by Kendra Leigh
“No, not yet. After we’re married.”
“Way after.” I put emphasis on way, while Ethan just grinned, not acquiescing either way. “Why are you so surprised I said yes?”
The smile faded a little, replaced with a hint of unease as his gaze drifted before returning to mine. It was almost as if he were giving careful consideration to what he was about to say. “I wondered if there was a small part of you that was still worried—”
“No.” I shook my head vigorously. I knew what he was about to say. That maybe I was worried whether there was any truth in my father’s allegations, and frankly it wasn’t something I even wanted to consider.
“Well, you’ll have the DNA test for further verification when we return home.” He was referring to the test my father had insisted on, refusing to take Richard Wilde at his word. Something unidentifiable flickered across Ethan’s face. “That isn’t part of the reason why you don’t want to go home is it?”
“No, I told you. I don’t need a DNA test to prove he’s my father. Your dad’s word is enough for me.”
He nodded and for a few minutes we sat in silence. We hadn’t really spoken about the events that had led up to this vacation. I just didn’t want to reopen the can of festering worms again, preferring instead to move on and forget. I wanted to evolve as the person I was now, not dwell in a past of fucked-upness. But I knew there was a question on everyone’s lips and Ethan was about to ask it.
“Have you thought about what you want to do? About what Mr. Schrader told us?” He paused for a beat, continuing when I made no move to answer. “It was attempted murder, Angel. Your mom died as a result, he deserves to pay for what he’s done.”
“But at a cost to everyone else.” I met his gaze, his expression telling me he was frustrated with my answer, but it was the one he’d been expecting. “Ethan, Ernest Schrader is an old man. Giving evidence against my father would mean incriminating himself. Criminal charges at his age—” I let my words dwindle out, knowing I didn’t need to justify it further. “And then there are the twins. They’ve spent their lifetime believing I robbed them of one parent. I don’t want to be responsible for them losing another.”
“They’re not children anymore, Angel. You’ve had to cope. This decision has to be made on what’s best for you, not them, or Schrader.”
“It is what’s best for me, E. I’m finally out of the dark—happy for the first time in my life. Nothing I can do will bring her back, and now I’ve finally remembered—”
“Remembered? What have you remembered?”
Fuck! I knew having to explain myself was imminent, but I’d just wanted one more night. Talking about this meant talking about my time at the pool house and I hated that. The thought of what I’d gone through—alone—and that it had almost killed me, had torn him apart. Ethan felt responsible, I knew that. He believed that if he hadn’t rushed off like some kind of caveman in search of Sloane, I wouldn’t have confronted my father by myself and been lured into his delusional web of deceit.
“Angel?” Ethan urged me to answer. “What have you remembered?”
“I remembered what happened the day my mom died. When I was at the pool house…” he winced at the mention “…I recalled it in stark detail. Everything. We were waiting for you and your mom. I was throwing pebbles over the wall of Gapstow Bridge into the water. But he arrived instead—we know why now. They started arguing, he was calling her names, and then he was yanking my arm, dragging me away from her. I remember struggling to keep up with him, he was walking so fast, and then I saw the dogs—the Dalmatians—and I was afraid in case they broke free from their leash. When we reached the street, she was trying to pull me off him. She was crying and pleading with him not to hurt me. But he kept saying how I’d always been in the way, that they’d all be better off if I’d never been born. He referred to me as her ‘bastard’. I remember being pushed and the car and the noise, and then I was afraid to look up. I remember my red shoes—remember scuffing my red shoes. And then I was asking for you—” I realized my mistake as soon as it was out of my mouth.
“And I never came.” The regret in his eyes was as physical as his human form. “I’m sorry, A—”
“No, Ethan. Please don’t. You’re here now. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s now that matters. I’m tired of living with one foot in the past.”
