Because You're Mine
Page 30
I love him as though he is my own.
I need him.
I want him.
He is mine.
(I have the papers to prove it.)
I owed it to Shirley.
I owed it to myself.
She would be happy knowing he’s with me.
He’s happy.
He’s loved.
He’s safe.
He belongs to me.
present
66
grace
Grace walks through the door. She drops her bag and sees the boys playing a game with Noah in the dining room. Mason hoards his tray of tile letters, arranging and rearranging with an obsessive discipline, while Luca rests his chin in his hand, bored. Noah sits across from them, nursing a beer, and winds the timer.
“Look who’s home,” Noah says.
She smiles and offers a small wave. They have been talking and working through the baggage, and Noah is regaining her trust. He takes what he can get, always on his very best behavior.
Grace shrugs out of her blazer and hangs it on the coatrack by the door. She loves this coatrack; she installed it with Luca. It is a giant slab of wood with skinny arms that fold down like levers. She chooses one at random, hangs her jacket, then removes her shoes. She massages the knots from her instep with her thumb and places her keys in the dish by the door.
She absorbs the idyllic scene with her three boys playing Scrabble. The harmony that exists between them, despite all the adjustments. The tragedies. The changes, both big and small. The months collect on themselves like dust. She tags them by event: moving to Nashville, befriending Noah, the girls, Lee, the trip, the mountain, the aftermath, now. There’s just been so much.
And so much left to do.
She will have to fake losing her pregnancy soon, make Noah experience that loss in the most excruciating way possible. She’ll do it right before her next “doctor’s” appointment. She flashes another smile—one that she’s perfected by now—and motions to the bathroom.
“I’m just going to go wash my hands.” Grace eases into the guest bath, flicks on the water, and studies herself in the mirror as she pumps organic foam into her damp palms.
No one will ever understand the patience it took to pull off something like this. The painstaking planning, the years of organizing, plotting, lying, and pretending. The absolute masterful performance she’s given, in spite of everything.
She soaps and wrings her hands, pumps again. It is an obsessive tendency, this hand washing. Sometimes she worries she’s turning Luca into a germaphobe, but better safe than sick.
As she scrubs, she thinks back to the catalyst. That dreaded phone call. She was acclimating to pumping milk at work and balancing her newly single life as a divorced mom. The phone had registered a Nashville number, and she’d just assumed it was her sister.
It wasn’t.
She’d dropped her iPhone. She’d made arrangements. Once the grief had lessened, she demanded to know exactly what happened, and she couldn’t do that long-distance.
She knew Shirley had been having troubles. Their weekly calls had all but disappeared once Shirley had Harry. Shirley made her promise not to tell their parents she was pregnant or about what had happened at the party.
Though Grace had tried repeatedly to encourage Shirley to get out of that house with that disgusting old man and her horrible best friend, Lee, she’d never listened. Shirley was stubborn and wanted to do things her own way. She insisted she was fine, that her life was turning around, and that she wanted to live on her own terms. Lee had literally ruined Shirley’s life, and now she would never get to do anything except rot in a grave.
It was because of her that Shirley was in that house. Because of her that she’d gotten so drunk and been used and left by Noah at that party. Because of her that she’d gotten pregnant with that drunk’s child. Because of her that she’d given up on her dreams. Because of her that Shirley had relapsed, overdosed, died.
Once Grace moved to Nashville, she immediately wanted to take Lee to court. But Lee had guardianship papers. She legally owned Mason, not her.
So she set a new plan in motion. She found Noah. The Noah. He’d been stupid enough to tell her sister his name at the party. Though Shirley never saw his face, they’d both done obsessive Google searches for Noah Banks. There were twelve. Without seeing his face, Shirley felt she couldn’t identify him. She just wanted to move on. She just wanted to forget.
But Grace didn’t want to forget.
After she found the right Noah, she befriended Lee. It was easy to get all her targets under one roof. People were so clueless at the power of suggestion.
It took years to build a meaningful friendship with Lee. To earn her trust, to suggest guardianship. She’d endured seven years to get back what belonged to her sister.
Grace thinks back to the night Lee died. She hadn’t entirely decided to do it on the trip, but then Lee had told the story about the man at the party. That was Shirley’s story—not Lee’s. Everything happened quickly after that.
The unopened bottle of wine Grace left out on purpose. The confession of her “pregnancy” and relationship with Noah. Going upstairs to bed to let Lee brood alone.
When Lee stalked off to the woods, Grace followed. She’d trailed her all the way to the top, Lee much too drunk to check behind her. After Lee stumbled, Grace capitalized on the moment, bumped her shoulder, and watched her topple over the edge.
Left, right, gone. Bye-bye, Lee.
