“Mami! Mami, open up!”
But the door didn’t budge.
Aidan stared at the metal knob and the closed wooden door, feeling hot tears sting his eyes.
“Mami,” he croaked before knocking again.
“I can cook you dinner, if you’d like.”
Aidan jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. He turned to find Delilah standing at the end of the corridor, at the top of the stairs, holding her hand out to him.
“I’ll make you whatever you want,” she said.
Aidan glanced back at the closed door, waiting to hear his mother’s footsteps or the sound of the lock being removed, but he heard neither. Finally, he turned back to face Delilah.
“Okay,” he said and walked toward her.
She threw an arm around his shoulders, gave him a squeeze, and guided him downstairs while Sam Cooke continued to wail behind his mother’s bedroom door.
* * *
Aidan returned to the kitchen ten minutes after Delilah had dismissed him, wearing an outfit he figured she would find more acceptable: a blue-striped dress shirt and chinos. He was even wearing Oxfords.
There. I changed my clothes. I’m a good little boy, he thought sarcastically as he glanced down at himself.
He watched through the kitchen opening as Delilah set ceramic plates and long-stemmed glasses on her dining room table. She adjusted a vase of roses at the center of the table, then fussily wiped at the wrinkles on the white tablecloth. She looked like she was preparing for a visit from an ambassador or maybe the president.
Just who the hell did she invite tonight?
Midway through adjusting a fork and knife, Delilah’s head shot up, quick and alert—like a squirrel hearing a twig snap, signaling the presence of a hunter. But her face didn’t crease with alarm or fear. Instead, she smiled and clapped her hands.
“I hear a car pulling up,” she said gleefully before darting around the dining room table and scurrying to the front door. She patted at her hair, smoothing her curls into place.
“Whose car?” he called after her.
“Our dinner guest!”
Aidan followed her with a mix of bewilderment and amused interest. She certainly hadn’t acted this way when they’d had guests in the past.
Delilah threw open the front door and bounded down the wooden steps as fast as her stiff knees would allow.
“I’m so happy you came, honey!” she shouted just as a forest green minivan with a rusted bumper and tinted windows came to a stop in the driveway.
The driver’s-side door opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore a simple, pale yellow sundress and an equally simple blue sweater and white canvas shoes. In fact, everything about her was simple, from the way she wore her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the crown of her head to the lack of any jewelry or makeup on her pale, heart-shaped face. The only thing about her that stood out were her eyes—big dark eyes like a doe’s. Audrey Hepburn eyes.
Aidan leaned against the door frame as Delilah opened her arms and embraced the woman, who accepted Delilah’s hug clumsily. She laughed and patted Delilah on the back in return.
The woman looked like she may have been beautiful once, but now she could pass for cute, at best, thanks to the waxy sheen of her skin, the frown lines near her mouth, and the weary look about her. But she would be beautiful again. He could see it even now. If she was next in line to stay at Harbor Hill, with time she would go through the same transformation all the women did. And he would be part of the transformation.
Aidan put on a charming smile, happy he had changed clothes and thrown on some cologne. He stepped forward as the woman reached inside her car and pulled out a bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat. He eyed the wilted daises. They looked like they had been purchased in a rush at a gas station.
“Are you going to introduce us, Dee?” he asked, strolling down the stairs.
The woman suddenly looked up at Aidan. She must not have realized he’d been standing on the porch the whole time. Delilah took a step back and gave him a rueful look.
“This is Aidan,” she said. “He’s my groundskeeper, and he helps fix things around the house. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
“Hello,” he said, pouring caramel into his voice. He walked across the driveway and held his hand out to her. His smile widened, revealing his pearly white teeth; he hadn’t bleached them in years, but they still looked nearly perfect. “It’s pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .”
“T-T-Tracey . . . Tracey Walters,” she stammered, barely shaking his hand before letting it go, giving him only a brief feel of her soft, warm palm. “P-pleasure to meet you too.” She then abruptly turned and headed to the rear door of her minivan.
