An Improper Ever After(84)

I don't fucking want a wife. I'm not like my brothers. Pretty Boy Ryder found one-well, he felt compelled to marry his assistant after knocking her up. My twin Elliot found a stripper to marry for a year. But I can't let my brothers and sister down. My sister Elizabeth in particular would be devastated.

The paintings are rightfully ours. If Grandpa had had a better lawyer-or a better brain for business-they would've come to us rather than our asshole father, who is now using them for his twisted amusement. Julian is a borderline sociopath who likes to watch people weaker than him squirm at his command. It enrages him that he can't fuck with us-his children from his first wife are too wealthy and well-connected, and Elliot and I made our own fortunes when we were twenty-one.

I drive past the guard manning the gated community in Charlottesville. He merely nods. The lush verdant lawn stretches endlessly, trees big with branches that stretch far. The leaves are still a vibrant jade, but a tinge of orange, yellow and red has started to creep in, a discordant signal to the end of summer. Homes are stately in stone and brick, with elegant white-framed windows. Beyond them is a golf course, which I never used.

I only bought an "estate" here because it had an acceptable house for sale. Ava was studying at the University of Virginia, and flying back and forth between the east and west coasts didn't appeal. That's ten hours per round trip I could've spent with her. Seattle didn't have anything for me. Still doesn't, which is why I haven't moved back after finishing my treatment at the UVA hospital.

My home sprawls on one level and comes with seven bedrooms. Perhaps it was divine providence that the only place available was a one-level house. Going up and down the stairs with my injuries would've been difficult, especially on days when I was wheelchair-bound.

I park my car in the three-car garage. On the other side is a silver Lexus that's barely three years old. I don't drive it, but I make sure it's well maintained.

You should get rid of it. She's not coming back.

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, I step out. The black waxed surface of the Mercedes is like a mirror, reflecting my white, strained face. I take the time to smooth it into a calm mask and slip quietly into the house.




 

 

"Welcome home, Lucas," Gail says in greeting, her voice as gentle as a spring breeze. She eyes my face. "Something warm to drink?"

I shake my head.

Her thin-lipped mouth thins further because I'm not letting her mother me, but I ignore her displeasure. In her early sixties, Gail is my full-time housekeeper. Despite my parents' disapproval, I don't insist that she put on a maid's uniform or any such bullshit. She's old enough to dress herself; right now she's in a light blue sweater, jeans and white sneakers.

She goes to the kitchen counter, her cloud-like gray hair glinting under the recessed lights, then almost immediately returns with a white envelope.

"This came for you."

Moments like this, I miss Rachel. My assistant would've thrown it out without bugging me with it, but she's on a well-deserved week-long vacation in the Bahamas.

"You can toss it. It's junk," I say without taking a closer look.

All legal documents that require my attention go to my attorney. Things that matter come to my inbox. My bills are paid automatically through direct debit, and invoices are forwarded to my assistant. Only garish advertisements and pitiful offers of credit end up in my mailbox.

"I thought that at first, but it doesn't look like junk." She hands it to me. "Here. See for yourself."

Left without a choice, I take it. It's as big as letter-sized paper folded in half, and the material is stiff and waterproof. The outside doesn't have any stamps or indication of where it's come from. It merely has a name-LUCAS REED-in all caps.

Maybe it isn't junk after all. "Thank you," I say and take it to my office, trying not to limp.

My left leg is shorter now, even though the surgeons did their best to minimize the discrepancy. I can usually manage to disguise it, but on days when my leg muscles throb, it's hard to hide my uneven gait.

I close the door to my home office and slump in the armchair that faces the cold and black fireplace. The mantel has a framed photo of me and my brothers and sister, taken while we were exiled to fancy European boarding schools. People call it "education," but that's just a euphemism. There aren't any pictures of Ava and me together. We never took any, and I don't remember why. I wish we had.

For what? To burn them? Delete from your phone's memory? Would that have made it clear that she's gone?

I tug at the little red-tipped section on the corner, and the envelope comes apart easily. Glossy photographs spill out, landing in my lap. I pick one up.

A young female pedestrian on a stone bridge crossing a river. Wind tosses her long and wavy platinum blond hair. The color of her eyes is ice blue, which never seems to fit because they're too warm. Her facial bones are delicate, her lips soft. She's always been frail looking; just a tad too thin, as though she grew up without enough to eat. That hasn't changed from the way the pale pink dress fits her, a slim white belt cinching her small waist.