Crossed Lines
Page 2
He grunts out a noise that could pass for a laugh. “You know what. Stealing cars. Setting fires. What got you expelled this time? Having sex in public? Anything for attention—”
“But what else am I supposed to do for fun?” I waggle my eyebrows in mock seriousness. “Besides, isn’t it a little too early to jump to conclusions?” I start to fiddle with the strap of my seat belt. “Maybe we should turn around and inform Mr. Lawyer of this new development?”
The threat almost always works the first time. Aunt Lily flushed but bit her tongue, as did Caroline and Marcia. No one wants to be deemed a failure after five damn minutes.
I beam at Thorny, watching him from the corner of my eye. He’s straight as a board, his jaw practically chiseled from tension.
“I could lead the way?” I pointedly tug on the door, pushing it open just a crack.
When he doesn’t relent, I open the door wider and brace my foot against a patch of grass.
“Maryanne.” Thorny’s using his angry voice, reminding me how big he is, how much he exudes authority. Six feet of lanky, lean muscle packaged in a tailored gray suit. “Don’t you dare—”
I lurch out of the car, giggling as my skirt flounces around me. It’s not my fault; he said the magic word.
“Oh, darn, Daddy.” I tilt my head up at the sky, leaving myself open to more falling raindrops. They splatter on my cheeks and my nose, dripping into my mouth when I speak. “Looks like we’ll have to go back after all. And, gosh, how on Earth will we explain how I got so wet?”
When a car door slams, I instinctively skip a few steps to my right in case he’s marching toward me. I glance at the car, however, and he’s still seated. My door is the one he closed.
“1623 Hartford Lane,” Thorny growls to me through the window. “If you don’t show up within the hour, I’ll assume that you made your choice and I’ll have your things shipped right back to the hospital.”
The car engine roars to life, and I only have enough sense to lunge halfheartedly for the door as he takes off, peeling down the road.
Damn! There was always a fine line to toe with Thorny.
He was never like the others, easy to irritate and oh-so-hard to please. Gritting my teeth, I stare after him as rain pelts me from overhead.
I could go back to Mr. Lawyer with some concocted sordid tale.
But then he might bring up the tiny matter of my file…
No. I narrow my gaze as that red car turns a corner before disappearing from sight. After only a few steps, I realize he’s not coming back. Old, dried grass crunches under my loafers as I pick up speed, painfully aware of how the rain is steadily falling harder.
The first mailbox I pass marking a lone driveway reads 1600.
Twenty-three more to go. Conveniently, that seems like a fitting number, less than a month when all is said and done.
Plenty of time to ensure that Thorny learns the same lesson he’s spent years trying to teach me.
Attachments are for fools. Promises are meant to be broken…
And, despite how pretty they may sound, empty words mean nothing at all.
1623 is marked by a shitty metal placard nailed to a wooden post near yet another driveway, partially hidden by weeds and underbrush. This stretch of road is littered with them, abandoned beachfront properties owned by wealthy families with too much pride to sell them and too much debt to renovate. Overall, the township of Thornton is just an outpost for the rich, where what would be considered creepy and secluded anywhere else is simply called “rustic.” All of Frick Island is like that: a terrifying scenic postcard come to life in the most boring of ways.
I miss LA. With its bright, fluorescent-yellow sun and all the cheery interiors of the psych wards I was shoved into periodically. My last two schools—Hollow Vale Academy and Whorton’s School for Girls—weren’t too bad, either. Even despite their “no tolerance for rule-breaking,” which saw me expelled from each one after about a week.
Which, I can admit, is a record. The first step toward personal growth is accepting your flaws. My name is Maryanne and I excel at being FLAWED.
Maybe that’s why Thorny is so pissed this time? I’ve burned all of my bridges, as my case manager liked to say.
“This is your last chance,” she would stage-whisper during our meetings, as if the nasty truth shouldn’t be spoken too loudly. “One more escapade like what happened at Whorton’s and you could be a ward of the state. Your family could wash their hands of you.”
Which everyone seems to think would be the worst damn scenario.
