Her Wicked Heart (7 page)

I look back up at the Carolsons. Mr. Haymore’s talking again, probably going on about the vineyards or something. Carolson nods politely along, and I can’t decide whether he’s bored out of his mind or silently making calculations in his head. How much more will this place make him when the grapes are growing? With as much money as Carolson’s put into this place, I’m sure he wants to maximize his profits as quickly as possible. Reduce generations of my family’s memories to a bottom line.

I can feel my throat starting to constrict again, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s just a house
, I tell myself.
A big, ridiculous house that you never needed in the first place.

But when you’re as self-centered as I am, it’s easy to forget things like that. It’s a lot easier to let the anger, the pain build in your belly.

And that’s exactly what I do.

* * *

The tour lasts all afternoon and well into the evening, and by the end of it I feel like I have a boulder in the pit of my stomach—a heavy, solid, unmovable ball of emotion that presses against the insides of my belly. I skip dinner. I have no appetite.

Back in my room,
I spend a few minutes standing at the window watching the last light of day disappear behind the trees, and then I grab my laptop and settle down on my bed.

I have a new email from Ian.

I almost don’t want to open it. But I’ve already committed to doing the right thing as far as Ian is concerned, and I’m not going to stop now. I take a deep breath and open the email.

You’re too hard on yourself, Lou. You always were
.
How are you? Where are you these days?

My eyes skim over the words once, twice. I’m not sure how I expected him to reply—if he even replied at all—but while I suspected he might not accept my apology easily, I guess I thought he’d make a big argument of it. He’s skipped right past that and into casual conversation. Like he doesn’t want a debate. Like he wants to go back to how things were.

We can’t do that. I won’t let it happen.

But after everything that’s happened today, I have to admit that I ache for a little casual, pleasant conversation. For a friend.

I choose my words carefully. I want to respond, but I also don’t want to give him the wrong idea.

I’m fine. Back in Barberville for a while. I hope you’re well, too.

Simple. Meaningless. With no open-ended questions. No obligation for him to respond.

I send it off and get up off my bed, figuring I should probably slip into my pajamas. I’m tired enough from last night that I’m hoping I’ll drift off easily tonight, and sitting around thinking about the wisdom or not of emailing Ian probably isn’t the way to wind down.

But I’m only halfway changed when I hear the chime that indicates a new message in my inbox. I pull my tank top over my head and turn back to my laptop.

Ian has replied to me. I slide back down on the bed and open the email. He’s written a single sentence.

I’m fine, but I’m not sure I believe you are.

I bite down on my nail, my stomach sinking. So much for pleasant, meaningless conversation. Was I that obvious in my original email? But no—Ian spent the better part of a year letting me cry into his shoulder. Letting me whisper my pain to him in the dark. He knows me better than anyone else in the world these days.

I stand up and walk to the window, then immediately turn around and go back to the bed. I probably shouldn’t answer. The smartest thing to do would be to close my laptop, turn in for the night, and attempt to make up for lost sleep.

But I know Ian, too. If he’s worried about me, he might not let this go. I don’t want him to worry. I want him to stop thinking about me altogether and get on with his life.

I sigh and drag the laptop toward me again, typing up a quick reply.

I’m working on it. I’ll figure things out.

There. I’ve acknowledged his concerns, but I want him to know that I’ve got this under control without him. I don’t want to drag him down into my crazy whirlwind again. He’s too good for that.

His reply comes immediately.

I’d rather judge that for myself. Can I come see you? I can get a flight to Barberville for the day after tomorrow.

I immediately push my computer away. Oh, no. This isn’t what I wanted. Not at all.

I stand up. Walk from one end of the room to the other. Pick up a brush and tug it through my stupid blond hair.

I won’t let him come, of course. I shouldn’t have responded to his email in the first place.
That
would have given him the right idea—that this thing between us is absolutely, positively done. He knows the truth about me. He knows how messed up, how selfish I am. Why is he trying to drag this out? I throw down my brush and march back to my bed.

There’s another email from him. It’s just a single sentence.

It’s okay to need someone, Lou.

I slam the laptop shut. No. I’m not going to let him get inside my head. I’m not going to let him shower me with his kindness and understanding and get dragged back into my mess again. He deserves better.

I put my computer in the closet and shut the door. As if somehow that might keep Ian out of my mind as I get ready for bed. And then I throw myself onto the mattress and pull the sheets up around my ears, ready to drown out the rest of the world for the night.

You’re doing the right thing
, I tell myself. But why does the right thing always make me feel so awful?

