“Yeah, I remember. Our families were partners.”
“Yes. And it’s thanks to your family Weston Acres existed at all.”
“So where are all the sheep now?”
“Those that remain are at Weston Acres. After you and your mum left, Isidore spent the next couple of years working on a new business plan to help Stockton Farms make a profitable transition into the twenty-first century, which is why he came up with the Brighton and Hove Stockton Allotment. The BHSA. What you’ve just seen.”
“You’re saying all those shacks and poor people bring in money?”
“Yes,” she laughs, “and they’re far from poor. Those people are some of the wealthiest merchants and business owners from Brighton, Hove, and London, and they have a lot invested in your family’s vision.”
“Which is?”
“Community. A means for people to connect with each other free from the noise of their busy lives.”
“How do you know so much about all of this?”
“It’s my job. Just before your family established the allotment — ”
“The rentable gardens?” I interject.
“Yes. They sold off half of their farm flock of Southdown sheep and used that money to acquire the Weston Acres farmland from my parents. That’s where they relocated the remaining livestock, which is what I manage. Wool, meat, breeding, I oversee it all. But most importantly, I’m responsible for cultivating the allotment’s fertilizer. Suffice to say, I’ve grown accustomed to the smell,” she laughs. “Up until a few days ago, your father was my boss.”
“And your parents? How are they?”
Lucy sighs. “They’re no longer with us.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t expect you to. And it’s been many years since then. But enough about me. How’ve you been? What’s your fancy American life like?”
“I wouldn’t call it fancy.”
“Manny” — she touches my arm, sending chills of excitement down my spine — “would you mind taking your sunglasses off while we talk?”
I forgot I still had them on. “Sorry.” I remove the Oakleys. “It’s a bad SoCal habit.”
Lucy’s honey-brown eyes connect with mine, and she smiles. “Much better.”
The minutes turn into hours as Lucy and I update each other on the last two decades. I do my best to follow along with her stories, but it’s hard to focus. Her hair, her vocabulary, the way she laughs — I keep getting lost in the awe of her presence, amazed at the long-awaited reality of Lucy Weston. I almost want to pinch myself to make sure I’m awake.
“Hello? Manny?”
“Huh?”
“I asked how your mum is doing.”
We take a seat on a bench by the shore of Lake Myrrh. Lucy removes her hair-tie, and the scent of the air around her becomes sweeter as her ponytail comes loose.
Focus, Manny. “Mum was doing great, up until she heard about Isidore. She’s coping, as best she can.”
“Understandable. And what about you? How are you doing?”
My knee starts to bounce. “I’m great.”
“You’re great?”
If you disregard the bad dreams, ADHD, and bitterness of being lied to by my mother for twenty years. “Yup. Never better.”
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not bothered.”
The knot in my stomach resurfaces, and my tone grows cold. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Of course.” Lucy lowers her head and interlocks her feet to keep them from dangling below the bench. It’s obvious she’s uncomfortable, no longer hiding behind the mature, sophisticated persona who made my acquaintance earlier this morning. I don’t think she was putting on an act, but it’s clear the woman I met at the beginning of the day is not the girl sitting across the bench. She busies her hands by pulling back her hair and running her fingers along a silver chain and crucifix clasped around her neck. It’s the same one from my dreams, the one she’s had since we were kids.
I check my phone. It’s nearly seven o’clock, but you would never tell by the daylight. “I finally get where the name Brighton comes from,” I say, referring to the nearest city. “The sun never sets here.”
“It’s great for the allotment,” she mumbles. Lucy folds her hands across her lap. “You don’t have to shut me out. I’m well aware you and your father lost touch over the years, but you should know he talked about you all the time.”
Her comment catches me by surprise, but more so, the realization Lucy had a better relationship with my father than I did. “That’s ironic. I assumed I was the furthest thing from Isidore’s mind.”
“Well, you weren’t.”
“Then maybe you can tell me why he never called or visited after we left.”
“That isn’t my business to tell.”
“Okay. Then why didn’t you?”
Lucy looks away and tucks her hands back under her legs.
“I wrote to you. Numerous times. You didn’t get my letters?”
“No. I got them.”
The balloon of nerves in my gut expands once more. “And?”
She remains silent.
The pressure rises higher. “Why didn’t I ever hear from you, Lucy?”
“It’s complicated.”
Bullshit! — my voice explodes like before, and I have to remind myself it’s all in my head. “How is it complicated?”
“I was seven years old.”
“So was I. And I still made an effort. What stopped you from writing back? Making a call? Hell, you could’ve sent me a stupid friend request online. Anything.”
“It wasn’t that simple. How much did your mum tell you about Isidore after you left?”
“Don’t change the subject. This has nothing to do with my father.”
“Miss Lucille Weston, is that really you?” Mom approaches us from the house, carrying a padded envelope.
Lucy wipes the corners of her eyes, brushes off her trousers, and tucks the crucifix under her blouse. She pushes her shoulders back and, in one fluid motion, re-ties her hair into a tight ponytail. “Yes, it is, Ms. Stockton,” she exclaims, transforming into the poised woman from this morning.
