by Suzan Colon
But I can’t call him from here, not with Chandler right next door. And how would I explain to Daniel why I can’t speak above a whisper? I know I’ll have to tell him about Carson soon, but not while I’m calling from the Wakefield mansion. I also need to minimize the potential for drama. One time when I ignored Daniel after an argument, he called my mother to make sure I was okay. I don’t think she’d appreciate a frantic midnight phone call from Daniel, especially since she doesn’t know where I am.
Ah, I know, I’ll just text him. Everything fine, call u tomorrow. There. Now I can relax.
I jump at the roaring hoot of a howler monkey, my ring tone going off as Daniel calls me. Trying desperately to silence the phone, I drop it, and another Oooooooaaaaaarrrgh! escapes before I can flick the vibe switch. OMG, did I just wake up Chandler and everyone else in the house? I freeze for a moment, but all is quiet, except for the phone humming insistently in my hand. I let the call go to voicemail, but the phone starts humming again immediately. Okay, so I’m not getting away with a mere text. Time to find a quiet place to call Daniel and calm him down. But where?
In a place this size, I can probably find another unoccupied room without too much trouble. I put the phone in the pocket of my borrowed pajama pants and quietly leave the guest bedroom, carefully closing the door behind me so it won’t make a sound. And then I nearly shriek like a howler monkey myself when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Shhh!” Carson holds a finger in front of his lips, suppressing a laugh as I try to compose myself. “I was just coming to get you,” he whispers, putting his arms around me. “And here you are, coming to find me. Sassy girl.” He playfully bites my neck. “Come on,” he murmurs, taking my hand.
“Where are we—” He shushes me again and tugs at my hand, and we tiptoe down the hall. I can’t do anything but follow and secretly turn off my phone.
Carson’s room is lit only by a pillar candle, scented with the sweet smell of surfboard wax. Golden light illuminates a large bed draped in burgundy and navy sheets and a thick comforter. Beyond it is a wall-wide window with a view of the ocean, the waves crashing against the moonlit beach. I hear Carson close the door quietly behind us, and then he pulls me close to him. “Mmm, I missed you,” he murmurs before he starts kissing me passionately and tugging off my borrowed pajama top.
I grab his hands. “Whoa there, partner, should we be doing this?”
He frowns while grinning at me. “We’ve done this on a beach, in a tent, up against a surfboard in your apartment, and in a hedge maze. Shouldn’t we do it in a bed for a change?”
“I meant,” I say, shaking my head, “with your mother and sister just down the hall.”
“Oh, please,” Carson scoffs. “My mother’s so happy I’m home she wouldn’t care, even if she did find out. Which she won’t, if you can be quiet this time,” he smirks. “Besides, they love you.”
“They do?”
“Of course. You’re smart, you’re easygoing, you’re funny, you have your own life. You’re obviously not after my money, because when you met me I had twenty bucks in my pocket. Plus they think you’re the reason I came home.” He gazes deeply into my eyes. “And they’re right.” He leans down and kisses me with slow, sensual depth. His arms circle around me, and he slowly begins guiding me toward the bed. My head may be with Daniel, but my body is so ridiculously with Carson, leaning back pliantly beneath him as he climbs on top of me. Then, abruptly, he stops. “Kate, is that a phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Uh-oh. Caught. Lie? Sort of. “I needed to make a call, but I didn’t want to wake Chandler, so I was going to look for another room where I could be quiet. My mother doesn’t know where I am,” I say, which is true, though inwardly I wince at qualifying this fib.
“Then you should call her,” Carson says, climbing off me. “It’s not too late? You won’t wake her up?”
“She’s awake,” I say, knowing Daniel is probably pacing his apartment fretfully. Just like I’m doing, pacing back and forth in front of Carson’s bed.
“Tell her I can’t wait to meet her,” Carson says. “Hey, I could send a car tomorrow to bring her out here for lunch. Around noon? That would be fun.”
