The Last Echo
Page 59
Blinking, Sara glanced down at her hands, the only part of herself she could really look at. “And you’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Bonding
HE CHECKED HIS REFLECTION AS HE PASSED THE oversized gilded mirror in the lobby of the upscale boutique hotel. Typical, he thought. This is exactly the type of place she would want to meet. Someplace where she could remind him that she was better than him.
But he couldn’t help grinning at the image that stared back at him. He wondered if she’d be surprised. He was no longer the gawky child he once was. No longer bashful and afraid. No longer ordinary.
A woman draped in a designer dress and glittering jewels turned her head. She practically tripped in her expensive heels, so she could watch him as she walked by despite the fact that she was clutching her date’s—or possibly her husband’s—arm. He was aware of the image he presented to the world. He was tall and handsome and charming.
But, of course, he could appear serious and shy too, when the need arose.
He’d become something of a chameleon. It was how he found so many of his girlfriends.
Right now, however, in this instance, the look he was going for was refined, and he smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket one last time before entering the main dining room.
He spotted her immediately; very little had changed in the past years. His stomach roiled nervously, despite his constant internal reiterations: I am good enough. She can’t hurt me unless I let her. Words are only words.
He hated that she still held this much power over him, and as he approached he felt his steps grow clumsier and his shoulders hunching. He concentrated, not wanting to trip in front of her, and as he reached the table he straightened to his full, impressive height.
“Mother,” he said, his voice not sounding nearly as pathetic as he felt.
She glanced up, as if she’d only just realized it was him, even though he’d felt her ruthless gaze on him the entire time. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
His jaw clenched, but he took a seat without a word.
A pretty, brown-eyed waitress brought their menus. She was exactly the type of girl he’d normally notice. But not tonight. Tonight another woman demanded his attention.
The waitress smiled warmly as she took his drink order—nothing stronger than tonic water. He needed to keep a clear head. He couldn’t afford to give his mother any advantage. She took far too much pleasure in cutting him down.
“Forget it. You don’t have a chance,” his mother announced in an all-too-familiar tone, bringing back painful childhood memories.
She can’t hurt me unless I let her. The mantra repeated in his head as he glanced up at her, pretending he had no idea she was referring to the waitress. She was wrong, though; he’d seen it in the girl’s eyes.
He took a breath. “You look . . . rested.” And she did. Four years abroad had been good to her. She’d shopped and spa’d her way across most of Europe. Her skin looked youthful and refreshed, and her eyes sparkled as maliciously as ever.
The years had been better for him, though, he silently congratulated himself. Four years away from her dictatorial rule. Four years rebuilding the boy she’d spent twenty years tearing down. Four years of deciding who he really wanted to be.
He grinned inwardly over his accomplishments—over all of the girls his mother thought he’d never be able to get.
The waitress came back with their drinks and he flashed his most devastating smile at her as he thanked her, his practiced voice the perfect blend of confidence and boyish charm. He felt a surge of smug satisfaction when she giggled nervously, and nearly spilled the white wine spritzer his mother had ordered.
“I brought you something,” he said once they were alone again, pulling a small package from his pocket. He’d wrapped it in tissue and tied it with ribbon himself, hating that, even after all these years, he still wanted to please her so badly.
When she just stared at it, her eyes filled with rancor as if it would be beneath her to open the handmade package with her own hands, he leaned forward. “Here,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice. “Let me.”
His fingers trembled as he untied the bow, and then tore through the insubstantial paper, revealing an antique filigree locket with a tiny luminous pearl at its center . . . a gift from one of his girls.
He thought it was perfect. He thought it would be beautiful on his mother, accenting her lovely throat.
He waited for her to say something, but there was silence. Virulent silence.
She glared at him as she reached for her drink, and he noticed her hands for the first time since meeting her here tonight.
Some things never changed, he realized belatedly, as he gazed at her impeccably manicured, lilac-polished fingernails.
Chapter 17
HER PARENTS HAD MET THEM AT THE FRONT door, and as much as Jay might have wanted to bolt, Violet was grateful that he’d stayed by her side. If she thought the police were thorough, it was nothing compared to the barrage of questions she’d faced at home.
And in the end, when all was said and done, Violet couldn’t stop her mom from blaming Sara and her team for what had happened to Violet.
“Mom,” Violet interrupted again, not wanting to have this conversation now—or ever, really—as she tried, once more, to explain. “It wasn’t Sara’s fault.” She collapsed onto the couch, too tired to do anything else as she glanced up at her mother. “It could’ve happened to anyone,” she said, still trying to convince herself it was partly true since she still didn’t know where her purse was.
