The blonde knocks on Ava's old blue door, and a boy comes out. They hug and kiss. The view twists something inside me.
What the hell am I trying to accomplish by coming back?
I pull out and drive away. It's over.
It was over two years ago.
For a so-called genius, it's taking me an awful long time to accept that fact. I can deal with numbers and patterns. But figuring Ava out … That always eluded me.
No time for this bullshit. Let her go. You have three months left to find a wife.
The muscles in my neck tighten until they feel like steel. The idea of marrying anyone spikes my heartbeat, and the roast beef sandwich I had for lunch churns in my gut. If it were just me, I'd say to hell with everything. But if I don't marry … if all of us don't get married … none of us are getting our grandfather's damned paintings.
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 directly to us rather than our asshole father, who is now using them for his own 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 gives me a bored nod. The verdant lawn stretches endlessly, trees big with branches that defy gravity. Their leaves are still a vibrant jade, but a tinge of orange, yellow and red has started to creep in, a discordant sign of the end of summer. Homes are stately in stone and brick, with elegant white-framed windows. Beyond them is a golf course, which I've 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 has seven bedrooms. Perhaps it was divine providence that the only place available was a single-story house. Going up and down stairs with my injuries would've been difficult, especially on days when I was wheelchair-bound.
I park in the four-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.
Get rid of the damn thing. 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 the strain on my face. I take the time to smooth it into a calm mask and slip quietly into the house.
"Welcome home, Lucas," Gail says, her voice as gentle as a spring breeze. She eyes me. "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."
I sigh and 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.