“Uh, I know she’s busy. Another time, for sure.” My demi-truth has totally backfired. I can’t call Daniel in front of Carson, and I can’t think of why I’d need privacy if I’m only speaking to my mother. Carson is beginning to wonder why I’m not making the call. Well, here goes. Wearing an innocent smile, I press Daniel’s number. He picks up before the first ring is half done. “Katy! What—”
“Hey, I’m totally fine and I know how late it is, and I can’t really talk, but I just wanted to let you know I’m okay, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Okay, great, bye!” I hang up before Carson can hear Daniel’s guy-deep, non-motherly voice protesting, and I turn my phone off. I heave a sigh and turn around to see Carson reclining naked on his bed, frowning slightly. “That was kind of abrupt. Why didn’t you tell her you were with me and that I want to meet her?”
Think fast, Katy. Or, think Kate. “Because,” I say, pulling my pajama top over my head and tossing it flirtatiously at Carson, “I don’t like to keep a good man waiting.”
A WHILE LATER, I’m back in that strange half-world between being physically sated and spent, yet with my mind on thrilling fire. I’m in Carson’s arms, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually return to normal. His fingers lazily thread through locks of my hair. Both of us are mesmerized, watching the ocean through the picture window. “Looks familiar,” I murmur.
Beneath my cheek, Carson heaves a sigh. “Not enough. I can’t wait to get back or at least away from here.”
I feel a chill in my belly at the thought of Carson leaving, of being apart from him again. “Is it so bad to be back in New York?”
“Not New York especially, though it’s not nearly as pretty as Tamarindo. I meant here, this place.” His voice turns hard. “When I turned my back on this life, I meant to do it for good. My father’s business, everything he stands for.”
“He can’t be all bad,” I say, taking Carson’s hand. “When I worked for Wakefield Media, I heard a lot about large donations to charities. Wakefield funded medical facilities, gave money to groups that rebuilt houses in New Orleans after disasters, things like that.”
“Yeah,” Carson admits. “I suppose he’s not the devil, even though it was hell to work for him. The only good thing that came out of that was funding for my surfing expeditions. And paying for your extra week at Emerald Cove,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I sit up and look at him. “I told Juan to put that on my credit card.”
“And I told him not to,” Carson says with a self-satisfied grin.
My eyes roll as I flop back down on the bed next to him. “I can’t keep up with you. When are you ever going to give me a head’s up about anything?”
“Come on, that was no big deal.” He pulls me back where I was, on top of his chest. “It’s only money.”
“The only people who say that are the ones who have an unlimited supply of it,” I mutter, gazing out at the glorious beachfront property. Carson chuckles as though I made a good joke. “I don’t have that much money. Personally, I mean,” he says. “I’ve been doing fine on what was left of my salary from working with my father and what I made at Emerald Cove. Though I didn’t need much there,” he reasons, “since my room and board were free. Whatever, no more boring talk about this.” He snuggles me closer and gives me a kiss. “Let’s get some sleep before your hot body wakes me up again.”
Within moments, the steady sound of his breathing is in almost perfect step with the ebb and flow of the waves outside. I can’t fall asleep, because this is the first time I’ve had a chance to think since Carson showed up. Or since I got home. Or since the night Daniel left on my birthday, just a few weeks ago. So much has changed since then.
I remember standing on my head in Costa Rica and trying to
see the world in a different way. Not the way my mother painted it, as a place full of uncomfortable unknowns, but the way I think my father saw it, with challenges and chances to do new things. Well, I got all of that, and then some. And faster than I’d ever thought possible. Faster than a wave can speed me along its back, roaring as it hurls me toward unknown shores.
25.
CARSON, STILL USED to getting up before dawn to catch sunrise waves, wakes me early the next morning with a kiss. “We should get you back to your room if we want to keep my mom’s good impression of you intact.” Then he starts kissing my neck. “In a minute,” he murmurs against my skin. My caffeine-deprived brain is barely awake, but my body automatically responds to his, my arms holding his head to my breasts as he kisses them, my legs parting for his hips as they rub sensually against me, cajoling me to let him inside. Rain patters against the windows, its rhythm as erratic as our breaths, which are sometimes quick panting, other times long sighs. Then there are the grunts of ecstasy, through gritted teeth, that must be buried in pillows to be silenced.