Aidan cocked an eyebrow. She was nervous. He found it rather sweet.
“Do you need any help with . . .”
His words tapered off when Tracey opened the rear door and reached inside. The other rear door flung open, and a little boy leapt out, making Aidan blink in surprise. The boy hopped onto the asphalt, clutching an action figure in his fist. He peered up at Harbor Hill, slack-jawed.
“This place is big, Mommy!” the boy yelled. “It’s bigger than the White House!”
Aidan then watched as the woman leaned inside again and undid the straps on a car seat in the back where a little girl sat. She couldn’t have been much more than a year old. She had a cherubic face and eyes as big as her mother’s, but instead of being the color of hot cocoa, they were a shade of blue. It was the same shade as the water off the coast of St. Croix he and Trish had skinny-dipped in during their honeymoon seven years ago. It was a blue so clear you could see all the way down to the coral and fish on the ocean bottom.
When Aidan saw the little girl and those big beautiful eyes, his smile dissolved. He took an unsteady step back.
The boy continued to gush about the house, and Tracey wrestled the little girl out of the car seat. Aidan turned and glared at Delilah, who seemed to be purposely avoiding his gaze.
What was Delilah thinking, bringing kids into this home?
His hands clenched into fists. He shoved them into his pockets.
Yes, children had lived at Harbor Hill before. Hell, he had been one of those children long ago. But why would Delilah do this now, while he was still living here. For the past four years, since he had moved in to help her with the property in exchange for free room and board, Delilah hadn’t invited any women with children to live with her. He hadn’t asked her explicitly not to do it, but she knew . . . she knew how he felt about it.
Goddammit.
“This is Maggie,” Tracey said proudly as she propped the little girl on her hip. Her nervousness had disappeared, and she seemed almost radiant, gazing at her little girl. “Say hi, Maggie!”
“Hi,” the little blond girl chirped, closing, then opening her hand before shoving her sippy cup into her mouth.
“And this is Caleb.” Tracey reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, which was a blond several shades darker than his sister’s.
“Hey,” Caleb said with a bashful wave.
Aidan didn’t respond. His mouth was sealed by a tight band of anger.
“Well, you three come on inside,” Delilah said, turning and waving them toward the stairs. “Dinner is done, and I warn you, it’s a big one. I hope you all brought your appetites!”
Aidan watched helplessly as they made their way toward the house, hand in hand, climbing the stairs and laughing and talking with one another as though they were already at home.
Throughout dinner, the laughing and talking continued, though Aidan remained conspicuously silent. He watched as Delilah did her best to charm her guests, engaging Tracey and coddling the children. All the while, Aidan shoved food around his plate. Occasionally, his eyes would drift from his plate to the little girl with the magnetic blue eyes.
He remembered staring into similar eyes years ago, as he stood in the sunlight of a bay window with the smell of baby powder in the
air. He remembered gazing into those eyes in the dark as he wearily rocked back and forth in a white glider that was too small for his tall frame. Those vivid memories haunted him. They stole his appetite.
Aidan had nothing against Tracey Walters and her children, but he wanted them away from the dinner table, this house, and the entire property of Harbor Hill. He hoped they hated Delilah’s home and her clawing eagerness to please and entertain them. He hoped they walked out the door and never came back.
Hours later, after they had left and the dinner table was covered with dirty plates and half-empty casserole dishes, Aidan sat silently in his chair, staring into a glass of Merlot.
“Well, that went well, if I do say so myself,” Delilah practically sang as she began to gather plates that she would carry to the kitchen and place in the dishwasher. “They all seemed to love dinner. I hope they loved Harbor Hill just as much.”
Aidan didn’t answer her but instead leaned back in his chair and took another sip from his glass.
“Are you going to help me clean up or just sit there gatherin’ dust?” she asked.
When he didn’t budge, she paused and squinted at him.
“What’s the matter with you? You were quiet all evening . . . barely said a thing during dinner, which isn’t like you.” She wiggled her brows. “I’ve never known you to pass up the chance to flirt.”
