Revelation (8 page)

"The last time you bought me a dress for dinner you proposed," I remind him.

"I won't propose this time. I promise." He stops here, hesitating. "It's just . . . my mom. She's meeting us."

The announcement jars my world sideways. This is it. This is where he tells me it was a huge mistake. Running away. Marrying me. This is how I learn Jack and Kitty Fleming are livid. That they're officially disinheriting him—forever.

"Your mom is driving five and a half hours to meet us for dinner?" I ask, disbelieving. "No. What she wants to do is kill me." His attention shifts back to the screen, to crunching chips, and I marvel at how he can stay so calm while being disowned.

"My mom doesn't want to kill you."

"Yes, she does. You
ran away
. You
got married
, Carter. To
me
. There's no way she can be okay with this."

"I'm not sure what to address first," he says, eyeing me skeptically, as if I misplaced rational thought halfway between here and South Marshall, between being asked and saying yes. "My mom doesn't hate you. And she's not driving five and a half hours. We're meeting her halfway. In
Gaineston
."

"You talked to her, then," I confirm.

He reaches deep inside the bag of chips, unfazed, and it wrinkles, crinkling. "She's fine. She's just bringing some paperwork."

"
More
paperwork?"

"You want to go home, don't you? I'm taking you home," he announces. "She's been apartment hunting all week. She found us a condo, fully furnished. Ocean view. She's bringing the contract for us to sign so we can close on it."

My head swirls, wrapping itself around this new information.
Going home
. "What?"

Carter's lips fight a fierce smile, mouth full and garbling: "We're leaving in an hour. Be ready."

*          *          *

"You're sure she doesn't hate me?" I whisper, smoothing the satiny gray material at my waist, tugging the sleeve of the black bolero so that it covers my wrist.

"She doesn't hate you." He hands his keys to the valet and weaves his fingers through mine, passing a comforting squeeze between us as we enter the hotel. The building is stunning—washed in soft greens and browns, trimmed in cool platinum.  

"Wow," I mutter beneath my breath, heels tapping across marble tiles as Carter steers me toward the restaurant just off the main lobby.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fleming?" The hostess verifies our reservation with a cheerful smile. My throat tightens, eyes flicking to Carter. "The rest of your party has arrived. If you'll follow me. . . ." She grabs two menus, winds through the already crowded dining room as we trail behind. Around us gazes rise, conversations dim, and I find myself twisting a topaz ring around a finger cold with anxiety, a surge of unease making my head grow light.

Kitty Fleming stands as we approach the table, tiny frame hugged by a simple black sheath, arms draped in a sparkly red shawl. Carter leans down to kiss her on the cheek, and, as she pulls me into a friendly embrace, my memories flit to the last time I saw her: Selena's funeral. Nose raw with grief and wet eyes concealed by designer shades. 

"Let me see it," she insists.

It takes a moment for me to realize she's asking about the ring, not quite familiar with the role of bride, though it's first on
everyone's
list—appraisal of this hackneyed gesture of forever love. I lift the rock on my left hand and, as she clasps it in hers, find myself admiring the stone, the setting, the size, along with her.

"Oh, this is
exquisite
, Carter," she tells him. "I'm so grateful you didn't inherit your father's poor taste in jewelry." To me, she says: "I must have left a million hints lying around our apartment when we were dating, just to be safe."

I slip into the booth beside Carter, mustering a polite laugh. "Trust me. I didn't have to do anything like that for Carter," I say, casting a knowing glance. His grin deepens into a lopsided smile, lighting his eyes. And for a second I see the old Carter, hinting at all the times we shared—long rides, long walks, long talks—before any of this ever happened. This charade works for us, suits him well.

"Well, I know you want to get straight to it," she says, producing a stack of papers, "so here's what the attorneys left for us. These are the contracts with your offer. The seller accepted your terms. This just makes it official."

"And you're sure this is the best one available?" Carter asks.

"For your price range, yes. It's in a very safe area," she assures us. "We're still having some crime issues, but we have it on good authority they'll be resolved soon."

I force my expression not to betray the doubt rolling inside.
Good luck with that,
I want to tell her.

"They have onsite security," she continues, "and the HOA dues include access to the tennis courts and a boat slip in the harbor."

"HOA?" I ask.

"Homeowner's Association," Carter clarifies, flipping through pages, scanning and initialing and signing.

"The condo comes fully furnished. The seller was desperate to get rid of it." Mrs. Fleming turns to me, all hand gestures and breathy satisfaction. "I can't
wait
for you to see it, Genesis. The view is
stunning
."

Carter passes the pen, points to where I sign.

"Your father and I couldn't believe your final offer was accepted," she tells Carter. "In fact, we're looking into a few of the other vacant units as potential investment properties."

When I finish, I click the pen closed, gather the papers together, and slide them back to Carter's mom.