Grace finishes rinsing her hands. She cranks off the tap and then dries them on a freshly laundered towel. She flips off the bathroom light and walks back to the front to retrieve her phone. Noah rises to collect his belongings and says good-bye to the boys. He approaches Grace and touches her arm.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” His eyes are kind, pleading.
She nods and waits for him to leave. The door clicks, and she exhales. Phase one is complete. Lee is gone. The papers are hers. Mason is hers. Now, it’s Noah’s turn. It’s time for him to lose his unborn baby. It’s time for him to lose Mason, the boy he really loves. It’s time for him to lose her.
She’s already planted the seed in all of the mommy forums about the handsome occupational therapist who is baseless and untrustworthy. She doesn’t have physical proof of what he did to her sister—she knows that—but gossip will ruin him. In her mind, he doesn’t deserve to be around children. She almost relishes the anticipation, what it will physically feel like to destroy the man who treated her sister like an animal in the dark.
She enters the dining room, grazes the cap of Mason’s shoulder, and caresses the crown of Luca’s head. Her spirits swell as she plots the next steps.
She crouches between them. Her knees pop as she lifts slightly and resettles. They both stop what they’re doing to cast a fleeting look her way. She grins, makes eye contact with each of them, and then carefully leans in to whisper:
“Mama’s home.”
acknowledgments
What a whirlwind. As I write this, my first book has not yet launched. I don’t know all of the things I’m in store for, or what the state of my world (or the world) will be when this book lands in your waiting palms.
I do know, however, that I couldn’t have gotten here without the help of my team: both my professional and personal team. My village and tribe. In no particular order, I want to thank:
The entire St. Martin’s Press family. The audio department. My publicists, both internal and external. My agent and editor, to whom this book is dedicated. Nikki Terpilowski at Holloway. The SimplyBe. team. The readers who picked up Not Her Daughter. My writing group, but specifically Cheryl Rieger and Cassidy Trom, who spent countless hours with me, over wine, in both of your beautiful homes in Nashville and New York, helping me figure out this damn book. (The second-book curse is real, y’all.) To the writers I’ve met along the way. To the writers who have provided blurbs. To the last-minute readers who sped-read the final version
of this book and gave me invaluable feedback. To the members of Authors 18—you are all a revelation. To my family, who keeps me grounded and supports me in ways I can’t even articulate. To my husband, who is my biggest supporter, the most creative man I know, and pretty damn dreamy. To my daughter, who is my greatest teacher and my deepest love. To Helena, who gave me the inspiration for Grace. To Lynette Hish, for educating me about sociopaths. To my village of women. To coffee, for keeping me sane. To Argent Pictures, whom I didn’t get to thank in my first book.
And last—but never least—to the readers.
Thank you all for supporting this dream.
Discussion Questions
1. How does the notion of close female friendship enhance Lee’s life as a single mother? Do you think she is easier to fool because she needs someone to rely on?
2. In your opinion, does Grace ever really love Noah? Does she ever come to care about Lee? Or is everything orchestrated around revenge?
3. How does Lee’s relationship with alcohol affect her other relationships? If Grace and Noah never dated, do you think Lee would have broken her sobriety or stayed sober?
4. What does it say about Grace that Mason feels so close to her? Does he respond to goodness within her, or does she have him fooled too?
5. Put yourself in Lee’s shoes. What would you have done once the fire started? Would you have passed Mason off as your own? Left your father in the house?
6. Have you ever had a friend betray you the way Grace does Lee? Does Lee have a right to get upset when she finds out Grace and Noah are having a baby?
7. Discuss Noah’s relationship with Mason. Would he make a good father figure? Is his interest in Mason more selfish than selfless?
8. At what point would you have intervened in Shirley’s path to destruction? When she started dating Harold? When she became pregnant? When she turned back to drugs and alcohol?
9. Lee thinks of her life as a series of things she is addicted to: wine, coffee, what Mason needs. Is Lee also too dependent on the people—Mason, Grace, Noah—in her life?
10. Which relationship is the most complex? Lee and Grace? Lee and Shirley? Grace and Noah? in the bathroom between Shirley and Noah is consensual? Why or why not? Do you think Noah is a bad guy or a guy who’s made some mistakes?
11. What does it say that Mason is often at odds with his mother? In your opinion, is this tied to being a child on the spectrum, or does it reveal something about Lee on a deeper level?
12. Grace assigns Lee the blame for destroying Shirley’s life. Does an individual have that kind of power over someone they love? In your opinion, does Lee cause Shirley’s life to derail completely?
13. Do you feel the scene in the bathroom between Shirley and Noah is consensual? Why or why not? Do you think Noah is a bad guy or a guy who’s made some mistakes?
14. What do you think going on the hike means to Lee? What does it signify about her sense of self and how she sees herself in relation to other women?
15. Do you agree with Grace’s course of action? Does Lee deserve what happens to her? Does Noah?
16. Now that her plan is complete, do you think Grace is at peace?
Read on for an excerpt from the next gripping novel by Rea Frey.