“You aren’t seriously considering having her move in here, are you?”
“Sure. Why not? She’s a young lady who needs help . . . a place to stay.”
“She has kids, Dee. You know how I feel about kids, especially young ones.”
Delilah loudly sighed and lowered the stack of dishes she held back to the table. “You always liked children, Aidan. Up until a few years ago—”
“You know what happened,” he said tightly. “You know what happened, so why would you do this? Are you doing it on purpose? Is that it?”
The dining room fell silent. Delilah walked around the table and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Aidan, you’re still a young man. You’ve still got plenty of life ahead of you. Trust me when I say that if you keep dragging the past around behind you, the load doesn’t get easier to carry with time, honey. It just gets heavier. You’ve got to . . . you need to just . . .”
She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. He already knew what she was going to say.
You need to move on.
Like what he had been through could be slept off as if it were nothing more than a light case of food poisoning or a bad hangover. Like what had happened to him wouldn’t be painted into his memory until his dying day.
“Save it. Save it for the women you drag in off the street! I don’t need your pseudo-psychology or your half-assed spiritualism, okay?”
“No, I think you need it more than they do. You need it more than most.”
He shot out of his chair and rose to his feet, making her jump back. He strode across the room, toward the dining room’s entrance, then paused.
“Maybe I’ll just leave! You can move them in instead. How about that? Huh, Dee? Let her mow your grass and clean your fucking gutters. Let her remind you to take your pills, set up your cable, and turn off your car lights when you leave them on. Let her be your babysitter! I’ll just pack up my shit and go!”
“You aren’t going to leave, Aidan,” she replied tiredly, gathering plates again.
“Why the hell wouldn’t I leave? What makes you so sure?” he yelled. “I’m not shackled to this place. Trust me! I can pack up and head out whenever I damn well—”
“Because if you were going to leave, you would’ve done it by now!” she shouted back. “You would have left a year ago! Two years ago! But the truth is you’re not ready. You’re not ready, boy! And at rate you’re going . . .”—she took a deep breath, making her nostrils flare—“. . . you never will be.”
He then watched as she stomped out of the dining room and into the kitchen, carrying the burden of heavy dishes alone.
In the wake of Delilah’s exit, Aidan’s anger seeped out of him, leaving behind the deflated balloon of emptiness. He walked out of the dining room, up the staircase, and down the hall, slamming his bedroom door behind him. He beelined for his stereo system and pressed a few buttons, turning up the volume so he could almost feel the voice coming from the speakers. He slumped back onto his bed and closed his eyes, listening to Otis Redding promise that change would soon come. Aidan listened to it until he drifted off to sleep, hearing the words in his dreams.
CHAPTER 7
“Caleb, stop fidgeting, please?” Tracey beseeched her son as she peered out the shop window at the passersby. She clutched Maggie on her lap and bounced her gently. “Your grandmother will be here at any moment. All right? Just sit down. Why don’t you color in your book, honey?”
But Caleb didn’t want to sit down or color in the Elmo-themed coloring book she had brought to the shop to keep him busy. Instead, he kept hopping on and off his plastic chair, climbing on top of the seat and leaning from side to side, making growling and banging noises with his treasured Hulk action figure, annoying his frazzled mother in the process. Caleb also seemed to be annoying the man sitting at the small table behind them who was typing on his laptop while trying to enjoy a panini and iced coffee. The man kept glaring over his hunched shoulders at Caleb, muttering to himself.
“I don’t like this!” Caleb suddenly cried as he pulled at the straps of his overalls. “Can I take it off, please? It’s itchy!”
“As soon as we get home, but you have to keep it on for now.” She tugged his hands away. “Wear it for just a bit longer. Okay?”
“But why?” he whined, pulling at the straps again.
Because your grandmother bought it for you, she thought, though she didn’t say the words aloud. She was too embarrassed to admit it.