It’s because the Mayweathers—all two of them alive, counting me and Elaine—are so damn loving, you see. Not to mention that, without my last name, I’d have no claim to my inheritance at all. Grandmama was very clear about that fact.
And even Thorny, no matter how surly and pretentious he pretends to be, would rather put up with my nonsense than watch several million dollars go right down the drain.
My God, I’ve never known people to be so damn loving.
I’ve been in rainstorms more compassionate than all of them combined. This one comes down in torrential waves, gluing my clothes to my skin so that the vicious wind can’t blow my skirt up at least. Talk about consideration. Even the thunder graciously keeps its distance until the moment I crest a hill and finally make out the vast expanse of property on the other side of it.
I fixate my gaze on the house first. Large and white, with marble columns supporting a Victorian-style frame, flanked by a private beach. Déjà vu transports me years into the past. Coincidentally, it was raining back then too, making this wild stretch of private property seem even more foreign and forgotten to my childlike eyes.
“Damn.” I exhale, impressed despite myself.
This is Thornfield.
Thorny really brought me home this time.
The sky above me shifts, allowing a stray ray of sun to pierce the cloud cover and ignite each raindrop. Bit by bit, the storm lets up as I keep picking my way down the paved road slicing clean through the property.
Much like Thorny, it’s organized into neat, color-coded sections. Emerald, overgrown lawns. Tan, dusty sand sprinkled along the edges. Crisp, white wood marking the house and its surrounding structures. I used to imagine it as some giant dollhouse built by an overbearing artist who meticulously planned out the lives of his precious dollies.
But halfway through its construction, he got drunk and skewed the seemingly perfect eaves so that every finalized detail seemed slightly…off.
Elaine and Thorny sure have let the house go. The closer I come, the more cracks in the façade I spot. Finding them all becomes a game of neglected-estate Bingo.
The white paint has turned gray in places, revealing glimpses of the old wood underneath. Some stones in the driveway twist underfoot, uprooted by a thatch of weeds.
Tsk, tsk. Grandmama would roll in her grave. She entrusted this property to him and Elaine, after all. I guess I shouldn’t feel so special: I’m not the only gift Thorny didn’t want from her.
At the end of the driveway is the cherry-red sports car, its headlights flashing. Its tires spit mud as it comes down the road, just enough to illuminate me in a yellowish glow. Suddenly, the car reverses. Parks. Hunched over and shielding his head with one hand, Thorny climbs out and walks away, entering the house.
I feel a strange sensation tickle my throat. Did he get cold feet? As I draw even with the house’s main entrance, I notice a pink suitcase tucked beneath the wraparound porch, out of the still-falling rain.
What a gentleman.
Hissing, I snatch it up by the handle and take the front steps two at a time. Something in my chest twists as I reach for the handle of a pair of oak doors. They could be locked. One nudge proves they aren’t, however.
Surprise, surprise.
Thorny always did love mind games. A sick sense of black humor was the magic ingredient that made his books so damn successful once upon a time. Literary experts and critics alike wer
e allowed to point out what I can’t: he enjoys toying with people more than I do.
He’s not lurking in the foyer to gloat—a treat I wouldn’t be able to resist. The house feels…empty.
My footsteps echo as I drag my suitcase inside and dump it right in the foyer. At a glance, I don’t find Thorny or Elaine descending the winding oak staircase or peeking around one of the two archways branching off the main entryway. Excluding the pitter-patter of rain, it’s quiet—that mythical ideal that didn’t exist in LA, New York, or the other metropolitan cities I’ve been bounced around for half my life.
I can hear myself breathing, fast and shallowly. Panting. I’m tracking water and mud up the fancy staircase to an immaculate upper level. Contrary to the home’s outward appearance, someone sure has gone all out in ensuring that the decorating scheme lives up to Grandmama’s standards. Elaine, I suspect.
My, my, she does love white. It’s the color of the walls. The drapes. The ornate doors with golden knobs. I remember being here as a child, but it doesn’t look so grand in my memory.