A light came on in his eyes, he features relaxing, as if he suddenly understood how crucial it was for me to move on. “I’m glad you finally remembered, baby. Maybe now that you’ve filled in the blanks, you’ll be able to sleep more peacefully. You know what happened to your mom. You know why you’re drawn to Gapstow Bridge and red patent shoes.” He frowned suddenly. “But why the Dalmatians? What’s their significance?”
The moment the haunting enigma of the spotted beasts revealed itself to my conscious memory wasn’t one I wished to impart. The moment my life flashed in front of my eyes in what could have been the last seconds of my mortal existence. The journey between life and death. So I decided I’d tell him only what he needed to know.
“It’s silly really.” A smile played at the edge of my mouth because my fear of the dogs seemed suddenly ridiculous. And despite how I’d remembered it, the memory now was strangely comforting. “Do you recall the photograph your mom showed us of you trying to apply a Band Aid to my knee?”
He nodded. “Angelica takes a tumble—yes, of course I remember.”
“I was chased and pushed to the ground by a goddamn Dalmatian. It tried to lick me to death.” I watched as amusement spread across his handsome face, his dimples crinkling at the edge of his mouth as he tried to stifle a laugh.
“Lick you to death?”
“Yes, Ethan.” I punched his arm playfully. “My knee took the brunt of the fall and you swooped in to make me better. Always my Prince Charming.”
“No wonder my mom decided not to mention that bit. God, I wish I could have remembered.”
We laughed at what would once have been a daunting issue and the weight in the room suddenly lifted.
“You see, E, this is why I want to move on. Finally, I have some happy memories of my childhood. I want to look at the photos of us as kids and me with my mom and smile. Although I’ll miss her every day, I don’t need to live my life in the shadows of her death anymore. I wasn’t responsible, I know that now. I’m free from the guilt that’s bound me; that’s haunted me night and day. Everything is clear to me now, and it’s all because of you. Without you, I’d still be waking up in the freaking closet. But you made me strong enough to face my demons. We’ve done what we set out to do, remember? Slay your demons, and then mine. It’s over, E. You mended me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Blinking my gritty eyes, I glimpsed the time: three-twenty. Jeez, where did the time go? Jackson was due to pick me up in just over an hour so I could head home to get ready. We were having dinner with Richard and Veronica, and although I loved spending time with them, I was having major withdrawal from lack of alone time with Ethan. We’d been home for two days, but the office had beckoned him back to work almost as soon as the plane had landed.
In an attempt to keep my mind occupied, I absorbed myself in the uploading and editing of the reams of images I’d captured in Panama. There were views of sunsets and sunrises, of the mountains and the lagoon. I’d captured shots of exotic looking insects and resident geckos, or simple, effective shots, like a single drop of rainwater clinging to the edge of a tropical leaf. I’d grabbed some shots of the obliging Panamanians in the village, some of the local market and church, and even unsuspecting lovers engrossed in each other as they sipped their wine at the local cantinas. It had been a photographers dream.
My favorite ones though were the ones I’d snapped without forethought, without thinking about light or angles. They were the ones I’d captured mostly while our bodies were naked and intertwined, which was a good ninety-five percent of the time. Some were of Ethan sleeping, his expression boyish and ca
refree, the lines and angles of his face perfectly carved, like a sculptured work of art. Or they were while we basked in the glowing aftermath of our lovemaking, wrapped around each other on the beach or by the firelight in the evening. There were lots of close-ups of Ethan, his striking features bathed in various expressions, which I swear I could read by just glimpsing at the photographs. But many of the shots didn’t even feature our faces, just parts of bodies bound together, united in our love. Our feet or legs entwined, Ethan’s hip resting snugly into mine, or our hands clasped tightly in an inseparable bond. My favorite was one I’d snapped over Ethan’s shoulder while my legs were wrapped around his waist, my interlinking feet the only thing obscuring the curve of his bare butt. The shot was black and white, apart from one splash of color—the shiny, red patent shoes adorning my feet. Each shot was discreet, almost virtuously prudent, but encompassed a strong, artful hint of intimacy. They were of course for our eyes only.