The rainstorm outside makes the ivory-painted walls seem grey as Carson leads me down the hallway to my room. “See you at breakfast,” he whispers, giving me a light kiss before I quietly close the door.
The room, uninhabited for the night, looks perfect, with its still-made bed and no sign of any guest, not an overnight bag or even my clothes. Not a thing is out of place in this room. Except for me. The unsettled feeling I went to sleep with last night has woken up with me, and with Carson gone, it feels as though some spell has been broken. I’m in a castle, and it’s well after midnight, and I feel less like a princess and more like a pumpkin. Maybe it’s better that Carson doesn’t want to stay here, I think as I head to the bathroom, which really is a large room with a bath that’s also a jacuzzi and a shower stall with a sauna next to it. I’d like to think I could get used to this, but as fabulous as it is, it’s all so unfamiliar. I’m probably just so accustomed to sitting on Daniel’s couch, ordering a V Is For Vegan pizza from Two Boots, and watching a Pixar DVD while his dog Finster snuggles between us to try to steal bites of pizza. Ill-mannered mutt, I think, smiling at the memory of Fin’s goofy pit bull smile and me and Daniel laughing as we held our pizza high over our heads.
With my contact lenses back in, I can see my clothes from yesterday hanging up on a gold hook on the back of the bathroom door. They’re wrapped in tissue and plastic, having been dry-cleaned—where? How?—overnight. These Wakefields really don’t mess around.
AFTER SHOWERING, I do a few quick yoga sun salutations to ground myself, or to feel more like me in a place that’s so un-me. I just finish getting dressed when there’s a soft knock at my door. I open it and find Carson leaning casually against the doorframe, wearing dark jeans and a red v-neck cashmere sweater. I catch a faint hint of cologne, a combination of citrus and musk and man warmth. The whole package is completely intoxicating.
“Good morning, again,” he says, giving me a kiss. “Ready for round two with my family?”
“They seem pretty easy to deal with,” I say, pulling on my boots.
Carson smiles as he takes my hand and leads me down the hallway. “They’re on their best behavior for you,” he says as we descend the grand marble staircase. “But hang around long enough, and you’ll see what they’re really—” In mid-sentence and mid-step, Carson comes to a dead halt.
I look down the stairs at the front hall, where Mrs. Wakefield and Chandler are greeting a tall, imposing man. His hair is the color of steel, and his expression is about as hard, though he’s very handsome in an older man sort of way. He puts down his briefcase, and before it touches the floor, the butler magically appears to take it. The man greets Mrs. Wakefield and Chandler with brief kisses on their cheeks. Then he looks up the staircase. “Carson,” he says in a clear, deep voice. “Good to see you again.”
“Father,” Carson replies, his tone formal, with an edge. We walk down the stairs to this apparently unexpected reunion of the Wakefields. “I thought you were in Europe for the month.”
Mr. Wakefield’s eyes are as bright as Carson’s but an icy blue to his son’s bright green. “When I heard you were back, I came home immediately.” He smiles, but his eyes don’t crinkle. They flicker to me. “Carson, have you left your manners wherever you’ve been, or are you going to provide introductions?”
Carson lets out the petulant sigh of someone being corrected by a disliked superior. “Kate, this is my father, Richardson Rothschild Wakefield, the second,” he announces with a hint of sarcastic haughtiness. “Father, this is Kate McNamara.”
“The pleasure is mine, Ms. McNamara,” says Mr. Wakefield. He has the perfect handshake, not too strong, not too light, and he gives me a meaningful pump of sincerity before he lets go.
“Please, call me Kate,” I say. When I worked at Wakefield Media, I’d never even seen my former überboss, much less stood in the doorway of his home, shaking his hand.
“Kate,” Mr. Wakefield says with a smile, “I hope you’re staying for breakfast.”
