news?”
I am practically shaking with anticipation for when Emerson texts me again. That’s what news I have.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say instead.
“Of course.”
“Did you love Dad when you got married?”
She lets out a short, surprised laugh. “What made you think of that?”
The way Leo looked today. His wedding was standing-room only, but he didn’t seem to notice anyone else. Once Haley took her first step down the aisle, it was all over. I can’t actually imagine my mother looking at my father that way. I can’t imagine him looking at her that way.
“Just all the wedding stuff. Were you in love, do you think?”
Her eyes go slightly distant. Traveling through memories, maybe. Thinking back to their own wedding. I’ve seen the photos. My mother was beautiful on their wedding day, and my father was handsome. She’s looking at him in a lot of the photos. He doesn’t look back at her nearly as much.
“I was infatuated with him,” she says finally. “Or maybe just the money and power he wielded. He’s always had so much of it, and I thought…” My mother shakes her head. Her perfect red waves shake with her. “Don’t make the same mistake.”
A shiver sweeps down my back. “Don’t marry rich?”
“Don’t get obsessed,” she says, her tone as light as mine. “Don’t let infatuation cloud your judgement. But you wouldn’t do that. Not my Daphne.” An indulgent smile lifts the corners of her lips. “You’ve always been so good.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emerson
It’s been too long since I’ve seen Daphne. Way too fucking long.
Going into that church and leaving her there was torture, and it hasn’t ended.
Her absence is turning my own house against me. It’s beginning to seem ominously large. It was never meant to be small, of course. I need room for the pieces I collect. But the outside world is seeping in through the windows. I try to force it back. My usual method is to surf more often. To let the size of the ocean overwhelm the size of the house.
It’s not working.
Black waves beat at the shore outside. The last of the sunset bled out an hour ago. I’ve been out twice today. I have no desire to go again, but then I never want to in the first place.
Emerson: Tell me what you’re thinking about, little painter.
If I focus, I can see my reflection in my bedroom window.
Some part of me knows that surfing won’t be enough. That texting won’t be enough. Maybe if Daphne were here—
No. I won’t admit to feeling like this. To feeling anything like this.
What the fuck would I even say? There’s something I need to crush this into a manageable size. This—what is this? She’d want to know. I’m not willing to use the word panic in conversation with her. With anyone. She’d never look at me the same way.
I need her to look at me the same way. Daphne was so scared when I spread her legs. I can still feel her hands shaking on my wrists. But she trusted me. She was afraid of me, and she trusted me. That trust would disappear from her eyes and never return.
Daphne: You
Emerson: What about me?
I pull up Sin’s number on the screen and allow myself, for a single moment, to consider telling him.
My house feels like the fucking Grand Canyon.
I type it out and delete it. Sin would show up here. He’d ask questions. He’d demand answers. I’m past that. My brothers and I are all past it.
The phone vibrates in my hand and my heart settles. Daphne. It’ll be Daphne.
Alert: Front gate approach
Jesus. Is he ever going to learn to stay away? I type out a new text to Sin.
Emerson: I’m not interested in a visit.
Alert: Front gate entrance
So he’s going to ignore me, then.
Sin: Good thing I’m out to dinner, then, asshole
Alert: Motion detected front door
A heavy knock echoes up the stairs. Something in the rhythm of it, in the sound, tugs at the oldest parts of my mind. I hold my breath. Stand perfectly still.
If it’s not Sin, then who? Will? He wouldn’t show up unannounced.
Not Daphne. Daphne would never try to beat down the door. Her hands are too small.
It happens again. Harder this time. And though I am within my rights not to open the front door ever again, for anyone, I move toward the noise. I want it to stop.
Alert: Motion detected front door
Yes, I know.
The handle resists me when I try to open it. Or it’s my own body resisting. I don’t know.
I pull harder. Force it.
My father stands on the porch.
He’s dressed like a mid-level businessman. Pressed slacks. A red sweater under a tan overcoat. His hair has gone silver while he was in prison, but it retains a fair amount of its original dark. There’s a vague humming in my ears. I’ve gone numb. My emotions are silent in their frames. Nowhere else to run.
“Hello, Emerson.” He steps forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s good to see you, son. You’ve done well for yourself. This is an expensive piece of property.”