My cell phone invaded the silence of the office, and reluctantly, I tore my gaze away from the image on the screen to answer it. “Angelica Lawson.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Lawson, it’s Rachel from Parker Peterson Real Estates.”
Having listened to Ethan’s advice, I’d finally decided to sell my apartment, with plans to expand the business and invest in larger premises. Gallery sales were increasing nonstop with both new collectors and those wishing to enhance established collections, and we had even received interest from corporations with thematic collections in mind. The city was full of aspiring, talented artists just waiting for opportunities to showcase their work, but in our current location we just didn’t have the space to accommodate them. So with this new plan in mind, I was eager to hear of any interest in my apartment.
“We have a client that’s real interested in viewing your property, Miss Lawson.” Rachel continued “She’s in a great position with no property to sell, but she’d like to view this afternoon. The problem is, I have no one free until six to handle the viewing and I was wondering if—”
“It’s okay, Rachel, I’ll do it. I’m only a couple of blocks away. What time does she want to meet?”
“Oh, that’s perfect. Right away if it’s convenient.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Mouthing a farewell to Jia, who was busy with a client in the foyer, I headed for the bustle of the street, figuring if I navigated the sea of pedestrians cleverly, I could make it in plenty of time without having the hassle of flagging a cab. I’d almost forgotten how wild and noisy the city could be while being holed up in paradise with my Prince Charming. So instead of calling Jackson and shouting above the noise, I decided to bat out a quick text asking him to collect me from the apartment instead of the gallery, as previously arranged.
With my attention on the phone, I almost ran into the man outside on the sidewalk, and even as I glanced up to sidestep him just in time, it took me moments to recognize him. I think maybe it was the contrast to his usual towering gait, the way, as a rule, his mere presence would be enough to cause ominous rumblings of trepidation deep within my gut. But when I looked at my father now, standing with his shoulders slumped, eyes dull with contrition and head bowed in shame, he wasn’t the man I’d spent my life in fear of—the man whose love and acceptance I’d craved and would have given anything to have received even the tiniest fragment of. Because now I stared at this stranger in front of me and felt… nothing.
Since the incident—which is how Ethan and I preferred to refer to what happened—he’d made no attempt to contact me. But the envelope in his hand was enough indication of why he was here. It was identical to the one which had greeted me on my return from Panama. The DNA results which verified, beyond any doubt, that he was my father.
He cleared his throat, but the voice that came out when he spoke was diminutive in comparison to the intimidating boom I was so used to. “Angelica, I… I wanted to see you.” He held up the envelope to direct my attention to it, but my gaze didn’t waver from his. “I guess you received one of these too?” He waited a beat, but when I didn’t respond, he continued. “I, um… I got it wrong. I… messed up, was unfair to you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
He wore his contrition well. His entire demeanor seemed disturbed and shrouded in it, his usual composure absent, and in its place a rare sense of disquiet. But his words felt like an insult. Offensively inadequate. You said sorry if you accidentally stood on someone’s toe, not after you’d stolen their childhood by damning them to Hell.
For a few seconds I waited for an appropriate response to form on my lips, but nothing emerged. I simply had no feelings or words left for this man.
Glancing at the road, I reached out to flag the vacant, heaven-sent, cab coming toward me. As it pulled in to the curb, I couldn’t help notice the mixture of confusion and disappointment developing on my father’s gray-complexioned face.
“Angelica, I said I was sorry.”
Was that a hint of desperation I could hear in his tone?
Ignoring him, I spoke instead to the cab driver through his open window, relaying the address of my apartment. Then I glanced once more at the pitiful man before me and climbed into the cab, the sound of him calling my name ringing in my ears.
I was still waiting to feel something, anything, as I rode the elevator to the floor of my apartment, but the familiar feelings of dread and self-loathing, inadequacy and degradation, which encounters with my father usually impinged on my fragility, were strangely absent. Neither did I feel relief nor joyous that, although his apology was sorely deficient, he’d finally admitted he was wrong. It was all way too little, way too late.
