As the Light Fades (ARC)

by Catherine West

  “Well. You must be Mia.” His mother came forward first, hesitated a few feet away, and nodded, as though she’d just unlocked a great secret. “Yes.”

  Uh huh. No . . . kidding. Mia swallowed a small cough. Matt knew what she was thinking, and if he was right, they were riding the same train of thought. He almost grinned.

  Just don’t say it out loud, kid.

  Mia studied his parents in silence. Matt wondered what she saw beyond the expensive clothes and jewelry, the stiff way they held themselves, the faint interest in their eyes. He wondered because he wasn’t sure what else there was. Whether she would ever be anything more to them than an embarrassment, proof of their failure to instill moral values in their daughter.

  “You look just like your mother.” Dad peered at her, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

  He felt Mia stiffen as her grandparents approached, and she sent him a sidelong look. He hoped they wouldn’t try to hug her. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d hugged him, so that probably wouldn’t happen. Matt mulled over his father’s words. He hadn’t thought much on it before, but now he saw Rachel in Mia’s eyes, her nose, her smile—when she chose to give it.

  Nobody moved. The moment inched toward painful, and Matt cleared his throat. “Well, dinner’s ready. Mia, do you need to go wash up?”

  “Sure.” She flashed him an almost grateful smile.

  Matt nodded and pushed his fingers through his hair as she skipped out of the room and thumped up the stairs. He settled a wary gaze on his parents. “You ready to eat?” He supposed under normal circumstances, he should have asked if they were okay. But this night was far from normal, and frankly, he didn’t really care.

  “That would be fine, Matthew.” His father straightened, fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt, rolled them up meticulously, then actually offered a smile. “Can I help?”

  “Help?” Matt lifted a brow, not sure he’d heard correctly. The back of his neck was too warm. He hadn’t bothered to dress for dinner, as was their custom. Figured his old jeans and red Henley would do. He crossed the room and cracked a window, cool air flooding in. “Sure, I guess. There’s a bottle of red on the kitchen counter, want to open that?”

  “Consider it done.” And with that, his father strode toward the kitchen, looking uncharacteristically cheerful. Matt followed, his mother behind him.

  “What can I do?” Mom sounded on the verge of tears. She retrieved the white wine from the fridge and refilled her glass with an unsteady hand.

  “Well . . .” He grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the few drops on the floor. “Would you set the table? Everything is still in the same drawers. If you remember.”

  Her laughter seemed a little on the shaky side. “I think I can manage that.” Her smile bothered him. He so rarely saw it. “And while you’re dishing up, perhaps you can tell us who Miss Carlisle is and why in the world she’s moving into your coach house.”

  ten

  DRAKE

  She’s here again. The pretty one. Can’t remember her name, although I think I said it earlier, when she arrived. They told me this morning it was Sunday, and she always comes on Sunday. We sit in the day room, where they have the television turned so loud nobody can hear themselves think.

  Ha.

  Considering the nut-jobs around here, that’s probably a jolly good thing.

  “Did you have a good week, Dad? How was your lunch today?” Always full of questions, this one. She’s agitated, winding her blond hair around her fingers the way her mother used to do. Her blue eyes search my face, pierce through me, and I have to smile. She’s so much like her.

  “Diana.” I say it loud, this little victory. This snatch of memory that will be gone in another instant. “Your mother. You look just like her.”

  She stares at me like I’ve stood up, hand over heart, and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Which I never bothered to remember even when I had a mind that worked. My British pride wouldn’t allow it.

  “Dad . . . thank you.” She smiles and wipes tears. Thank you? Seems a silly thing to say. I must find a reply, but nothing comes. I glare at the television and take a gander around to see if there’s anything I could throw at it. That might shut it up.

  “Shall we go for a walk? It’s warm today. Would you like that?” Pretty asks. “It’s still light out. We can watch the sun go down.” She puts a hand on my arm, hesitantly, like she’s not sure I’ll allow it. Some days I do hate to be touched.

