I open my eyes and take a second pull when an older petite woman with hair the shade of midnight, wearing a royal blue dress and matching jacket approaches, her smile growing with every step. She barely slows as she wraps Lincoln in a hug. She’s so small, her head rests against his chest. His face is soft, a variety of a smile splayed across his lips that I’ve never seen.
“Where have you been? It’s been at least a month since you’ve been home.” She pulls back and looks at me, her gaze critical and yet kind. “My name’s Gloria. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Raegan.”
She laughs. It’s soft and warm. “Oh, I know.” Then she hugs me like we’re old friends, her grip secure. “I like her. I like she doesn’t expect to be known,” Gloria says, turning to Lincoln, and for the second time tonight, I feel like a contestant on a game show as people talk in front of me like I’m not here. I might care more about this if I weren’t so distracted by the fact this is the second person in Lincoln’s life who knows about me. Knows my name and possibly more. Do they assume we’re dating? That we’re friends?
“She’s fucking kerosene,” Lincoln says, taking another drink from his crystal tumbler.
I frown, but Gloria’s frown is greater, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “You talk like you were raised by wild dogs.”
He grins. “Only one.” He winks.
I have no idea if she’s his grandma or aunt, or how she fits into his life, only that she does.
She hauls off and hits him again, but it’s softer, and her lips fight a smile that she loses the battle to, breaking into laughter. “Come on. Let’s have some dinner before they serve the meal.”
I blink at the contradiction of words. I’m terrified to stain this dress, and I’m not sure how I’m going to sit down without several feet of clearance, but I’m still intrigued to see what kind of food they serve, certain my foodie of a best friend is going to be interested to hear all the details.
Lincoln’s hand returns to the small of my back. “We’ll be right behind you. I was going to take Raegan on a quick tour. She has a thing for the Renaissance period. I was going to show her dad’s collection.”
I don’t. I’m not even certain I could name a piece of artwork done during the Renaissance, apart from works done by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo.
Gloria nods. “Don’t take too long.”
As she disappears across the room, Lincoln turns to me, his hand at my waist. “Why can’t you just tell me you’re mad at me?”
“I’m not.” It’s a half-lie. Tonight, I’m fairly positive my anger is solely aimed at my father, and while it seemed at bay for several hours while I was distracted getting ready for tonight, his words seemed to pull the cover off entirely.
“Bullshit,” he growls the word, leading us back toward the front door, dropping our empty glasses on a small table dressed in white linens before continuing straight for the elaborate staircase that is wide enough for four people to go up at once.
“You ordered the same drink for me that Maggie ordered,” I say, a note of question in my tone because I’m curious if he knew and how, but more terrified to ask.
“You said you liked it.”
“I did?”
He nods. “Paxton had asked what you were drinking, and you told him. Told him you liked it. If you don’t like this one, we’ll get something else.”
“No, I do. I just didn’t know you knew…” I leave the trailed off sentence, though I hate them because my words—like my thoughts—are floundering.
His jaw tics, his dark eyes narrowed as he sifts through my thoughts with a penetrating and invasive stare. I question what he finds? What might be revealed tonight when I feel so raw and bare?
“Because you’re pretending tonight?”
I shake my head. “What?”
“If you haven’t realized how well I know you, then you’ve been pretending for a while.”
His words feel cruel, opening that hollow spot in my heart that I’ve been working so hard to avoid, ignore, and fill with every other distraction available. Now is not the time to start wandering down this one-way tunnel guaranteed to leave me questioning too much and hoping for more.
I have no idea where we’re going or why I’m following him, our steps the only sound as the party noise fades with the second floor coming into view. A voice in the back of my thoughts reminds me this is a bad idea. That only private things and secrets will happen this far from the others, and right now, I don’t wish to partake in either, but my traitorous heart continues, standing closer with the slightest squeeze from his fingers.
The upstairs is more of the same cold white tiles and white walls, bright lights, and minimal furniture, opening up to another fireplace, this one of white marble with two white leather couches set in front of it, the mantle blank. Large columns hang near each entrance as we pass a large room housing a blue-felted billiards table.
“Who’s Gloria?” I ask.
“My dad hired her shortly after marrying my mom. My parents came from very different worlds, and I think he wanted to protect her from the reality of his world for as long as possible, so he hired Gloria. She helped prepare dinners when Dad invited partners over, and she helped Mom shop for scheduled trips and parties.” He watches me as though expecting me to react to his words. I’m not sure which reaction he’s expecting and can’t offer one because it’s difficult for me to fathom this lifestyle, even tonight, when I’m stuck in the pages of fiction.
“Then, when I was born, she helped take care of me.” He shrugs. “Not exactly a nanny because my mom was always here with me, but, sort of in that way, helping when they were out, watching me if my mom wasn’t feeling well, and later when she started meeting with counselors and lawyers leading up to their divorce.” He pulls in another breath, his chest rising as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a contradiction of strength with his broad shoulders and stacks of muscles to the story of the little boy he’s telling me about. “She’s not blood, but she’s family all the same.”
We pass a wall of windows reminding me of an airport terminal as they go from floor to ceiling and are the first without heavy draperies blocking the view. I pause in front of one, the pane of glass a mirror because the sun has been set for a couple of hours, yet I know exactly what this view would be if it were light.
“You have a view of the Sound.”
“When I was a kid, I used to come up here and watch your orcas.”
Hearing this makes my heart swell. A tie forms between us, one I have little doubt is made from fabrication and hope, knowing that just because he watched them doesn’t mean we share anything but a disconnected past. Still, a peacefulness seeps into my thoughts, picturing Lincoln as a boy, sitting for hours like orcas often require.
I glance at his reflection in the window before turning to face him. “I can’t picture you as a kid,” I admit.
His lips quirk with a smile. “That’s a good thing.”
I laugh outright, the feeling so freeing I cling to it, stretching the moment when Lincoln chuckles along with me.
“Come here.” He continues, and I hurry to catch up with him, debating why if one has an art collection, they’d tuck it this far away. Lincoln opens a door that breaks a suction, and I can feel the temperature change as we pass through the threshold, a series of lights flipping on with our steps. It’s a large square room without a single window of glass that looks out to a hallway and dozens of pictures that offer to take me into other worlds made of brush strokes and paint. Each wall seems to represent a different style of art, ones I don’t know their names of only their differences. Cartoonish figures with bright colors and straight lines beside images of paint that explode across the canvas in blobs and shapes that feel as messy as my emotions and thoughts, and then landscapes and portraits complete the space.