Mainly because of Thorny. Surly and stern-faced, he barely let me out of his sight while Elaine sniffled and sobbed with the rest of the guests. Having the funeral here was another one of Grandmama’s non-suggestion suggestions. Her uptown flat was far too small, and well, my father’s home was out of the question.
Yellow crime scene tape doesn’t go well with black, you see.
I swear Elaine decorated this place differently back then. In fact, I vaguely recall more…color. Only the shadows hold any now. They stain the walls like bruises, shifting at the whims of the abusive sun.
Thorny and Elaine have the room with the best view, I bet. The one overlooking the ocean: a metaphor for how their perfect lives look over the rest of us peons. Taking a guess as to where it might be, I head toward the south of the house, peering into each room I pass.
The master craftsman of this dollhouse ensured that every space has the same crisp, neat vibe. Like Elaine, with bedsheets resembling her white-blond hair and canopies every bit as flowing as those designer dresses she likes to wear. Fragile. Shallow. Unoriginal.
They all look the same.
Even the one near the end of the hall—far from hers with Thorny, I presume—with a yellow gift bag placed on the bed beside a card that reads Welcome home, Maryanne!
Oh, Elaine. How quaint. One could hope she won’t wind up regretting those words. Though who am I kidding?
She’ll choke on them.
All in all, my room is bigger than the one I had at Whorton’s. Yippee. The bed frame is tan wood, with one of those gossamer canopies draped over the top. My ivory bedsheets are speckled with tiny pink roses, and my wide bay windows overlook a view of swaying willow trees and a stretch of emerald lawn.
I trail my fingers along the glass and picture Elaine stressing over every detail from the thread count to the heavy cream drapes. God, I bet she picked out the monstrosity I find lurking inside the gift bag as well: a turquoise sweater. Eww. Underneath, I find a silver bracelet in a velvet box, sporting a lone charm in the shape of a seashell.
Welcome to Thornfield, her card conveys in elegant script. She signed it herself.
Thorny did not.
I don’t find him skulking when I return to the hall. Just a few more doors down, I discover an enormous room I assume to be the master suite instead.
It’s the only place with some real damn color. The bedsheets are navy, and the oak frame lacks a canopy. A row of windows reveals a view of the ocean that would make any spoiled brat green with envy, and a sliding glass door opens onto a wide balcony, allowing an up-close view. Seemingly close enough to dive into, the ocean laps at a sandy beach for miles in either direction.
No wonder Thorny hasn’t gotten rid of the property yet. It’s the best damn bribe Grandmama’s money could buy.
I pull my cell phone from my pocket and snap a picture. A nighttime filter makes it look more menacing, darkening the sky and turning the water gray. I send it to Tiff.
Welcome to hell.
She responds with a grainy image of a plastic card that says HALL PASS in bold white letters. Tell me about it. This is the new protocol because of you. Thanks.
I send her a smiley face.
She doesn’t text back.
Sighing, I move closer to the balcony’s edge and lean over it. It overlooks a terrace connected to the first floor of the house. The entire foundation must be built against a cliff, because the lower level has an even broader view of the waves. It’s like they dance right up to the edge of the house, bowing before the holy king of Thornfield.
Thorny.
His majesty frowns down at his watery subjects while drinking straight from a brown bottle. The sun highlights the silvery hints of gray in his hair, and my fingers twitch, aching to tug on a strand or two. Just for fun.
I must have made a sound, because he looks up at me. The more he assesses me, the more he drinks. And drinks. And drinks. Finally, he sets the bottle on the railing and turns away.
Even this close, I can’t hold his attention for long. Did he think I’d really walk all this way? No. He hoped I wouldn’t.
A muscle in my jaw strains. I’m frowning. But why? It’s such a lovely day, with so many opportunities to start over fresh.
Forcing a smile, I call out, “I love my present, Daddy.” I brandish the silver bracelet so that the charm noisily clangs.
He doesn’t turn around. So I shake it harder.
“I said: I love my—” Oops. The bracelet slips from my grip and lands at his feet, dangerously close to the edge of the balcony.
I wait for him to retrieve it, like any good guardian would. Instead, he meets my gaze, his eyes as stormy as the clouds overhead. My stomach lurches, even before he shifts. I watch in slow motion as his foot nudges my bracelet, maybe by accident—maybe not. Either way, poof. It slips through the gaps in the banister and out of sight.
