“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d care less about my finances and more about helping me prove I’m not crazy. You’re in my corner, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then. Help. Me. Get. My. Life. Back.” I press my finger against the wooden table top with each word.
Derek pushes his thumb and pointer fingers against his temples, breathing loudly before staring across the table into what I’m sure is a pathetic little view. I’m not usually one to show my cards or let my emotions get the best of me, and vulnerability’s not really my thing, but desperate times . . .
“You want to get out of here for a bit?” he asks.
The tension in my neck and shoulders fades, and I fight the urge to scream, “YES!” from the top of my lungs.
“If you’re comfortable, we can go for a drive in my car,” he says. “Just a little scenic, country tour. The fresh air might be good for you.”
I sit up tall and force a delayed reaction, opting not to seem like an eager puppy dog and throw all my credibility out the window.
“That would be nice. Yes.” Taming my excitement, I leave the head of the table and retrieve a gray tweed trench from the coat room.
Derek waits at the door for me, but the sound of quick footsteps sends a stall to my racing heart.
“Where do you two think you’re running off to?” Eudora is breathless, a tray of spilled tea in her hands. For a woman of her thin stature, she really is quite out of shape. You’d think tending to a sixty-room manor would build some kind of stamina. “Serena, you’re not to leave the house, remember?”
“We’re just going for a quick drive,” Derek answers for me. “My client could use a change of scenery. We won’t be gone long. I’ll take good care of her.”
He winks, but judging by Eudora’s pinched scowl, it does nothing to rectify the situation. I imagine she’s fuming inside.
“Maybe we should phone Dr. Rothbart?” Eudora’s eyes go between ours. “See if he thinks it’s a good idea. You know, baby steps.”
“Eudora.” I tuck my chin against my chest. It pains me to speak to her in a condescending manner, but she’s being completely inappropriate. Not to mention rude to Mr. Rosewood. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a drive. Come on, Derek.”
We make haste toward the front door before she has another chance to object, and Derek walks me around to the passenger side of his black SUV.
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my hands beneath my thighs and preparing to slide in.
The smile on my mouth fades when something catches my eye, and my throat constricts, rendering me momentarily unable to breathe.
“Derek.” I lift the Us Weekly from the passenger seat and examine the cover, instantly recognizing the pitiful photo of me on the bottom and the horribly inaccurate headline.
“Yes?”
Spinning to face him, I slam it against his chest. “Why would you have this? Do you know how awful these are? They’re nothing but lies. Why would you want to read lies about me? I thought you were in my corner?”
The magazine falls to his obnoxiously shiny shoes, and I pull my jacket tight and brace myself for the walk back to the door.
“Serena, come back here. It’s not like that at all.” There’s a chuckle in his tone.
But this isn’t funny to me.
This is my life.
Chapter 5
Derek
The front door to Belcourt slams with an ominous boom before I reach it, and the heavy clanking of the lock tells me all I need to know.
I use the knocker three separate times.
No one answers.
God damn it.
I can’t screw this up. And I sure as hell don’t want her thinking I’m unprofessional or untrustworthy all because of an infinitesimally small misunderstanding.
Pulling my left sleeve, I check my watch and then rest my hands on my hips, standing on the centuries-old stone steps. It’s barely ten thirty. Not to mention, my pen and legal pad are still inside.
Practicing law is my passion. I’m relentlessly obsessive about it. My professionalism is my reputation, and is second only to my father’s. If I leave here today, I’m admitting guilt in a way. Admitting failure.
And so I’ll stay.
I’ll stay as long as it takes.
Reclining in the driver’s seat of my SUV with the visor down, I’m awoken by several quick taps on my window. I slowly come to and turn the car to accessory-mode to roll down the window. The sun has dropped in the sky, and I’m guessing it’s about five, maybe six.
I entertained myself as best I could earlier, stubbornly ignoring my growling stomach and resisting the urge to run into town for a quick bite.
“Why are you still here?” The view of Serena’s head and shoulders fills my window space. Her blue eyes glimmer in the late day sun. Her head shakes, and before I’m given a chance to answer, she lifts a cloche-covered plate to my level. “Here. Bettina made dinner. I figured if you’re stubborn enough to sit in my driveway for seven hours, the least I can do is show you a little hospitality.”
She looks at me like she equally hates and appreciates that I stayed.
“Thank you.” I take the cloche-covered plate.
“Not that I want to. But it’s the right thing to do.” Her arms fold against her chest. Even when she’s pissed, those blues of hers are still fucking mesmerizing.
She’s still upset with me. I get it. But as soon as I get the chance to explain, this’ll all blow over. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it. I think it’s hilarious.
“Jump in.” I nod toward the passenger side.
“I will not.” Her arms tug tighter, and she doesn’t miss a beat.
“Come on.”
Our gazes lock, and I won’t back down.
“At least allow me to explain,” I add.
“What’s there to explain? You show up to my house with that garbage in your car.” She blows a frustrated breath. “And I’m just supposed to be cool with it? Damn it, Derek, you’re supposed to be managing my money and you’re filling your head with gossip articles. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
Her left hand lifts to the gold charm dangling from her neck.