  “Excellent.” My old body creaks as I push up and fumble with the zip on my heavy cardigan. She steps back and waits for me to accomplish the tedious task. Knows better than to try to help me.

  We amble out to the expansive patio and I breathe in sea air. Whoopee! Watching the sun go down on another day ranks right up there with forcing my way through the slop they serve up at this place and dare call edible. “Cecily can bring dinner.” Confound the woman. For all her faults, she sure knew how to cook. Why don’t they hire her here?

  “Oh.” Pretty wears a look of surprise. “Well, I can ask her to bring you something next time she visits.” She laughs a little, and I stare at the flawless features, blue eyes, and nary a hair out of place, searching for the name that won’t come.

  “Liz.” I clap my hands together and she jumps.

  “Yes?” She’s always looking at me like she’s never sure what I’ll do next. Which I suppose is perfectly appropriate. Her guess is as good as mine.

  “Your name. You’re Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She smiles smugly. “I am your eldest and most intelligent daughter.” She pulls a green wool jacket around slender shoulders and we walk a little further. “Shall we sit for a bit? You’re not cold are you?”

  “Hell no. Hot as a furnace in there.” I plop down on the bench, stretch my legs, and study the brown slippers somebody put on my feet. The leather is cracked and faded. Rather like me. The thought produces a chuckle that rumbles through me like the mail truck that chugs up the driveway every morning. And there is usually an envelope or postcard for me.

  From Lynette.

  They tell me, remind me over and over, that she is my daughter. She signs her name, Lynnie, in big, bold letters. Probably thinks she’s making it easy to remember. The loopy writing regales me with descriptive stories about elephants and giraffes and orphan children I couldn’t care less about. I like it when she sends the pictures though. She looks like this one too, all blond haired beauty and quiet elegance, but I think I remember she smiles more.

  This one, not so much.

  “I moved into my new place this weekend.” She . . . Liz . . . sits beside me and studies her fingernails. They are rounded and painted a pretty shell pink. She likes color. Greens and blues and sometimes red. My hands suddenly itch for a paintbrush. Why?

  “A place. Good.” Whether it’s good or not is beside the point. Doesn’t matter to me. “What kind of place?”

  “Oh. It’s a cottage. It’s quite nice, really. I think I’ll be okay there.” She speaks softly, like she’s trying to convince herself. “Although, I’m not sure what’s going on next door. Strange family, if you ask me.”

  “Not like ours.” I have no idea why that pops out of my mouth, but it makes her laugh. Sudden, girlish laughter that makes me stare at her in surprise. But then I laugh too. It feels good, sitting here together, laughing.

  “No, ours is perfect.” She laughs louder, like what she’s just said is the funniest thing in the world.

  “Perfectly perfect.” I like repeating words, putting them together. It helps me remember what they mean. Something tells me our family is far from perfect, but what does it matter now?

  “I thought I’d go over next Saturday, to New York. I’ve booked a flight.” Liz leans back and shades her eyes from the sun. “Evy doesn’t need me at the gallery. I’d like to pick up the rest of my things. From Laurence’s place. I’m not sure if he�
��ll be there, but . . . it’ll be okay.”

  I sit straighter, laughter fading as a chill races through me. That name. It makes me feel . . . what? Anger. I grip her arm and she whips her head around.

  “Ow! What is it, Dad?”

  “Nonsense.” It’s not what I mean. Not what I want to tell her.

  Frustration kicks at my inability to voice my thoughts. A vague flash of memory tells me this is wrong, what she wants to do, going to see that man. This Laurence. I reach for the reason why, but then it’s gone, and I release my grip on her. And the only words I can think to say would have made my very proper English mother scold me from here to kingdom come.

  She doesn’t laugh, but she does smile. A sad sort of smile that squeezes my heart too tight. “Well, I suppose you’re right there.” Her knowing look says that somehow, she understands. And I have to be satisfied with that.