I don’t know when I finally manage to drift off to sleep. But even in slumber, I’m restless. I dream that I’m running, faster and faster and faster, until I don’t know whether I’m fleeing toward something or away from it. The ball of emotion in my belly is growing bigger. I can feel it stretching out my stomach, expanding too quickly, and when my dream-self presses my hands against my abdomen, I can feel it beneath the skin.

And then suddenly I’m standing in front of the house. The boulder is still swelling inside of me, but the house gives me hope. I run up the steps and throw open the door.

“Hello?” my dream-self calls into the lobby. But the house is empty. I move through the hallways, peering into rooms and calling into the darkness, but no one answers. And then I see it—a sliver of light peeking out from beneath the door to my father’s study.

I race to the door. When I open it, I find that the study looks as it always did—my father’s books still on the shelves, the desk perfectly organized. There’s a photo of me and Calder together, and another of our mother. There’s a piece of paper in the middle of the desk with a pen discarded beside it, as if someone left in the middle of writing something. I walk over and peer down at the words. They’re in my father’s scrawl.

Smile, Little Lou. Don’t let them see you sweat.

The boulder shifts in my belly, pressing up against my lungs.

“Dad?” I say, looking around. He’s here. I can feel him.

But the boulder keeps rising, expanding, filling my chest.

“Dad!” I scream, but my voice cracks. I can’t breathe. The boulder’s cut off my airway, and I’m gasping, desperate for any bit of air. Spots dance across my vision, and I grab at the letter, but somehow it’s out of my reach now. Whatever I felt of my father is gone—gone I don’t know where—and I’m alone. I’m choking and I’m alone.

When I finally jerk awake, I still can’t catch my breath. I’m shaking again, worse than I was last night. Worse than I was in the wine cellar today. My pajamas are soaked through with sweat.

It takes three attempts to push the covers off. I roll out of bed, barely catching myself on my feet, and stumble my way over to the window. The frame’s been painted shut, but I beat at it until I can swing it open.

That first rush of night air across my face feels like heaven. I lean myself halfway out of the window, letting the cool summer breeze dance across my skin, and try to concentrate on calming down.

It was just a dumb dream.
A dumb dream after a horrible day. But that doesn’t change the emotions it dragged up or the horrible panic that still seems to grip my whole body. And it definitely doesn’t change the fact that, like in the dream, I’m completely alone.

My heartbeat has started to settle, and I reach up and push my hair away from my face. The strands are wet, and I’m not sure at this point whether it’s sweat or tears.

When I finally feel well enough to pull myself back inside, I don’t go back to bed. I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight. Instead, I go to my closet and pull out my laptop. As soon as my computer wakes up, I pull up my email.

I only write one word to Ian. Even as I type it, I know it’s a mistake, but I don’t know where else to turn.

Okay.

CHAPTER SIX

The airport is louder than I remember.

It’s been about two months since the last time I walked through here, but that seems like a lifetime ago. Like a dream. I stand in Baggage Claim next to the single luggage carousel. Barberville’s airport is small, but today it’s still overwhelming. Once I was excited to walk through these terminals—they were my link to the world outside of my family. Now they only serve to remind me of the emptiness I found on the other side of the planet.

I glance around. This place is pretty busy for a small, local airport. I imagine things will go crazy around here when Huntington Manor officially opens. They’ve already cleared the land to the south of the airport. It looks like they have plans to expand.

I’m so busy watching the people pass that I almost miss the one I’ve come to meet. Suddenly there’s a figure in front of me and I find myself looking up into those gray eyes I know so well.

I open my mouth to greet him, but no words come. Something must show on my face, though, because without a word Ian reaches out and pulls me against his chest.

I melt into him. His arms wrap around me, strong and warm and secure. He smells just as I remember him, and he’s wearing a flannel shirt that feels so soft against my cheek. He’s much taller than me, but that was never a problem. I fit perfectly in the crook of his neck, just as I always did, and he presses his cheek against my hair.

In spite of my nerves, I wasn’t expecting this meeting to be emotional, but he feels so right, so comfortable. I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him close. I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear. My head rises and falls with the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

“I missed you,” he says softly.

I don’t respond. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.

One of his hands rises to the back of my head. “What have you done to your hair? I hardly recognized you.”

I jerk back from him, shocked that I’ve forgotten such an important detail.

“I just needed a change,” I say, grabbing at it self-consciously.

I look up into Ian’s eyes, trying to guess how he feels about it.