“I completely understand,” I say. “But once you hear my explanation, I promise you’ll feel better about it.”
She huffs, glancing away. “You think so, do you?”
“Trust me.”
A warm breeze ruffles her shiny locks, and she glances back at me as she brushes a wayward strand from her bright blue eyes.
“Get in. Let me explain. If you still don’t trust me, fine. I’ll leave here and you can designate a new conservator. No skin off my back. But I’ll be damned if I sat here all damn Saturday just to drive away without so much as defending myself.”
After an excruciating bout of deliberation and drawn out silence, Serena glances at her feet.
“I’m in house slippers,” she says. “I’m not dressed for a drive.”
“How exactly does a person dress for a drive?” I wink, and she fights a smile something fierce. “Come on, climb in. I’ll explain everything . . . after I eat.”
I place the cloche on the dash and peel at a plastic-wrapped fork. I’m not sure what this is, but it smells divine, and it’s a hell of a lot better than anything I could’ve picked up from a gas station in town.
Serena climbs in, and I spot her nonchalantly scanning her surroundings. Fortunately, I had the wherewithal earlier to shove the magazine under the passenger seat. Out of sight is where that thing belongs.
“I’m a slow eater,” I say. “My apologies. I prefer to savor my meals, and a dish like this is worth savoring.”
Her long legs cross, and she tucks her fingers between them. “By all means. Enjoy, counselor.”
By the time I’m finished, I set the dishes along the center console and start my engine.
“Anywhere special you’d like to go?” I ask.
Her face lights, and her
eyes hone in on the colorful screen centered in my dash as I configure the GPS. A second later, I shift into overdrive, and Serena shakes her head.
“Just drive.” She bounces impatiently. “Just . . . get me out of here.”
We pull out onto a narrow paved road lined in oaks and head west on a remote highway. New York is gorgeous in the springtime, with all the trees and winding hills, and I hope our little excursion will bring her a sense of calm, if nothing else.
“So.” I clear my throat, prepared to defend myself in the case of the Us Weekly. “The magazine.”
Serena’s gaze snaps toward me. “Yes, counselor. I’m all ears.”
“When I’d asked you about your past yesterday, you shut me down. I assumed it was a source of emotional trauma for you, and not wanting to cause you anymore undue emotional distress, I did a bit of internet research, trying to piece together what I could.”
Her mouth falls, but I cut her off.
“Wait. I’m not done,” I say. “When I was finished in the office, I went to my sister’s house for a visit and she was reading that garbage. As soon as I saw your picture on the cover, I felt that, as your attorney, I needed to know what was being said.”
“But it’s all lies.”
“Exactly. I’m well aware of that, Serena. But as any good attorney knows, the lies being told about you are just as important as the truth. Lies lose cases. Lies ruin lives.”
She huffs, staring ahead. “You can say that again.”
“So rest assured, I was not the least bit entertained by that trashy piece of fiction.”
Serena turns to me, her expression softening when I meet her stare. She tucks a strand of fiery hair behind an emerald-studded ear.
“Thank you, Derek. I appreciate that. I haven’t so much as looked at a tabloid or read a gossip blog since before everything went down. I prefer not to know what people are saying about me. I think I’d fall apart if I read it all. The way I used to.”
“Wise woman.” I turn down another road that leads up a windy hill covered in trees and little houses all tucked away. It’s getting darker now, the hint of a twilight sunset filling the skyline. “My father always said, what other people think of us is none of our business.”
Serena politely simpers. “It’s probably easier to live by those words when you’re not a public figure.”
“True.”
“Regardless, avoiding all those nasty articles has been a breath of fresh air. Back in the city, people don’t think twice about telling you what’s being said. They think they’re doing you a favor, but they’re just doing it for the reaction.” She glances down at her bare nails, and I imagine a woman like her isn’t used to seeing them so plain.
“Absolutely.”
“God, I’d love a manicure.” She holds a hand before her face. “I miss them. It’s amazing how the perfect shade of polish can be enough to brighten your day.”
“We’ll make sure there’s plenty of room in your budget for regular manicures and pedicures.” My ex-wife was a fiend for them, though I don’t bring her up. Most of the time, I pretend she doesn’t exist, and then my dreams are crushed when I pick up Haven every other Friday and see she’s alive and well, living the American dream with husband number two.
“I’m not superficial,” she qualifies her request. “Or vain.”
“That thought didn’t cross my mind once.”
“I was just raised to take care of myself. To take pride in the way I’m presented to the world.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care. I bet I could spend days lounging in sweatpants and a ponytail.”
“Then why don’t you?” I look her way.
Her mouth purses and she stares out the window lost in thought, offering nothing but a simple, “Hmm.”
Serena settles into her seat, her body relaxing, melting almost, as if she’s finding I’m easier to be around than she originally anticipated.
“Maybe I will,” she adds. And then she chuckles. “Eudora would really think I’ve gone crazy then.”
We pull up to a stop sign, and I peer over the dash.
“Which way?” I ask. “Left? Right? Straight?”
“You want me to choose?” Her hand splays across her chest before toying with a gold-charmed necklace as she rakes her teeth along her lower lip. “Oh, hmm. Straight?”
