by Liv Morris
“She was such a carefree spirit,” Margaret reflects. “Somewhere between a flower child and a dreamer.”
“So, tell me about her death.” The mood shifts as heaviness fills the space. “I need to know.”
“Her boyfriend shot her during an argument,” I say.
I leave few details out about my mother’s murder and Margaret cries through much of my story, distressed knowing I witnessed something so horrible. She asks me if I’ve had counseling since my mother was killed. It’s the perfect grandmother question. I appear at her home, out of the blue, and deliver devastating news, and she thinks of me.
I should’ve talked to someone, or anyone, for that matter, but James banned any mention of my mother. He pushed me to move on, but I moved on as a numb, frozen version of myself. I became dead inside.
I’m trying to find myself again in all this mess, though I’ll be a different person than before. The events I have endured over the last few months have changed me forever, but I survived, unlike my mother.
“You’re a brave, young woman, Harlow,” Margaret says. “Sinclair, the young man with you, is he your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know.” I lower my head as my cheeks heat. “But I think I want him to be.”
“He was the person who led you to me, though?” she asks.
“He was, but that’s another long story.”
“With a happier ending I hope,” Margaret adds.
“Me, too.” Though it’s only our beginning.
“Would you like to see your mother’s room? I’ve kept it as she left it years ago. I dust and clean it, but it’s basically like the day she left.”
“Did you try to find her?”
“I searched for a while, but I was a widowed high school English teacher at the time. I hired a private detective for a few months, but my money ran out before he found a trace of her or you.” She tilts her head and lovingly rubs her hand over my arm, like she’s telling me how sorry she is for not finding me.
“She feared for your life and mine. Yesterday, I found a letter she wrote to explain why she ran away from here. My father didn’t want me. I was a liability to his marriage and career.”
“Did she tell you his name?” The way she asks the question makes me wonder if she knows his name and wants me to confirm it.
“She was afraid to share his name. She feared he would harm you or me if he were discovered. At this point, I’ve found you. I don’t need to find a man who cares nothing about me.” I don’t tell her I’ve known enough crazy men to last a lifetime.
“A man came to visit me a few years ago where I taught high school. I was walking to my car at the end of the day and he stopped me. Said he knew my daughter years ago and asked if I’d heard from her.” Margaret shakes her head at the memory. “I wasn’t about to tell a stranger anything concerning my daughter, so I asked who he was. He gave me his business card and said to give it to Marie if she came back home. He needed to talk to her. He didn’t seem angry. I think he was sick. He looked as pale as a ghost with sunken eyes, and his hair was falling out like a cancer patient. He said for Marie to call the number if he was gone. I think he meant if he died.”
Who is this man? Could he be my father? What would he do if he finds out my mother didn’t abort me after all? A chill of fear races over my skin.
“Do you still have the card?” I ask, wondering what I’ll do if she does.
“I put it in my safety deposit box at the bank. I’ll go get it tomorrow. I think we need to find out who he is. I believe his name was Thomas. I don’t remember details like I used to.”
I need to speak to Sin about this situation and get his advice. Contacting this unknown person may not be wise, and could be dangerous. Fear drove my mother from here and this man may be connected to the reason she left.
“Let me show you her room.”
Margaret and I get up from the table and walk down a short hallway. “It’s a modest house, especially for this area, but it’s paid for now.”
She stops in front of a closed door and opens it. I follow her into the room while holding my breath. I smile when the blue walls come into view. They’re a serene, calming shade—the same color she used to decorate our small apartment. She called it robin’s egg.
“I’m going to let you explore the room alone. I’m not ready to be in here after knowing she’s gone.” I nod in complete understanding.
“Thanks.” I give her a small hug, and she returns it.
“Thank you for finding me,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. She turns and shuts the door behind her. I stand alone in the middle of my mother’s teenage room.
The bed is made perfectly and I laugh. My mother never made her bed, at least not like the one I’m looking at. The room itself is clean and organized. Maybe Margaret kept my mother’s things, but put them in their proper place. My mother was anything but organized.
I walk over to the student desk facing the wall by the window. There is a stack of Vogue magazines. The one on top has Cindy Crawford on it. I open it up to see the year is 1992. My mother dog-eared page after page. I don’t remember her reading Vogue as I grew up and feel like I’m learning about another side of her.
I move over to her bookshelf where there are no books—typical. She complained I never had my nose out of a book, and I complained she never touched them. I pick up a few picture frames with photos in them.
One of them is of my mother and a teenage-looking boy. They are dressed in formal attire and posed under a banner. Maybe it’s a photo from a school dance. She looks beautiful in her, not surprisingly, blue dress. It’s the same color as the one I’m wearing and sets off her eyes. They twinkle with happiness.
On a lower shelf, I find a scrapbook labeled “The Marie McMasters Show” and laugh. She was Jerry Springer’s biggest fan. Trash television, she called it.
Carrying her scrapbook over to the bed, I sit and dust off the front cover before opening it. The first few pages are memories from grade school. A ribbon for perfect attendance. I would expect that from a teacher’s daughter.