Oh, she’s good.
“Please, I think it’s about time you called me Minnie. My Lord, you’re all grown up. What happened to the little girl in pigtails?”
“She’s still here.”
And she’s one hell of an actress.
“No. I see a beautiful woman now.”
Lucy blushes. “Oh, Ms. Stockton — I mean, Minnie — you’re too kind.”
“Manny, your package just arrived.” She hands me an envelope from the North Laine Chemist.
My magic. “Great.”
“Lucy, please tell me you’ll stay for dinner.”
“She can’t,” I interject. “Lucy has an appointment she needs to make.”
“Oh, no. Really?”
“Actually, I did have an appointment, but it was rescheduled for tomorrow. I’m free as a bird, and I would be honored to stay for dinner.”
“Good. And you better not be too grown up to ask for seconds. I remember how much you used to like my cooking.” Mom links arms with Lucy, and they proceed to reminisce while making their way to the estate.
I lag behind and tear open the envelope. To my disappointment, the vial inside the pharmacy bag reads Ovisang.
Ovisang? What the hell is this? Generic? It looks nothing like Dexolfor. Dexolfor is a solid rust-green tablet. These pills are dark red gel capsules. No, no, no, this can’t be right
“Put your phone away,” Mom hisses for the second time. I’ve sent a dozen text messages to Dr. Kris regarding the Ovisang, and she hasn’t responded. She’s never not responded.
“More potatoes?” M
om asks.
Lucy dabs the corners of her mouth. “Yes, please. And another roll if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah. Me, too,” I respond.
“Manny, your plate’s half full.”
“I know.” I put my phone away and shovel the remaining portion of potatoes into my mouth.
Lucy smirks as Mom loads her plate and mine. Then she looks in my direction and inhales a whiff of her bread roll before taking the first bite, like she used to do when we were younger. I could be wrong, but I have the feeling Lucy’s initiating an unofficial game of Stuffers… so I eat faster.
Micah hasn’t touched his food, but he has helped himself to four glasses of red wine in the last half hour. At this point, it’s no longer a hunch. I am thoroughly convinced he is indeed an alcoholic.
Mom’s no different, downing mug after mug of hot coffee. I can’t remember having seen her eat anything solid since leaving San Diego, and it’s starting to worry me.
James, the obnoxious cousin I met earlier today, enters the dining room. He’s still wearing his mirrored sunglasses and leather jacket. “I had no idea there was a dinner party. Has the fattest calf been slaughtered in honor of the prodigal son?”
The knot in my stomach returns.
“James, please join us,” Micah exclaims. “There’s plenty of food.”
“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten. But I will have a drink.” James leans across Lucy, retrieving her unused goblet. He fills it to the brim and takes the seat next to her. “Why, Miss Lucy-Goosey, I was wondering when you’d pay us a visit.”
Lucy-Goosey is a nickname I came up with when we were children, and I was the only one allowed to call her that. “How do you know about Lucy-Goosey?” I ask.
James smiles. “Lucy told me. She and I are old acquaintances,” he boasts.
“Painfully old,” Lucy adds.
“James, can you please remove your sunglasses while at the table?” Mom requests.
“Of course.” He removes his shades. “My apologies, Mina.”
“Her name is Minerva,” I clarify. “And how are we related, exactly?”
James’ lips curl into a mischievous grin. He swirls his glass. “I’m your cousin. Right, Grandpapa?”
“Well, whose son are you?” I persist.
“Yes, Grandpapa. Whose son am I?”
Micah opens a fresh bottle of wine. “I think you misunderstood me earlier, Manny. James is your second cousin.”
“Second cousin?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Manuel,” my mother exclaims. “Don’t talk to your grandfather like that.”
“I’m sorry, but one of them is lying.”
She slams her empty mug onto the table. It breaks at the handle. “Emmanuel Stockton!”
“Minerva, calm yourself. The boy has a right to know,” Micah says. “I want no secrets amongst family. James isn’t your cousin, Manny. He’s your uncle.”
“My uncle?”
“Micah — ” Mom pleads. But he raises his finger to silence her.
“Don’t look so surprised. I am your grandpapa, but I am also a man. And there have been one or two women who have fallen in my favor since your grandmama’s passing.”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” That explains a lot: James’ expensive wardrobe, his sense of entitlement, the striking family resemblance… “Are there any other family surprises I should know about?”
Mom and Micah exchange glances. “No,” he replies.
Lucy stands. “Well, I really must be going.”
James also rises. “Allow me to escort you to the door.”
“That won’t be necessary. I know where the door is. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Minnie. And for your hospitality, Micah.”
“Of course,” my mother replies.
“Anytime,” Micah adds, his turquoise eyes beaming. “And thank you for the flowers. They’re Isidore’s favorite.”
“Of course. It’s the least I could do. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Shall we save a seat for Henry?” James inquires before sitting back down.