Copyright © 2019 by Rea Frey.
prologue
I’ll never forget him.
The chubby cheeks I kissed a thousand times a day. The baby toes I nibbled. The tuft of hair like soft serve swirling above his head. The way he smelled—like sweet milk and fresh laundry. The exact way he stiffened or drooped in my arms. His stout nose. The fuzzy earlobes. Those bow lips. The slight arch of his feet beneath a flat palm. The tiny clavicle that was caved in slightly on the right where he got stuck during labor.
The morning he disappeared, I’d dressed him in an innocuous white onesie—a glaring oversight I now regret. Why didn’t I put him in something more personalized? Something with an emblem? Something he could be identified in? I’d been so excited to get out of the house, I’d even forgotten his blue pacifier with the zebra on the back. The only piece of him I could hold on to was the anklet with the bells attached.
I’d arrived at the park, giddy with the high of meeting new mom friends. It had been a hard transition with the move, and connecting with other mothers felt like dating: awkward, lots of dashed hopes, and no guarantees. But I’d finally met a few I liked. I was starting to fit in despite the setbacks. Yes, I was new in town, but I was also the only blind mother for miles. I knew my presence raised all kinds of questions about parenthood and how I could possibly know what I was doing with an infant.
At the park, we lined up our strollers in a tidy row behind the benches so we could chat. I hesitated—though I had the bells to alert me if something was wrong. With even the slightest jingle, I could get to Jackson in seconds.
The moment I stood up to throw away a baby wipe, silver and black dots fizzed and popped. I tried to blink them away. Possible reasons shuffled through my mind: I’d not been sleeping. I’d forgotten to eat breakfast. I had low blood pressure. The thoughts dissolved as the ground tilted and wrenched up to meet me before I could even whisper help.
My face landed in dirt. My right cheekbone cracked against the ground, then my elbow, then the delicate skin of my right hip tore across a rock. I could hear children screaming and playing somewhere in my subconscious mind, those primal bodies so sure of themselves as they ran, jumped, and climbed. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the tinkling of bells, but they seemed to be moving farther away from me—not coming from the stroller by the bench.
I heard Jess yelp and lunge for me. Her sturdy arms scooped up the fragile vertebrae of my neck and back like hacking through a wave. I came to, gasping.
“Rebecca? Can you hear me? Are you okay? You fainted. Stay still.” Jess’s hands warmed my skin. Her breath smelled like peppermint. I blinked into the piercingly blue sky with the marshmallow clouds that I could not see—my vision blended into a landslide of colors and hazy images as if someone had flung a washcloth over my face—and waited for the world to stop spinning.
But something was wrong. I could feel it. As I sat up and fingered my sore cheek, I insisted I was fine, when I should have checked the baby.
But I didn’t.
I stayed in the dirt with a cluster of worried mothers knotted around me, all of our babies momentarily forgotten because of my dramatic episode.
Now I keep thinking: If only I hadn’t fainted. If only I had eaten breakfast. If only I hadn’t left the stroller behind the bench.
If only I weren’t blind.
He might still be here. My baby might still be in his stroller, happy as a clam. But he isn’t. He’s gone.
And nothing I do can bring him back again.
Also by Rea Frey
Not Her Daughter
About the Author
Rea Frey is the author of several nonfiction books and two novels. When not writing, reading, or editing, she can be found traveling, homeschooling her daughter, or planning her next adventure. To learn more, visit reafrey.com, or sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
A Note to Readers
Prologue
Part 1: In the Dark
1. Grace
2. Lee
3. Lee
4. Lee
5. Lee
6. Grace
7. Lee
8. Le
e
9. Lee
10. Noah
11. Grace
12. Lee
13. Lee
14. Lee
15. Lee
16. Lee
17. Grace
18. Noah
19. Lee
Part 2: Black Mountain
20. Grace
21. Lee
22. Grace
23. Grace
24. Lee
25. Grace
26. Lee
27. Noah
28. Noah
29. Noah
30. Lee
31. Noah
32. Lee
Part 3: After the Fall
33. Grace
34. Grace
35. Noah
36. Grace
37. Noah
38. Grace
39. Grace
40. Grace
41. Grace
42. Noah
43. Grace
44. Grace
45. Noah
46. Grace
47. Grace
Part 4: The Lies We Tell
48. Grace
49. Noah
50. Lee
51. Grace
52. Noah
53. Noah
54. Noah
55. Grace
56. Noah
57. Lee
58. Noah
59. Lee
60. Lee
61. Lee
62. Grace
63. Lee
64. Grace
65. Lee
66. Grace
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
Teaser
Also by Rea Frey
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BECAUSE YOU’RE MINE. Copyright © 2019 by Rea Frey. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.