“It’ll take some getting used to,” he says finally, “but it suits you.”

I don’t think it suits me at all, but Ian is too kind to ever say a word against it. His own hair is a little shorter than it was the last time I saw him, but still long enough that a curl has fallen across his forehead. Out of habit, I find myself wanting to reach up and touch it, to push that curl back and run my fingers through the strands the way I used to on all those nights back in Thailand.

I step away from him, nervous again.

“My car’s out front,” I tell him. “Are you hungry? Should we go get some dinner?”

“I’m starved.”

“There’s a cute little bistro down the road.”

“Sounds great.”

He grabs his suitcase and we head outside. It’s nearly sunset, and the sky is slowly fading into a beautiful show of pinks and oranges. I had to tell Mr. Haymore that I had a family emergency in order to get off an hour early, and though I’ll probably have to work overtime the rest of the week to get back in his good graces, it was necessary. But now that I’m here, now than Ian is standing in front of me, I don’t know what to do.

This was a mistake
, I think.
I shouldn’t have let him come here.
It brings up too many… complicated things. But another part of me is overjoyed to see him. I’m not sure which reaction scares me the most.

We’re both silent on the walk to my car. I nibble on my nail and steal peeks at him out of the corner of my eye. Despite the way things ended between us, these last couple of months have been good to him. His skin is tanned and smooth, and I swear his shoulders are broader than I remember. Ian always had long, lean muscles. A runner’s build. Now he seems… stronger? He’s looking even more athletic than usual, if that’s possible, though he isn’t quite as deliciously bulky as Ward.

Ward.
Guilt washes through me. I shouldn’t be thinking about him anymore, not after the way I behaved. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about him when I’m here with Ian.

I don’t look at Ian again until we reach my car. Suddenly his hand’s on mine, and he pulls my poor nibbled nail away from my mouth. For a moment he just looks down at me, his eyes soft and sympathetic. The sunlight brings out the warm tones in his dark curls—hair that used to match my own.

His hand rises to my face, his fingers sweeping along my cheek. I feel like such a soft little thing beneath his touch.

And then he’s leaning down, and his lips brush against mine so lightly that I wonder if I’m only imagining the contact. He holds his face there for a moment, his eyes searching mine, before pulling back again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, a whisper of heat in his voice. “I just needed to do that.”

I don’t say anything. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I’m feeling right now. But I pop the trunk for him, and then we both climb into the car.

The drive to Bistro Lola is just as awkward. Part of me longs to tell him how much I missed him, how much I need someone here to help me through all of this Huntington Manor crap, but the other part still thinks this was all a terrible idea. That I should turn around right now, drop him back off at the airport, and buy him a plane ticket home.

Selfish Lou wins out, of course. She usually does. I tell myself that he’s already here, that to send him back now would be inconsiderate, and since there’s no turning back, I might as well enjoy his company. He came all the way down here to see me, after all.

“What have you been up to since you got back to the States?” I ask. We follow Bistro Lola’s hostess to a small table next to one of the windows.

It’s the most I’ve said since he arrived, and I watch the relief flicker in his eyes.

“Nothing crazy,” he says, sliding into the seat across from mine. “Mostly visiting with family. And trying to answer the age-old question of what I want to do with my life.” His mouth lifts in a smile, one of those sweet, rare wonders from him.

I feel myself start to relax a little. I’d forgotten how easy it was to be around Ian.

“What about you?” he says. “How have you been?”

Ah, there’s the million-dollar question.
I bite down on my lip, trying to decide how to explain everything to him. If I
should
explain everything to him. He reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“You don’t have to talk about anything right now,” he says. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

And so for the next few minutes we talk about mindless things. He tells me about the orphanage project they finished just before he left Thailand, and he talks about his hopes for the future of the program. I can’t take my eyes off him as he speaks. His whole face lights up when he talks about his work with Cunningham Cares International. This is a man truly inspired and fulfilled by his work. I’m reminded of all the things that drew me to him in the first place: his compassion, his optimism, his warmth. When he catches me watching him, the corners of his mouth turn up again. My cheeks go hot.

“I didn’t mean to talk so much,” he says. Our food arrived several minutes ago, but neither of us has touched our plate yet. He grabs half of his sandwich and looks at me. “So where have you been staying? Is your brother in town?”

He hesitates slightly before the mention of my brother. He knows things have been a little tense between me and Calder recently. He won’t fault me if I don’t want to talk about it, but he’s spent so much time listening to me cry about my issues, so many nights comforting me, that I feel like I owe him something.