“Um, actually, I’m sure you want to catch up with your family,” I say, as Carson interjects, “We were just leaving,” to which Mrs. Wakefield and Chandler both chorus “No!” It’s a spectacularly awkward moment that screams for someone to take charge. And we all know exactly who that will be.
“I’d really like a chance to meet one of my son’s friends,” Mr. Wakefield says to me, gesturing toward the dining room, knowing full well I won’t dare be rude enough to object.
Now I see where Carson gets his ability to make people do what he wants. But where he’s charmingly persuasive, Mr. Wakefield subtly wields his innate power. He simply radiates something that compels people to do as he says. I can imagine boardrooms full of executives wetting their bespoke pants when he’s angry.
Carson, though, is either immune or brave or suicidal. “No. Kate and I had plans.”
His mother’s smile is fragile. “Carson, please. Surely you and Kate can stay just a while longer.”
Carson doesn’t look at her. He and his father are having a staring contest that could melt a lesser human. But as much as Carson dislikes his father, he loves his mother, and at the feel of her gentle touch on his shoulder, he backs down.
“Okay, Mom. C’mon, Kate,” he says, taking my elbow, determined not to let his father lead me into the dining room.
In the few minutes since Mr. Wakefield came into the house, the atmosphere has changed dramatically, and it’s very clear who’s controlling the weather. Last night, I sat with Carson, Chandler, and Mrs. Wakefield at this very dining table and laughed for hours, gorging on delicious food, drinking lots of amazing wine, and generally having a great, fun time. Now, the tension in the air is so palpable I don’t know if I can get my poached eggs down, and Carson, the man who swooned over the same breakfast he ate every day in Costa Rica, isn’t even trying. He butters his toast so hard he cuts right through it.
It’s probably a good thing I can’t eat much, because Mr. Wakefield’s questions are all directed toward me. So far, we’ve been through the expected stuff, like my family and where I’m from. “And did you meet my son at the surf camp in Costa Rica?” he asks.
Carson looks at his father in surprise. His eyes quickly shift to his sister, who suddenly seems very interested in her coffee cup, while his mother gives him a pleading look, all in the space of three seconds.
“Uh, yes,” I answer, wondering if I’m saying the right thing. I turn to Carson, but he’s busy looking like a very handsome pressure cooker.
“And what did you think of the country?” Mr. Wakefield asks, making a conversational turn I didn’t expect.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. He smiles and takes a bite of his eggs, nodding for me to continue. I start talking about how the sunrise would change the colors of the ocean as it rose, about the howler monkey alarm clocks, how vast the sky was and how you could look out over the sea and imagine that it was the same a thous
and years ago. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carson’s eyes close. He’s probably wishing he were back at Heaven Beach right now, with or without me.
Mr. Wakefield is smiling. “Your descriptions are so vivid, Kate. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.”
“I could tell,” he says. “And who do you write for?”
Carson suddenly comes back to life, and his smile is lethal. “Oh, yes, Kate, please do tell my father where you worked.”
My cheeks burn as I sense what he’s doing. “Carson, that’s not necessary.”
Undaunted by my attempt to defuse a potential bomb, he turns to his father. “Kate used to work at Wakefield in the magazine division. She was one of the ‘unfortunate five hundred,’ as you so delicately put it to the press, who were let go.”
“Carson,” I warn, gripping his hand.
When Mr. Wakefield stares back at his son, his face is blank, and I see Carson’s jaw flex, wanting some reaction from his father. But Mr. Wakefield only turns a softer expression toward me. “I’m very sorry, Kate. Many sacrifices had to be made during the recession. I deeply regretted having to take such drastic measures.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“Yes he does!” Carson snaps.
Mr. Wakefield’s words are as calm as his son’s are caustic. “Carson, if anyone needs to apologize to Kate, it’s you, for embarrassing her this way.”
Across the table, Mrs. Wakefield goes pale. Chandler face-dives into her hands. Carson, flushed, stands up, tightening his grip on my hand to make me rise with him. “Mother,” he says with forced calm, “thank you for breakfast, but I really need to get Kate home now.”