Lucy’s smile hardens. “Why would I bring Henry?”
“I just assumed…”
“Who’s Henry?” I ask.
“He’s nobody.”
“Nobody?” James remarks. “If that’s how you speak of him, I can’t imagine the things you must say about me.” He continues to swirl his goblet.
“I was going to say he’s nobody Manny should be concerned with, seeing as his stay is so short,” Lucy states.
“So who is he?” I inquire once more.
“He’s my personal assistant.”
James scoffs. “You must view him as more than just a personal assistant by now, considering all the time you spend together.”
Micah clears his throat. “James, you may be excused from the table.”
“But I haven’t finished my wine.”
“Now. Thank you.”
“Very well. Good night, everybody.” James returns his sunglasses to his eyes and exits the dining room.
“Let me get these.” Mom rises from her seat and collects the dirty dishes.
Micah joins her, and in less than a minute, the table is cleared. They disappear into the kitchen.
I should know better than to listen to someone like James, but I feel like there’s more to Henry than Lucy’s letting on. If there weren’t, she would have mentioned him during our hours of conversation earlier today.
“So you have a personal assistant? Wow. You must be a bigger deal than I thought,” I jest.
She drags her crucifix side to side along its chain. “Hardly.”
“How long have you two been…?”
“Manny, Henry and I are not dating.”
“Oh, I know. Because if you were, you would have mentioned him, right?”
“Exactly.”
“And out of curiosity, why didn’t you mention him? Before?”
“Because Henry is new. He’s still in training. I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“I’m sure he’ll do fine. I mean, getting coffee, sheering sheep, how hard could it be?” I force a laugh.
“You’d be surprised.” Lucy glances at her watch. “I should go.”
“Wait. I’m sorry, about earlier today. You caught a lot of Isidore’s stuff, and I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”
“That’s all right. I’d be lying if I said it was completely undeserved. And regardless, I had a good time.”
“Good. Me, too. And don’t worry, we’ll save a seat for Henry.”
Lucy smiles and wraps me in a warm hug. My heart flutters like before. “Thank you. He’ll appreciate that. Bye for now.”
Sleep doesn’t come as easily as it did yesterday. Between James, the Ovisang, and the conversation at dinner, I’ve got too much on my mind and too much in my stomach. Plus, Dr. Kris still hasn’t responded. This isn’t like her. I’d call her office if I could, but that’s impossible without buying a local SIM card for my phone. So I send her an email, instead, inquiring about the lag in communication and the Dexolfor substitute.
Before turning in, I conduct an Internet search on the medicine delivered from North Laine Chemist — “No items found.”
That’s impossible.
I examine the pill vial: Ovisang. Take as needed for the treatment of ADHD. WARNING: Assess tolerance before taking with food.
I send a message to Andrew: Hey. You ever take Ovisang for your ADHD?
He responds: Nope. Never heard of it. Generic?
I write: Don’t know. Maybe? Lost my Dex and was given Ovisang instead. Unsure if I should take it. My shrink won’t respond. Can you ask yours?
Andrew: Sure.
Me: Thanks.
Andrew: And L
ucy? Hot?
Me: GOOD NIGHT ANDREW.
When I awake, the black coat and pants I laid out the night before are gone. In their place are a freshly pressed suit and black leather shoes — fancy European brands I’ve never heard of — provided by Micah, no doubt. I’m not one to accept gifts this expensive under normal circumstances, but there’s nothing normal about today. Today is the day of my father’s funeral.
Like yesterday, I use my Oakleys indoors to avoid the blinding morning sun. It’s disconcerting. The light sensitivity’s never been this noticeable for this long, but then again, it’s been years since I’ve missed this many consecutive Dexolfor doses. There’s no response to my email to Dr. Kris, either, and frankly, her avoidance is starting to piss me off. What kind of doctor does this to a patient?
I head downstairs to the kitchen and find Mom nursing a steaming cup of coffee. She’s in a long black skirt and blazer, with simple pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her nails have a new coat of dark red polish, and her short brown hair is perfectly done. But no amount of makeup or hairspray can mask the cloud that hangs over Minerva’s head. The life behind her green eyes is gone, and my mother’s plump, joyful cheeks sag with the weight of her grief, pulling the sides of her mouth down into a permanent frown. For lack of better words, she looks like crap.
“Morning,” I say, leaving out the “good.”
“Morning. There’s breakfast on the counter if you’re hungry.” She indicates a platter of blueberry scones, sweet cheese, and fresh fruit.
“Thanks. I’m starving.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve woken up this hungry — not counting yesterday, of course.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Horribly. You?”
“Horribly. You look nice in your suit. Is that new?”
I nod. “From Grandpa Micah. Did you tell him my size? Fits perfectly.”
Mom shrugs and closes her eyes. She takes a long, therapeutic sip from her mug. “Thank you for wearing it.”
I continue eating. “You know, coffee’s not gonna help that.” I point to the bags under her eyes. “You need sleep.”
The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Page 4