  ___________

  “I can do this.” Liz niggled her lip and stood on the busy Manhattan sidewalk on Saturday afternoon, staring at the building she’d called home just a few months ago. Her palms were sweating. All she had to do was walk through those glass doors and get on the elevator. Back to the place she’d lived for almost two years. With the man she thought might one day become her husband. Until one night, about six months after she moved in, he snapped.

  She couldn’t remember why now. Laurence never really needed a reason. She could say the wrong thing, laugh at something he didn’t find amusing, look at him the wrong way, it didn’t matter. Once his eyes narrowed and he stared in that cold, calculating way that warned of hell heading straight for her, there was no logic in it. Nothing she could say or do to stop the demon from overtaking him.

  And yet she stayed.

  And hated herself a little more each day.

  She knew the dangers of self-deprecation. Her counselor consistently warned her away from unhealthy thoughts and gently pushed her toward a place of forgiveness. But Liz wasn’t sure she’d ever get there. Most days it was easier to ignore the healing work she still had ahead of her.

  She jumped as someone jostled by in their hurry to get wherever they were going. Heart pounding, she swallowed all reservations and entered the building.

  Of course it would be okay. She’d heard from Susan, her former secretary and friend when it suited, that Laurence was planning to be on the Cape this weekend. His parents owned a monstrosity of a home in one of the area’s most exclusive neighborhoods. They traveled frequently and were rarely there. Laurence was happy to put it to good use. She recalled many weekend events and parties they’d hosted together. She’d been younger and more naïve then. Actually believed she belonged there. Imagined welcoming the rich and famous crowd he ran with into her home, once she became Mrs. Laurence Broadhurst.

  Now the very idea conjured up nothing but nausea.

  Liz removed her sunglasses, walked through the foyer, past the concierge who tipped his head her way as though she still belonged there, and headed toward the elevators.

  And then she saw him.

  Laurence. Coming out of the stairwell from the parking lot, engaged in deep conversation with a slender brunette, hands linked, heads almost touching.

  Liz froze, unable to move, even though she knew she must. For a split-second, the world stopped spinning. And she thought he might have seen her.

  She backed up, slid on her shades, and slammed against the marble wall in the corner of the lobby. She held her breath as they approached, thinking he would stop at any moment. But they kept walking. Right past her.

  He moved with brash confidence. She used to love that. The easy way he talked, the long stride, the stylish clothes—today he was in casual attire, in madras shorts and a white polo pulled tight over sculpted muscles he toned to exhaustion daily. His dark hair was combed back, smooth jaw sporting just a touch of stubble, giving him that sexy bad-boy look he worked to full advantage. He flashed a smile at the woman as she laughed, and Liz was momentarily disarmed.

  Tempted to call out, let him know that she was here.

  For an alarming moment, she imagined being back in his arms, running her hands over the rippling muscles of his back. Saw herself swept off her feet, his mouth close to hers, whispering words he knew she needed to hear. Telling her she was beautiful. Beyond perfection. His and his alone. Then he would kiss her. Kiss her so deeply and fully that her entire being quivered and cried out for more. It never took long for him to convince her to put down whatever she was doing and retreat down the hall. The good moments between them always convinced her things would get better. Things would not be this way forever. Even when his gentle touch turned rough and his words grew venomous, she told herself he didn’t mean it.

  He always apologized. Tearfully. With presents and promises.

  And she would always forgive him. Feeling dirty and used up and completely unable to do anything about it.

  Her heart clenched and she brought a fist to her mouth. What was wrong with her? What did she think she was doing, coming here?

  She watched them exit the building, let out her breath in a low exhale, took off her shades and wiped her eyes.

  This was probably the stupidest thing she’d done since the last time she’d let him lead her down the hall, knowing they’d both had too much to drink. Knowing his mood was foul with talks of a company takeover. Knowing that no matter how hard she tried, how much she tried to distract him, sooner or later he’d turn, and she would be at his mercy, begging him to stop.

