Page 11 of Every Step She Takes
Tiana or Jamison?
The last two make me shiver, hairs on my arms rising. I’ve spent fourteen years struggling not to consider what monstrous role I play in Tiana and Jamison’s personal mythology. I might be furious with Colt and hurt by Isabella, but if you asked me who I most dreaded seeing again, it would be their children.
I open the envelope to find a typed letter. My gaze moves to the sender first. Isabella.
I curse under my breath. Then I pause. Is this really from her? A typed letter after a personal handwritten note makes no sense. Someone must be impersonating–
My gaze skims the first few lines, and my question is answered.
Lucy,
Please excuse the formality and impersonality of this letter. I know the package I sent was delivered Wednesday afternoon. It is now Thursday evening, and I haven’t received a call, which suggests I’m not going to. So I’ve prevailed upon a local acquaintance to print this letter and have it hand delivered.
I don’t blame you for not calling. I had hoped you would, but I can understand why you didn’t. You may even have seen my handwriting and torn up the letter unread. I would understand that, too.
I really do want to put this right. Someone in my life has helped me to understand that what I feel is no longer anger. It’s guilt. I did wrong by you, and I need to remedy that.
I realize it’s selfish to ask you to come here. I’m still asking. Below you will find the number of a local travel agent who has been instructed to arrange for a first-class round-trip ticket to New York and a two-week stay, all expenses paid. Our meeting will not take two weeks, of course, but I thought extending your stay into a holiday might alleviate the inconvenience.
We must talk, and it will be worth your while. I don’t mean the airfare or the hotel – that is incidental. I am going to repair the damage you suffered. I can give you back your life, Lucy. I just need to speak to you in person.
No, Isabella, you do not need to speak to me in person. You do not need to speak to me at all. I’m sorry if you feel bad about what happened…
Am I sorry?
No, actually, I’m not. That’s the old Lucy bubbling to the surface. She’s like a childhood friend I remember with alternating spurts of affection and exasperation. The Lucy who, as Nylah rightly said, couldn’t hang up even on a telemarketer.
I’m not pleased that Isabella is suffering. I’ll never be that cold or vindictive. Yet I won’t fly to New York to clear her conscience. She says she can give me my life back, but I already have that. There’s nothing more she can offer.
I’m still staring at the letter when a familiarbang-ba-ba-bangsounds at the door, and I scramble to tuck the letter, envelope and all, into my bag. Then I yank open the door, throw my arms around Marco’s neck and pour all my frustration into a kiss that leaves him gasping.
“So… good pizza?” he says.
“I’ve barely started it. I was heading outside when I got distracted. Emails.”
He looks down at me. “Everything okay?”
“Just messages that needed an answer.”
“Ah.”
His gaze bores into mine, and I squirm under it. I replay my words, my tone, and it all sounds very normal. Even the kiss at the door isn’t out of character.
I only need to see his expression, though, to know I’ve failed to pull off the “I’m okay” charade. As usual, Marco doesn’t call me on it. I just get that searching look and a pause that I should fill with “Actually, yes, something happened.” When I don’t take the hint, he only gives me a smacking kiss on the lips, granting me my freedom and my privacy.
“All right, then,” he says. “Let me rummage something from the fridge.”
I hand him the plate with a quarter of the pizza. He smiles and accepts it with thanks. Then I miraculously change my water into wine – grabbing a bottle of red from the counter – as he gets glasses, and we head out onto the terrace.
Night two of not sleeping. This time, it’s that letter calling my name. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. How dare Isabella invade my privacy? How dare she send the box under my old name? All it would take is for someone along the mailing route to say, “Hmm, why does that name sound familiar?” and follow it to a Colt Gordon fan board and post “Hey, I found where Lucy Callahan lives. Anyone willing to pay for that information?”
If Isabella wants to make amends, she can damn well leave me alone. That’s what I want from her.AllI want from her. Does she really think I’m going to squeal in delight at a cashmere shrug and a first-class plane ticket? I’m not that girl anymore.
And yet…
I’ve said I will fight this, and fighting it does not mean ignoring Isabella and hoping she goes away. If I even think that’s possible, I’ve forgotten everything I know about the woman. To truly fight, I must go to New York. Take this meeting. Tell her I’m glad she has had this epiphany, but if she really cares about helping, she’ll leave me the hell alone.
I could do that on my own dime. Lift my chin, buy my own ticket, reserve my own hotel room… and blow my meager life savings on this trip. That’ll teach her.