On the next page is a beautiful drawing of a flowering tree. It appears to be a dogwood in the spring. I glance at the bottom and see her name written in a corner.
Farther back in the book, a spread of concert tickets. R.E.M., Metallica, and a few bands I’ve never heard of before, are glued to the pages.
When I turn the last page over, there is a loose piece of paper. It’s not glued to the pages, so I pick it up and look over it. It appears to be a short letter addressed to my mother.
Marie,
Meet me at the usual place tonight. We need to talk. You’ve been acting strange and I don’t have time for your schoolgirl games.
T
The words and tone tell me one thing: my father wrote this and it was likely around the time she told him about me. I am speculating, but feel like it’s a clue. Could it be one that leads to a man who will do more harm than good when he knows I exist?
My phone rings from my purse on my mother’s old desk. I keep the letter from the mysterious T, close the scrapbook, and race to the desk, but the phone stops ringing before I get to it. I dig it out of my purse and see a missed call from Sin.
I push call back and he answers almost immediately.
“Hey, Harlow. You okay?” he asks in a hurry, his voice worried.
“I don’t know how to answer that. I guess I’m okay.” I sigh into the phone, completely exhausted.
“You’ve been there for over two hours. I just wanted to check on you.” He cares and is concerned for me, just like a friend or a boyfriend. I think we are somewhere in the middle of the two.
“I didn’t realize I’ve been here that long. I have so much to tell you.”
“I can’t wait to hear every last detail,” he says, and there’s a smile in his words. “Are you ready for me to come get you?”
“Yes, I’m ready.” For you.
Chapter Thirty
Sin
<
br /> I sit watching Harlow as she lies on the bed sleeping. After picking her up, she collapsed into the car seat, physically and emotionally exhausted. She was fast asleep by the time we made the ten-minute drive to the hotel.
She’s lying on her side and the sheets indent at her curves down a gentle slope—a tempting one, but I’m trying my damnedest to resist.
After leaving Harlow with her grandmother, I had some time to reflect on being with her. I need to tread lightly. With her past, she deserves a man who has patience and restraint, and I want to be that man for her. Anything less, and I will fail.
So peaceful in sleep, Harlow has her hands tucked under her cheek, and her long black lashes lie still. Her blond hair spreads across the pillow in a cascade of curls.
She is the closest thing to a living angel I’ve ever seen, innocent in her repose. I pray the tension from the last few days is a distant memory as she dreams.
I move from the chair and walk to the bed. It’s time for her to wake and for us to go to dinner. I have something fun and crazy planned for us to do tonight and hope she’s okay with it.
I sit on the edge and brush some hair way from her face. I hate to wake her, but she will be up all night if she sleeps any longer.
“Harlow, babe,” I whisper close to her ear. She stirs under the covers, but doesn’t fully wake up.
“Sweetheart,” I say, caressing a finger over the apple of her cheek. “Time to get up.”
Her eyes begin to flutter and slowly open up to me, the softest of blues. Her lips part as she smiles at me with complete trust on her face. She has never looked more beautiful. I place my fingers under her chin, stilling her movements so I can mark this moment like a photo in my mind.
I can’t help myself and stare at her face, looking deep into her eyes. But her smile fades.
“What is it, Sin?”
“You. Just you.” I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead. “I was thinking, what if I hadn’t come to Rochester?”
“But you did.” She covers her hand over mine.
“Yes, I did.”
It’s taking everything I have not to lean forward, take her in my arms, and ravage her—kiss her until this ache inside me is satisfied. But I won’t want to stop. That’s the dilemma. Once I let loose, there will be no pulling back for me.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead. I have something fun planned. I thought I could take you out on a date tonight.” She tilts her head and eyes me.
“A date?” she asks.
“Yes. I think you’ve heard of them. It’s when a couple goes out to, say, dinner, eats a good meal and has a drink. Ring a bell?” I tease, taking her hands in mine and helping her out of the bed. “We have things to do and money to win, princess.”
I make the mistake of looking at her chest and swallow hard before looking away. She fell asleep in a thin T-shirt without a bra, and her hard nipples push against the material. She’s going to kill me before it’s time for us to be together.
“Money to win?” She scrunches up her face in an adorable way, like she bit into a lemon.
“While you were being Sleeping Beauty, I pulled out the trusty hotel guide. I have a surprise,” I say, grinning in a way that tells her I have a secret and there’s no way I’m telling.
“Okay, be that way,” she scolds. “Let me take a shower first. What should I wear?”
“Casual. Jeans are cool.”
“So nothing fancy?” Her voice sounds hopeful.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good, I don’t want anything stuffy.” I have a feeling she’s referring to all the dinners she had at James’ club. The atmosphere was pretentious and snobby. I may be a trust fund kid from Manhattan, but I don’t give two shits about money. That being said, I don’t mind having it either.
I can hear the shower running and the faint sound of Harlow singing in the background. Everything about her calls to me, and dammit, I wish I could join her in that shower. Instead, I’ll be taking another cold one alone.