I heard my cell beep with an incoming message.
Jackson says you’re going to the apartment. Why? Is something wrong? x
My crazily assiduous Prince Charming’s relentless concern brought a smile to my face, despite the encounter with my dad. Since the incident, we’d spent very little time apart, and I knew Ethan was struggling with not knowing what I was doing twenty-four hours a day, worrying when he wasn’t certain where I was or why. The dozens of texts I’d received over the last couple of days were evidence of that. There was no need to tell him about my dad until later; he’d only panic and worry and I’d caused him enough worry of late.
With that in mind, I texted back:
Everything’s fine, E. Someone wants to view the apartment. Should only take ten. I’ll call when I’m leaving x
As I pressed send, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. No sooner than I stepped out, the phone was buzzing in my hand with an incoming call—my words clearly hadn’t appeased him. I was about to answer when I noticed the door to the apartment slightly open. Feeling suddenly irked that the realtor must have given the viewer a key and they’d entered without my presence, I silenced the call, dropping the cell into my purse, and strode forward, pushing open the door.
“Hello?” I called out as I entered, allowing the door to hang slightly ajar.
The light in the apartment was muted, the slight gap in the curtains allowing a small amount of natural light to filter through, but there was no immediate sign that anyone was inside. I glanced right, down the corridor toward the bedrooms, but was met with nothing but an eerie silence.
Suddenly, I couldn’t remember leaving the curtains closed last time I’d swung by and my scalp began to prickle with the first murmurings of unease. That’s when I noticed a flicker of movement in the kitchen. I narrowed my eyes, squinting across the shadowy open space to the breakfast island, unease switching to fear as I focused on the gently recurring vacillation atop. The object began to take shape, materializing so visibly that I wondered how I could have possibly missed it. Feeling drawn, I moved further into the room, my gaze fixed on the tiny orange fish swimming absently around an insufficient glass bowl.
Images of Ponyo and her wretched fate swarmed my mind, the memories triggering a trip wire of warning to my brain, and just as I was about to turn and flee a voice suddenly in
vaded the silence.
“It’s my parting gift to you, do you like it?” Rebecca Staunton’s polished and pretentious accent infiltrated my senses like a poisonous toxin, the shock of the impact causing me to turn so swiftly toward it that I stumbled backward, slamming into the countertop.
As soon as my eyes found the outline of her shape sitting in a chair in the shadows, I could smell her. That sweet, sickly, familiar fragrance was suddenly thick in the air, the pungency causing my stomach to roil in disgust. “What the hell are you doing here?” I spat.
Her repugnant chuckle was steeped in sarcasm. “I said it wasn’t over, Angel.” She enunciated my name like the sound of it amused her. “So I’m here to finish it. I warned you about an auxiliary plan. Although, I’ll admit I decided to shelve Plan B. I mean, why let someone else have all the fun?”
The muffled sound of my cell buzzing inside my purse began again. She stood suddenly, moving around back of the chair to the patio doors and tugging the curtains open, the unexpected brightness momentarily blinding me. “You’ll be glad to know, I did try my best to initiate a plan that wasn’t too terminal, but my goodness you are hard to please.”
Inside I could feel simmering anger beginning to boil, taking possession of the initial shock and fear to flood my heart with adrenaline. She appeared to be fiddling with something in her hands, her fingernails absently scraping over it in an irksome way, but from the angle of her body I couldn’t see what it was.
My cell quieted, the silence lasting mere seconds before it started up again. Ethan would be getting frantic if I didn’t answer soon. I was tired of this shit. “Rebecca, your superciliousness bores me. Get to the point, or get out of my fucking house.”
“The point,” she hissed, “is that if you’d been a good little girl and fallen for Dominic’s charm, this would have been a lot easier on you. All you had to do was prove to Ethan that you would do anything for money and reveal yourself to being the gold-digging whore that we both know you are, and he would have dropped you like shit-stained rag.”