Damn. I smother a frown. Unlike the hideous sweater, I actually liked it. Though, rather than give Thorny the satisfaction, I blow him a kiss and wave.
He cocks his head as if picking up a sound I can’t hear. In the same motion, his elbow nudges the bottle, sending it toppling over the railing. By accident?
I can’t tell as he walks in my direction, presumably toward what caught his attention in the first place. Intrigued, I copy him, slipping back into the master bedroom. On my way to the door, I spot a dresser cluttered with the knickknacks of blissful married life. A woman’s necklace. A crumpled navy tie. A discarded men’s leather watch.
It’s not stealing if it’s a gift—and he owes me. I snatch the watch and tuck it into the pocket of my skirt. It’s heavy in the damp fabric. I’m still soaked, and my shoes squelch with every step, leaving a noticeable trail of watery footprints.
Oops.
I follow them back into the hall and strain my ears to catch the faint hum of voices.
A man grumbles something surly and unintelligible. Thorny.
“What about dinner?” a woman replies, her soft, sweet voice tickling the air. “I thought…you would take her…reconnect.”
Thorny grumbles some more, and I take the liberty of filling in the blanks. She pulled her nonsense again. Why did we even take her in in the first place?
“James,” Elaine gently scolds. “We talked about this. It’s only for a little while, and you promised: we were going to both try to make this feel like home for her.”
They sound closer now. In the foyer, I assume. Tiptoeing toward the staircase, I can make out the golden silhouette of Elaine herself. Still blond. Still tan. Still fond of flowy satin dresses. The one she’s wearing now is a light blue that contrasts with the curls spilling down her back. Dangling from one slim hand is a shopping bag. In the other, she’s holding a bouquet of flowers.
Thorny faces her, his arms crossed. “I warned you,” he says like the all-knowing paragon of wisdom he pretends to be. “You don’t know that girl. She’s—”
“Maryanne!” Elaine contorts her lipstick-coated mouth into a grin and advances toward me, her arms outstretched.
Over her shoulder, I meet Thorny’s gaze and wink. He glowers, and my brain plays that dangerous game of guessing what he might have said. She’s damaged, darling. A nightmare, darling. She’s beyond all damn hope.
“Gosh!” Elaine stops short at the bottom of the staircase. “You look so much like…” She bites her lip to avoid mentioning that unmentionable person.
Your mother.
Clearing her throat, she eyes me again. “But you’re wet! Did you two get caught in the rain?” She glances at Thorny only to wrinkle her nose at his immaculate appearance.
“I decided to walk,” I say, shrugging. “Get some fresh air and take in all Thornfield has to offer. I haven’t been here in ages.”
I sneak another glance at Thorny, but he’s turned away, his jaw twitching. I imagine him grinding his teeth, waiting for the moment my nonsense might come out in full force. When I’ll prove him right.
“A walk?” Elaine sounds unconvinced. “You’re absolutely flushed.” The moment I descend the bottommost step, she lightly pinches my cheek. “You’re about as ripe as a tomato.”
“It’s new blusher,” I say, stepping out of her reach. “Sports-car red. I say it goes marvelously with my eyes, don’t you think?”
Still facing away from me, Thorny doesn’t give me a reaction to go off of.
“By the way, I loved the bracelet,” I tell Elaine. “Truly, I did.”
She blinks. “D-did?”
“It fell when I was admiring the view from the balcony,” I say, shaking my head contritely. “It was gone in a flash. I mean, someone could have kicked it right beyond my reach, it went so fast—”
“I’ll be in the study,” Thorny says over me. He marches toward one of the archways.
“Maybe you could help me find it later, Dad—Uncle Thorny?” I call after him.
He hunches his shoulders.
Elaine giggles. “Oh, sweetheart, he hates going down to the beach. And ‘Thorny’? I haven’t heard that nickname in so long…” She trails off. “He prefers James though. And you don’t have to call me Aunt Elaine. Ellie works just fine.”