We have slept side by side in a bed for two nights and they were hell. Her sweet smell would hit me every time she moved, driving me insane. A couple times, when she was long asleep, I buried my nose in her soft hair. How I wanted to let my fingers run through the strands, but I can’t, for her sake.
I asked if she wanted me to book another room for her and with a twinkle in her eye, she said no, stating it would be too expensive. But I think it’s costing me my sanity instead.
Harlow comes out of the bathroom, fully clothed and ready. I’ve never known a woman who can pull off looking so divine in such a short time. She has a natural beauty that doesn’t need fuss.
“Ready,” she proclaims while walking toward me with a smile on her face and a swivel to her hips. I shake my head and laugh.
“Feeling feisty tonight, babe?”
“Very. I haven’t been on a date with someone I care about in forever. Definitely not with someone so hot.” She drags a finger across my chest as she walks to the door.
I grab the room key off the desk, stuff it into my pocket, and move to the door. “I like this side of you,” I say, standing next to her. “Where has it been?”
“I save it up for cool, hot guys like you.” She bites her lip and raises her brows.
“What other hot guys?” I ask, half kidding, while also wondering who she was with before James.
“My heroes were on the pages of books until you came along.” She gazes at me without blinking.
“Not going to lie, I’ve always wanted to be someone’s hero.”
“You’re mine.” She reaches up and kisses me on my cheek. “Maybe even my superhero.”
“Like Superman?” I ask, puffing out my chest.
“No, like Batman. He lived in Gotham City, like your Manhattan, and drove the girls wild.” She giggles and walks out of the hotel room. I follow behind her, enjoying the view of her ass in tight jeans.
There’s only one girl I want to drive wild, and I can’t—yet.
***
Harlow has no idea where we are heading until I take an exit off the highway marked for Rivers Casino. I glance over at her in the seat next to me and she looks at me with a question in her eyes.
“A casino? I’ve never been to one before.” She starts to laugh. “I thought we would be going out for a nice, quiet dinner.”
“The hotel guide said they have a wonderful buffet with a chocolate fountain. And I’m going to teach you how to play Blackjack tonight.” Her eyes light up and she cracks a grin.
“You’re serious,” she says, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. I ignore it and continue toward the flashing lights outside the Casino. This place may not be Vegas, but it will serve the purpose for tonight: fun.
“Thought I’d take a gamble and bring you here,” I tease, and she laughs at my corny line.
Her laugh is a beautiful sound. Each giggle and chuckle puts distance between her and her past. She needs laughter in her life from the minute her eyes open in the morning, until they close at night, and I plan on filling her days with it until I leave for school.
“Were you kidding about the buffet?” she asks.
“Let’s find out,” I say, shooting her a half-smirk as I park the SUV.
Harlow and I make our way to the buffet restaurant, Canopy. It’s exactly that, too, with glass shields covering the food. I guess calling it Sneeze Guard would have been odd.
“At least the food smells good,” I say as we follow the hostess to our table.
“I’m only here for the chocolate,” Harlow whispers, holding a finger to her lips.
“Maybe we should just skip to dessert.”
“Maybe.” We pass by a tray full of green Jell-O and laugh.
Harlow fills her plate with some filthy looking mac and cheese; filthy in a way that means you’ll be going for seconds. She says mac and cheese is her comfort food and I want her feeling comfortable tonight.
The chocolate fountain was a bomb. How can chocolate have pr
actically no taste at all? The strawberries were ripe and juicy, at least. I even kissed a few drops from the corner of her lips. Why waste a perfectly good napkin?
A man at the security entrance checks our driver’s licenses to ensure we are over twenty-one, and I don’t care for the way he leers at Harlow. She’s the kind of woman people will always stop to watch enter a room. Her beauty turns all heads, both women and men. It’s the undressing with the eyes look that has me on edge.
After we clear security, I place my arm around her waist and draw her tight against my side. I glance over at the dude and give him a leer of my own. I shake my head, wondering who the hell I am. I have never behaved like a pound-my-chest, don’t-touch-my-woman caveman before. Then again, I’ve never had a serious case of being “in like” with anyone, maybe even sliding over to the other “L” word camp. Time will tell, but I want to be with this woman every waking second. I think I’m addicted.
“The tables are up ahead,” I say, pointing out the Blackjack area.
“Can I just sit at a slot machine?” Harlow slows down as we walk, almost to where we are standing still. I don’t want to drag her to the table, but I want her to do something wild—something she’s never done before. She’s a perceptive person, a deep thinker, and probably a natural at Blackjack.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” I plead, making sad eyes and adding a pout. She smiles at my silliness.
“Okay.” She throws her hand on her hip in a challenging move, which I like. It shows she’s got some sass.
“You’re my lucky lady tonight, princess.” Placing my hand on the small of her back, I guide her willingly this time.
I scan the Blackjack tables and pick the busiest one. I want Harlow to observe the game, see a few hands dealt before she sits at a table. It will help calm her fears, because on a good day, tables are intimidating, especially to a newbie.
“We can stand here.” I position us at the side of the table, not too close, but in clear view of the dealer in the center.
