She stood on the porch, watching her brother’s retreating back as Rafe locked up.
“Should I bring over a mattress and a few other necessities, like a fridge, and have them here for when you get back?” he asked.
“No, I’ll do that myself.” She had no idea how she’d move something as heavy as a fridge. But she hoped that, between Keith and her, they’d manage. She didn’t want to be a nuisance to Rafe Romero, didn’t want him complaining to her mother. Having to take that into consideration at all bothered her. It was part of the reason she resented the fact that he was living here. She didn’t feel she should have to answer to anyone—not at Smuggler’s Cove.
“It could be dark when you get back to this side of the island,” he said.
She checked her phone—nearly two. “The sun won’t set for another five hours.” She certainly hoped she wouldn’t have to stay at Coldiron House that long.
“I was under the impression you’ve been gone from Fairham for quite a long time.”
“I’m afraid it hasn’t been long enough.”
His expression was inscrutable as he removed a key from his ring and handed it to her. “This will get you in here. Stop by later, and I’ll take you over to Unit 9.”
“Why don’t you give me that key, too? I can put it under your mat when I’m done, if it’s too late to disturb you.”
“Sorry, I’ll need it this afternoon. I’ve stored a lot of my construction materials there.”
“I see.”
“But I’ll slip the key under your mat when I finish up if you’d rather not come to my place.”
“That’ll be ideal. Then I won’t have to interrupt your evening.”
“You wouldn’t want to need anyone,” he said, and went down the stairs before she could respond.
Maisey followed more slowly and joined her brother in the Mercedes.
“What was that all about?” Keith had the air on—thank goodness, because the humidity was even more oppressive than usual for this time of year.
“What?” she replied, preoccupied with Rafe’s last comment. She didn’t want to need anyone. Everyone she’d known had let her down. Her mother had never been someone she could lean on, not emotionally. Her brother didn’t have the strength to keep himself on a productive path, never mind anyone else. Her father had died. And her husband had abandoned her when she needed him most.
“Oh, God, that’s Rafe,” Keith said, mimicking her words from before.
As Rafe’s truck disappeared around the bend, she said, “I’ve met Mom’s contractor before. At a party a long time ago. I didn’t recognize his name because we called him Rafe and not Raphael.”
“Did he remember you?”
“Once I reminded him, yeah.”
“That’s it? You met him at a party years ago and you were that distressed to see him again?”
“I wasn’t distressed,” she lied. “I was surprised.”
Keith looked at her more closely. “Were you two friends?”
“Not at all. He’s four years older. I barely knew him.”
“Did he go to Fairham High?”
“He did. If you hadn’t been away at boarding school, you would’ve been a freshman when he was a junior and probably would’ve known him a lot better than I ever did. He seems nice enough now, though. Is he a good contractor?”
Their tires crunched over the pebbles in the road. “Mom checked him out pretty thoroughly. He comes highly recommended.” He turned onto the paved street. “Speaking of Mom, are you nervous about seeing her?”
She shrugged, pretending she wasn’t, but her heart began to pound faster and faster with each passing mile.
It seemed like only seconds later that they were winding their way to the highest point on the island.
“Pippa’s still there, isn’t she?” Maisey asked.
“I doubt Mom’ll ever let Pippa go,” Keith replied. “She needs her too badly, and they get along quite well. But we have a new groundskeeper.”
“Since when?”
“Since Jorge retired and moved to San Diego three years ago. The new guy’s name is Tyrone.”
She hadn’t kept up. Three years ago, she’d been too busy, if not too happy, to stay in touch. And once she’d lost her family and her ability to write and illustrate, she’d been too miserable.
They stopped outside the decorative iron gates surrounding Coldiron House. Then Keith pushed the button that made those gates grind open, and she saw the mansion where she’d grown up—with its columns and double-story verandas, hanging flowerpots and carpet-like lawn—for the first time in ten years.
Nostalgia warred with anxiety.
So much for her great escape, she thought. She’d just made a perfect circle.
HER MOTHER, DRESSED in a highly tailored burnt-orange skirt and jacket with matching pumps, was expertly made up and coifed. She was even wearing lip-liner with her lipstick. But just because she appeared to be on her way to Love’s in Bloom, or somewhere even fancier, didn’t mean she’d be leaving the house. Josephine always looked as if she belonged in the pages of a fashion magazine, and she never seemed to age. She did everything she could to prevent it.
As a child, Maisey had been proud of her. When Josephine walked into a room, people noticed, especially men. And the way she carried herself, so regally, helped her win over anyone her beauty might not have captivated.
It wasn’t until Maisey grew older that she began to perceive her mother’s vanity—and the many hours she spent getting Botox and other treatments—as more desperate and self-indulgent than admirable. But she didn’t want to see through that carefully prepared veneer. She wished she could still be under Josephine’s spell, like almost everyone else.
“Hello, Mother.” She nodded respectfully as she stood at the threshold of the drawing room where her mother waited to receive them. She wished she was one of those daughters who could fall into her mother’s arms and sob out her pain, but she knew Josephine wouldn’t truly welcome her.
“You’ve arrived.” Although her mother put down the small dog she’d been holding in her lap and got to her feet, her smile was cool. “Come in. You must be hungry and tired. I’ve ordered tea.”
Maisey was grateful when her brother preceded her. She needed another moment to compose herself, another moment to prepare that aching, empty spot inside her for a fresh jolt of life as a Lazarow.
Here we go, she thought.
Focusing on the dog, which looked like a Yorkie, she gathered her courage, marched toward her mother and gave her the requisite air kiss on each cheek. She knew she’d be criticized if she didn’t perform this family ritual, although it meant nothing.
When she breathed in the scent of her mother’s perfume, the memories of her childhood began to assault her. “You look lovely, as always.”
“If only I could lose a few pounds,” her mother responded with an air of lamentation.
Josephine murmured something similar whenever she received a compliment. Not because she truly believed she needed to lose weight; she considered it gauche not to avoid the appearance of conceit.
Annoyed by the pretense, Maisey