“Calder’s in the area,” I
say. I don’t want to lie to him if I can help it. “But I’ve only seen him once since I returned. We still have some things to sort through.”

“You’ve been staying with friends, then?”

I can tell by his tone that he fears the worst: that I’ve been cooped up by myself these past few weeks. Little does he know things are far more complicated than that.

“I got a job,” I say carefully. “And they offered me a room on the premises.”

His nose wrinkles slightly in confusion. “What sort of job?”

“I’m an assistant. In the hospitality field.”

I stab at my salad with my fork. I know that’s not going to cut it with Ian, and sure enough, he remains silent, waiting for me to go on.

“You have to promise not to judge me,” I say. “I needed to do this.”

He nods, but I don’t miss the lines of concern around his eyes. I can only imagine what he thinks I’ve been up to.

“I’m working at Huntington Manor,” I say softly. “That’s what they’re calling my family’s estate now.”

I look down at my plate, waiting for his response, but I’m met only with silence. When I dare to look up again, I can see he’s still trying to process what I’ve told him.

“They’re opening it to the public soon, aren’t they?” he says finally.

I nod. “In less than a month.”

“And you’re… what? Giving tours? Telling tourists about your childhood there?” His face darkens in confusion. “You said you were an assistant.”

“I am an assistant. To the General Manager. I help him with office tasks and that sort of thing.”

“I don’t understand. Why would they hire you as a secretary? You’re Louisa Cunningham.”

I glance around, but no one’s heard him say my name.

“The thing is,” I say softly, “they don’t know who I am.”

He stares at me. “What do you mean? Don’t they recogn—” He blinks. “Your hair. That’s why you dyed it.”

I nod.

“And… what? You’re using a different name?”

I nod again. “I had some old friends help me with that one.” I don’t go into detail about the fake ID and other paperwork they got me. I’m perfectly aware of how illegal all of this is, but I’m a little ashamed to admit it to Ian. Ian, who’s looking at me like I’ve gone completely bonkers.

“What are you doing, Lou?” he says quietly.

“What I need to.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t judge me.”

“I—I just don’t understand.” He leans over and grabs my hand again. “Why?
Why
are you doing this?”

“I needed to see it. I needed to see what they were doing to my family’s house.”

“You could have done that without
taking a job
there. This just sounds like you’re purposefully torturing yourself. What can you possibly hope to accomplish by putting yourself in that position?”

And that’s the crux of it: I don’t know. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish, other than some vague idea of “letting go.” Getting all of this madness out of my system. Some days I think that watching them turn my old home into something unrecognizable is helping, that it’s allowing me to separate myself mentally from the estate. Other days I just get angry and want to watch the entire thing burn down around their ears.

“I need closure,” I say finally.

Ian squeezes my fingers and brushes his thumb along the back of my palm. His touch promises all the things it did back in Chiang Mai—a distraction from the dark places in my head.

“There are other ways to get closure,” he says gently. “Ways that don’t require you to do something illegal or to torture yourself meaninglessly.”

“Meaninglessly?” I tear my hand out of his, breaking the spell. “You’re the one who told me I can’t run away from things.
You’re
the one who told me I needed to grow up and face my problems like an adult.”

And there it is—that old argument of ours. I still remember everything he said to me on that final night in Thailand. God knows I’ve been thinking about his words ever since.

I shouldn’t have brought it up. He leans back, looking like I’ve smacked him across the face. Guilt floods his eyes.

And now I feel like a jerk, too.

“I just… I need to figure things out,” I say. “And forcing myself to be at the estate, forcing myself to take part in that ridiculousness…”

“Is it helping? Is it actually helping?”

Some days I might say yes, but honestly I’m not so sure. Especially considering how many times I’ve thrown myself at Ward, looking for that next distraction. That next rush of heat and pleasure. Memories of that last intense encounter with Mr. Casanova swim to the front of my mind, and even now, my heartbeat quickens. Even now, my body wants to abandon everything in favor of a few passionate moments of escape.

I shake my head, trying to bring myself back to the present.

“I need to do this,” I say.

“You keep saying that. But I’m not sure you believe it. And you haven’t given me one real reason as to why it’s a good idea.” His voice is calm, but it’s clear that despite his best efforts, he doesn’t understand.

“Maybe I need to torture myself,” I say. “Maybe I need to bury myself in the pain and anger in order to work through it.”

He takes my hand again, gently wrapping my fingers in his own, but he doesn’t look me in the eye. His normally soft mouth is a hard line.