She was making Caleb wear stiff, denim overalls covered with an appliqué of choo-choo trains better suited for a two-year-old than for a boy of almost seven, because her mother had purchased the outfit. She didn’t want her mother to complain or to point out for the umpteenth time, “I buy the children clothes, Tracey, but I never see them wearing them. For someone who constantly asks for money, you’d think you’d be grateful for the things I give you.”
And now Tracey was about to ask to borrow money again. At the end of the month, they officially would have no place to live. If she and the kids were going to move to a new home, they needed cash to augment the little she had left in savings—but she couldn’t tell her mother this. She knew what her mother would say.
So Tracey had a little white lie prepared. She would tell her mother the money was for Caleb. He did have book fees, soccer fees, and field trips coming up.
“I don’t want him to feel left out, Mom,” she would say. “He shouldn’t be forced to sit on the sidelines because his mother’s too poor to let him participate.”
Finally, Tracey saw her mother gliding down the sidewalk. As usual, Gwendolyn Humphries appeared flawless. Her dark hair was cut in a glossy, chic bob she had probably had dyed and trimmed only days ago. The dark locks blew back with a gust of wind, revealing makeup likely applied by one of the girls at a mall MAC counter. Gwendolyn wore a cream-colored jacket and tanned slacks. A smart leather Chanel handbag dangled from the crook of her arm. When she tugged the door open, she half-heartedly waved at Tracey and the kids, spotting them instantly.
“Well, there you are,” she said as she strode toward their table, like she had been looking for them for hours and hadn’t only just arrived. “Ninety-five was an absolute nightmare! A four-car pileup near one of the exits, and we had to be rerouted. It took me forever to make my way here!” she rambled. “Why on earth did you have to move so far away?”
“Hi, Grandma!” Caleb yelped, hopping off his chair and galloping across the shop toward his grandmother. He plowed face-first into her, wrapping his arms around her waist, making her stumble back slightly under his weight.
> Instead of smiling and eagerly returning his hug, she placed her hands on his shoulders and eased him back. “Oooo, sticky fingers. Sticky fingers! Don’t mess up Grandma’s St. John, honey.”
Tracey grimaced. How could her mother be so formal and awkward around her own grandchild? But then again, her mother had never been very maternal. Even during her years of raising Tracey, she had often differed with the nannies when it came to mothering. Gwendolyn wasn’t the type of mom who baked cookies, kissed boo-boos, or ferried a caravan of kids to and from dance practice. But she could tell you what clothes to wear, how to keep your figure trim, and how to make the right social connections.
“Frankly,” her mother had confided once, “I’ve never found children very interesting. I was so relieved when you finally grew up!”
Caleb now grinned up at Gwendolyn, who nodded politely down at him like he was a fellow attendee at one of her country club socials. “How are you, Caleb? Being a good boy, I hope.”
“Yes!” he said before grabbing her hand and tugging her toward their table. Gwendolyn followed him, though seemingly with great reluctance.
As they walked, the door to the shop swung open again, and another woman stepped through the doorway. She was an old black woman with a warm smile, waving at the young man behind the counter.
When Tracey saw her, she grinned and sat upright in her chair. She raised her hand and almost shouted out, “Ms. Grey!” but stopped herself when the woman drew closer and took one of the nearby tables, placing her canvas tote bag on its metal surface. Tracey’s grin fell when she realized it wasn’t Delilah Grey. She lowered her hand, dejected.
Unlike Gwendolyn, Delilah hadn’t been awkward around Caleb or Maggie. She had joked with Caleb during dinner and played with Maggie, who had gotten fussy midway through the meal. She had given them all a lovely evening, so lovely Tracey had been almost able to ignore the sullen-looking handyman/gardener, Aidan.
She had tried to draw him out once, but he either hadn’t heard her or had outright ignored her. He seemed content with his glum silence, and after a while, she had been equally happy to leave him to it. She’d been admittedly caught off guard by how handsome he was, but she knew not to be too overwhelmed by a pretty face. She’d learned that hard lesson long ago.
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