“Is that a question or an order?” I’m teasing.
Serena’s mouth pulls up halfway, and she bats my shoulder, leaving her hand a second longer than I expected. “Just go straight. Let’s not make this complicated, okay? Just drive.”
The sky has grown darker in the minutes that have passed since we left Belcourt, and I switch on the radio from the controls on the steering wheel.
“What kind of music are you into?” I lift a finger. “And don’t tell me Chopin or some bullshit like that, because it won’t impress me. You’re young. You’ve got a pulse. Tell me what you like, or so help me, I’ll subject you to ESPN Radio.”
“No, no! Don’t do that.” My hand hovers over preset number four, and Serena pushes it away. “I like . . . I kind of like . . . everything.”
“Everything?” I lift a brow.
She nods. “Yes. Everything.”
“But what’s your favorite? You’ve got to have a favorite.”
“You’ll never believe me if I tell you.” Serena pulls in a heavy breath.
“Try me.”
“Classic rock. I have a huge vinyl collection. At least, I used to have one. I’m sure it’s in storage somewhere. Anyway, I have a secret love affair with Led Zeppelin, Bob Seger, the Steve Miller Band . . .” She rattles off a few more, and in the meantime, I press preset number one.
Serena’s face lights when Tom Petty’s “American Girl” begins to play over the speakers. I turn it up, and she does a hint of a happy dance in her seat.
I watch her as best I can from the driver’s seat, completely transforming in the span of a single song. She mouths along to the music, her shoulders twisting and lifting with each kick of the bass drum.
Pressing my foot into the accelerator, we climb up hills and coast down valleys, the highway lined in gorgeous, budding trees. A sign on the right tells us Walworth Township is two miles ahead, and the speed limit slows to thirty-five.
The song ends, and The Stones play next as we approach a four-way stop with a flashing red light.
“I’ve never seen someone come alive like that,” I say.
“It’s got to be all this fresh air.” Her cheeks blush and fade away. “I’ve been feeling so listless staying at the Belcourt. It’s amazing what a little music and a change of scenery can do for the spirit. Although, now I feel completely ridiculous. I can assure you, I don’t normally make a habit of turning a car into a disco dance hall.”
“No, no. Don’t. Don’t feel that way.”
I make a left at the stop sign and spot a bridge in the distance. Serena reaches for the door handle as we approach it, her body freezing.
“What? What is it?” I press my brakes.
She closes her eyes, swallowing deep breaths. “The bridge.”
I glance ahead and back at her. “What about it?”
“This is where I had my accident.”
“Oh. Shit. That was here?” I drag my hand along my chin before shifting into reverse. “We don’t have to go this way.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” Her blue eyes are wide open now. “It was just a little winter driving accident. The bridge was slick. It should be safe now. Go ahead.”
“You’re sure?”
She bites her lower lip and blinks slowly before finally nodding. “Yes, just go.”
I take it easy, pulling ahead no faster than ten miles per hour. When we get to the end of the bridge, a patched metal railing indicates where her car must have broken through and slid off.
“Good. They’ve got it all fixed up.” She gives it a glance before staring straight ahead. “That was the most
terrifying moment of my life. I truly thought I was going to die.”
We pull away from the bridge, and I take a right at the next intersection, which leads us to another stretch of highway. A sign tells us we’re fifteen miles from the next town.
“You thought you were going to die?” I ask.
Her hand rests on her chest, which is rising and falling in quick succession.
“Yes. I was driving along, and this little cat ran across the bridge, and I didn’t want to hit it, so I slammed on my brakes. I’m not used to winter driving. It had just snowed, and I guess there was a layer of ice underneath. Or that’s what I was told. Anyway, I slid off the bridge and broke through the railing. Landed in the water beneath. Thank God, it wasn’t very deep.”
“But.” I scratch the side of my head, watching her then watching the road. “I’m confused.”
“About what?” She bats her lashes, staring ahead.
“The articles, the doctor’s statement . . .” I say, “they all say that was a suicide attempt. That you drove off the bridge to hurt yourself.”
“What?” Her voice is high-pitched, unbelieving. “Who said that?”
“The tabloids, for one. Which, yes, I know. But Dr. Rothbart’s statement also said it was an attempt at self-harm,” I say. “Haven’t you seen the medical report? The one submitted to the court?”
“No, of course not. My last attorney handled all of that.”
“Why would the doctor say that?”
“Why would I try and kill myself by driving my car into two feet of water?” She laughs, but her eyes are glassy. “Do you know how ridiculous that looks? If I were going to hurt myself, I’d find a less dramatic way of doing so. Believe me. I would never go out that way.”
“So you weren’t trying to hurt yourself?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why did you stay in a private mental health facility after the accident?”
“A what?”
“The doctor’s report said you were hospitalized in a private institution in upstate New York.”
Serena’s mouth hangs, and she stares through my window, her body angled toward me. “I hit my head on the steering wheel and suffered a light concussion. I was examined by our family doctor—at Belcourt—and assigned a home nurse for a week. I haven’t spent a night away from that goddamned prison since my father forced me to move there.”
Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2) Page 4
