Page 7 of Every Step She Takes
And now, fourteen years later, she has sent the letter I dreamed of that day.
I read it again, and I do not fall to my knees with relief. I feel only emptiness edged with annoyance and, if I’m being honest, a hint of outrage.Nowshe feels bad?Nowshe realizes she was wrong?Nowshe wants to talk to me about it?
I reassemble the package with the cashmere shrug and put it into the closet under the stairs. Then I strike another match, set the corner of the letter alight and watch it burn, charred bits dropping into the sink. When the flame warms my fingers, I drop what’s left and watch the paper curl and blacken.
Then I run water in the sink and let the tissue-thin black pieces dissolve and run down the drain.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. I grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it as Marco descends. It’s only when I turn that I see the opened envelope still on the table, with “Lucy” screaming on the front.
I dart between the envelope and the stairs. Marco blinks at me. “Everything okay?”
I lift the glass, half-filled with water. He nods and yawns.
“You want one?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Then he sniffs. “Is something burning?”
“Outside, I think.” I wave at the open window.
When he reaches for me, I hesitate. I want to go to him, to fall into his arms and take comfort there.
I have this new life, Isabella, and you cannot touch it.
Except she can touch it. The envelope proves that, and I cannot let Marco see it. So when he reaches for me, I lift the water glass. He takes it with a chuckle and says, “I’ll put it on your side of the bed,” as he retreats.
Once he’s gone, I snatch the envelope and tuck it into a stack of music books for later burning. Then I follow him upstairs.
Chapter Four
The Hamptons, 2005
The cab dropped me off at the end of a long, curving drive. Nylah had joked about Mary Poppins, but that was who I felt like as the car pulled away, leaving me standing there, clutching my bag.
This couldn’t be the right place. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about Hollywood stars, but I was certain someone of Colt Gordon’s caliber summered in a gated community, his house fenced and patrolled by gun-toting guards with Rottweilers. According to Nylah, this was a family who couldn’t take their kids to school without attracting a conga line of paparazzi. Yet here I stood, at the end of a gate-free driveway, having passed through zero security on my way in.
It had to be the wrong address.
Or I’d been scammed.
I trusted Mr. Moore, but I’d had no direct contact with Colt Gordon or Isabella Morales. I’d only been interviewed by a woman named Karla Ellis, who claimed to be Colt Gordon’s manager.
She certainlyseemedlike a celebrity manager, all designer pantsuits and cool efficiency. It also made sense that Colt Gordon and Isabella Morales would let their manager handle staff hiring – running background checks, getting NDAs signed – and Ms. Ellis had done all that. I might feel inadequate for the position, but if I pushed aside my lack of confidence, I did have the experience: years of babysitting, children’s music lessons and lifeguard summer jobs. Ms. Ellis had checked my references, so the job did seem real.
When she’d offered car service from the airport, I should have accepted. At least then I’d be certain I had the right place.
As I made my way down the long drive, I spotted a gardener. The front yard was clearly the work of experts – at least a half-acre of rolling green lawn and gardens filled with tall grasses that swayed like ocean waves. In one of those gardens, a woman knelt, tugging weeds.
As I walked over, she twisted to toss a weed into the bucket, and I saw her face.
Isabella Morales.
I stood there, mouth opening and closing in the perfect imitation of a beached fish. She saw me – or heard the gulp-gulp of my fish breathing. As she turned, she fixed me with the smile that smote a million telenovela addicts, and I nearly did a schoolgirl swoon.
“Ms. – Ms. Morales?” I managed. “I – I’m sorry for sneaking up. I thought…”
“That I was the gardener?”
I was about to say yes. Then I noticed her smile had dimmed, and I realized how that sounded – mistaking a Latina for the hired help. Which wasn’t the case at all – I’d only seen her back and giant sun hat.