“Positive.”
Bonding
HE CHECKED HIS REFLECTION AS HE PASSED THE oversized gilded mirror in the lobby of the upscale boutique hotel. Typical, he thought. This is exactly the type of place she would want to meet. Someplace where she could remind him that she was better than him.
But he couldn’t help grinning at the image that stared back at him. He wondered if she’d be surprised. He was no longer the gawky child he once was. No longer bashful and afraid. No longer ordinary.
A woman draped in a designer dress and glittering jewels turned her head. She practically tripped in her expensive heels, so she could watch him as she walked by despite the fact that she was clutching her date’s—or possibly her husband’s—arm. He was aware of the image he presented to the world. He was tall and handsome and charming.
But, of course, he could appear serious and shy too, when the need arose.
He’d become something of a chameleon. It was how he found so many of his girlfriends.
Right now, however, in this instance, the look he was going for was refined, and he smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket one last time before entering the main dining room.
He spotted her immediately; very little had changed in the past years. His stomach roiled nervously, despite his constant internal reiterations: I am good enough. She can’t hurt me unless I let her. Words are only words.
He hated that she still held this much power over him, and as he approached he felt his steps grow clumsier and his shoulders hunching. He concentrated, not wanting to trip in front of her, and as he reached the table he straightened to his full, impressive height.
“Mother,” he said, his voice not sounding nearly as pathetic as he felt.
She glanced up, as if she’d only just realized it was him, even though he’d felt her ruthless gaze on him the entire time. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
His jaw clenched, but he took a seat without a word.
A pretty, brown-eyed waitress brought their menus. She was exactly the type of girl he’d normally notice. But not tonight. Tonight another woman demanded his attention.
The waitress smiled warmly as she took his drink order—nothing stronger than tonic water. He needed to keep a clear head. He couldn’t afford to give his mother any advantage. She took far too much pleasure in cutting him down.
“Forget it. You don’t have a chance,” his mother announced in an all-too-familiar tone, bringing back painful childhood memories.
She can’t hurt me unless I let her. The mantra repeated in his head as he glanced up at her, pretending he had no idea she was referring to the waitress. She was wrong, though; he’d seen it in the girl’s eyes.
He took a breath. “You look . . . rested.” And she did. Four years abroad had been good to her. She’d shopped and spa’d her way across most of Europe. Her skin looked youthful and refreshed, and her eyes sparkled as maliciously as ever.
The years had been better for him, though, he silently congratulated himself. Four years away from her dictatorial rule. Four years rebuilding the boy she’d spent twenty years tearing down. Four years of deciding who he really wanted to be.
He grinned inwardly over his accomplishments—over all of the girls his mother thought he’d never be able to get.
The waitress came back with their drinks and he flashed his most devastating smile at her as he thanked her, his practiced voice the perfect blend of confidence and boyish charm. He felt a surge of smug satisfaction when she giggled nervously, and nearly spilled the white wine spritzer his mother had ordered.
“I brought you something,” he said once they were alone again, pulling a small package from his pocket. He’d wrapped it in tissue and tied it with ribbon himself, hating that, even after all these years, he still wanted to please her so badly.
When she just stared at it, her eyes filled with rancor as if it would be beneath her to open the handmade package with her own hands, he leaned forward. “Here,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice. “Let me.”
His fingers trembled as he untied the bow, and then tore through the insubstantial paper, revealing an antique filigree locket with a tiny luminous pearl at its center . . . a gift from one of his girls.
He thought it was perfect. He thought it would be beautiful on his mother, accenting her lovely throat.
He waited for her to say something, but there was silence. Virulent silence.
She glared at him as she reached for her drink, and he noticed her hands for the first time since meeting her here tonight.
Some things never changed, he realized belatedly, as he gazed at her impeccably manicured, lilac-polished fingernails.
Chapter 17
HER PARENTS HAD MET THEM AT THE FRONT door, and as much as Jay might have wanted to bolt, Violet was grateful that he’d stayed by her side. If she thought the police were thorough, it was nothing compared to the barrage of questions she’d faced at home.
And in the end, when all was said and done, Violet couldn’t stop her mom from blaming Sara and her team for what had happened to Violet.
“Mom,” Violet interrupted again, not wanting to have this conversation now—or ever, really—as she tried, once more, to explain. “It wasn’t Sara’s fault.” She collapsed onto the couch, too tired to do anything else as she glanced up at her mother. “It could’ve happened to anyone,” she said, still trying to convince herself it was partly true since she still didn’t know where her purse was.