  He never stopped.

  Liz moved toward the elevator, and a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  No. Oh, no.

  Liz stifled a scream, jerked out of his grasp, and whirled to face him. Forced herself to meet his eyes and sucked in a shaky breath as she clenched her hands at her sides. “I came for the rest of my things.” Things she was so desperate to have that she’d put herself in the most dangerous position.

  “Really?” He narrowed his eyes, leaning in a little. She could smell the faint hint of toffee on his breath. His one weakness when it came to sweets. “Were you planning on breaking and entering, Lizzie? I’ve had the locks changed.”

  Of course he had. Sweat slid down her spine, but she pushed her shoulders back. “You can’t keep my things, Laurence. That stuff belongs to me.”

  “Ah. Well. Since your boxes are still in my apartment, I suppose, technically, they belong to me.”

  She wouldn’t argue the legalities. Liz took a step back and tried to smile. “Perhaps we could be civil about this.”

  A familiar glint crept into his eyes. “Of course. Why would I want to keep your things?” He sounded perfectly amenable, although she suspected a silent rage seethed on the inside. “Everything is boxed up in the spare room. All you had to do was ask. I’ll have them shipped over, shall I? To your parents’ home on the island? That is where you’re living, isn’t it?”

  Liz shook her head, her hands starting to shake. “I’ll call your secretary with an address.” And it wouldn’t be one on Nantucket. She attempted to side-step him, but he blocked her path, his smile gone.

  “No need to lie about it. I know where you are.” His voice chilled her and made her wish she’d never come. “Leaving me was the biggest mistake you ever made. You know that, don’t you?” Cold eyes pierced her as he stood in silence.

  Say something! Everything in her wanted to scream every single evil thought she’d ever had about him. Wanted to list each and every reason why she should have left him long ago. But Liz could only stand mute, pinned under his glare. Finally, he stepped away, putting much-needed space between them.

  “Just remember, Lizzie, anything you say against me is simply the word of a jilted lover. Nobody will ever believe you. And if you ever try to take me down, I will find you.” He grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Hard. “I will always find you.”

  eleven

  Liz jumped as a sudden gust of wind rushed through the open windows of the cot
tage on Sunday afternoon and slammed a door shut. She almost dropped the box of dishes she was carrying in from the car. She’d been back on the island since yesterday evening and still didn’t feel safe. Still couldn’t breathe properly, her nerves frayed, her heart rate through the roof. She’d barely slept; saw Laurence around every corner, waiting for her.

  Instinct almost made her head home, straight to Wyldewood, when she got off the ferry last night instead of here to her own place. It was too new here. Too foreign. But she didn’t want to deal with David’s questions, so she’d returned to the coach house, pushed a heavy chair against the front door, and slept with the light on all night.

  David was helping with the rest of her move today. He’d been busy last weekend, so she’d only brought clothes and a few boxes, enough to manage for the week until he could bring the rest in his truck.

  He probably knew she’d gone to New York. He’d called her cell a couple of times yesterday, and she let it go to voicemail. The way he unloaded the back of his truck in stormy silence, giving her the eye every once in a while, said he was biding his time, probably trying to figure out how to ask without yelling.

  Because she’d promised her brother she wouldn’t go back without him.

  And she shouldn’t have.

  When she replayed those few minutes after seeing Laurence and the woman he was with, she wished she had walked straight up to them, demanded he let her into the apartment, and given that girl fair warning about the man Laurence really was. But she was weak. She’d lost her nerve the minute she laid eyes on him, allowed fear to paralyze her into silence.

  Liz lifted white china plates and placed them in the cupboard of her kitchen.

  Her kitchen.

  When she’d lived with Laurence, they’d barely used the pristine long room at the front of the penthouse, all cold steel, and white granite. Laurence was very particular about his food, and she quickly learned that the better option was to go out to his favorite restaurants. Or accept the too frequent impromptu visits from his overbearing British mother and let her do the cooking when she was in town.