"I'll get these in first thing in the morning. The seller said two weeks to close was not a problem."

"Perfect." Carter leans back in the booth, slips his arm around me, tucking me neatly into the space beneath his shoulder. And, for tonight, I pretend things never changed. That we were never separated by ten thousand miles and two different lifetimes. That this is how we were meant to be from the beginning.

"So. . . . It goes without saying we're glad you're coming home." Mrs. Fleming plays with the stem of her wine glass, twisting it in circles between her fingers.

"It was Gee's decision," he says, throwing a glance my way. "Can't take the ocean out of the girl."

My spine stiffens, straightening. "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Fleming. I know this probably came as a huge shock to you."

A flawless smile. "Please, call me Kitty. And yes, it did. I'll admit it. First that you even left town to begin with," she says, speaking to Carter. "I know you and your father had your differences, but I like to think we could have worked around them without you fleeing to the other side of the state."

"It was complicated," I mutter, shrugging, hoping this can somehow pass as a suitable explanation for everything we put her through.

"How is he?" Carter asks.

She exhales a heavy sigh, refuses to meet his gaze. "Well, you're nearly nineteen, and that makes you an adult. You have your own life that you want to live, and he respects that. He does hope, of course, you'll eventually come to your senses."  She reaches for her wine glass, takes a delicate sip, returns it to the table. "You've no idea the little fires I've had to put out since you left. Everyone is talking about it. After I made the mistake of telling Cheryl you'd gotten married, everything snowballed. God, that woman cannot keep her mouth shut." Another sigh, another sip of wine. "There's so much speculation. It's all been very scandalous."

"I
knew
people would think I was pregnant," I say, shooting Carter a murderous glare. "I'm not, by the way," I add, for Kitty's sake. "Just so we're clear on that."

She tips her head back and laughs. "One thing you will quickly learn, Genesis, is that gossip follows the Flemings wherever we go. I'm planning a little soirée in your honor, anyway. As soon as you're settled."

"No parties, Mom.
Please
," Carter begs, frowning. "There's a reason we wanted to keep this casual."

Her hand lifts to stop him, head shaking. "I have been dealing with the Women's Auxiliary at the Club for over two months now, Carter. All I want is a small gathering of close friends and family to introduce Genesis. They'll see there's no scandal apart from two very tempestuous teenagers who decided they couldn't live another day without each other, and our lives will return to semi-normal. You may even get a blender or two out of the deal. Monogrammed towels. His and hers bathrobes."

Carter groans beside me. "What do you think?" he asks. "Are you okay with a soirée?"

"I'm okay with monogrammed towels," I mutter.

Kitty smiles brightly, glass lifting in a toast. "Spoken like a true Fleming."

E
LEVEN

I breathe crisp, autumn air through my nose, arm stretching, extended. Any distractions—any outside influences—are forced away as I listen, focusing on a world buried in darkness. I aim, squeeze the trigger. Leaves rustle overhead, trees rubbing together, birds escaping the forest. But the sound doesn't explode, echoing off the range like before.

The silencer works—not quite noiseless, but muted—so vague it would be nearly impossible to determine from where the shot was fired. I try not to imagine a time when this will be an asset. 

I finish the clip, feel my hip for the holster, reaching for a new one to snap into place.

The breeze shifts, chills crawling up my spine as I count them. Seven. Seven bodies. Standing in a semicircle. Surrounding.

My chest tightens as I reach for the blindfold, that familiar, nauseating wave tumbling over my body, dragging me to a miserable depth.

No.

I push against the vision—the flashes of light, sharp colors.

Seth.

My knees weaken, trembling with heartache. He's here. Right next to me. White dress shirt. Dark hair plunging to his eyes. The only thing I ever wanted. Everything I remember. My heart beats erratically, on the verge of exploding, when he disappears, vanishing from sight. I rush the ground. On my knees. Images flickering.

Seth reaches for me, pulling me from the road and danger. Lifts me off locker room floors. Wraps his arms around me. Lures me from the sea. Hauls me from flame. . . . My mind swirls in fits and starts, month after month after month replaying in such rapid succession my stomach is left turning. 

I rip the blindfold from my eyes, blinking fiercely.

Clouds bruise the late afternoon sky.

Six men and one woman border the edge of the forest, assessing me, clothes better suited for a passion play—dark brown robes, pearly white sashes cinching their waists—like they've stepped out of the past. The men have long hair—white or gray—reaching past their shoulders, beards unshaven for what might be decades. The woman is slender beneath the shroud, flaxen hair spilling in ringlets down her back, red lips set in a deep frown. Only one looks different from the rest. Younger. Clean-faced. Salt and pepper hair cropped close to his head.

He steps forward, separating from them, producing the annihilated target. "Very impressive, Ms. Green." His voice carries, filling the space between us. "Mara trained you well."

The Council.

A tremor slides along my skin, muscles quivering as I rise unsteadily.