“Maggie!” Vanessa Partridge looked no less than shocked to see her.
“Good morning.” Maggie pushed a worried smile across her face, played up the anguish. “I wanted to lend whatever support I could. How’s Mason doing?”
There was a rush of babbling voices as they all began describing Mason’s injuries, his blood loss, the beaten state of him. His father was, apparently, “raising hell,” at the Powell hospital.
The women, they didn’t like or trust her, but her efforts in the last week had gone a long way toward granting her some sway. They were fascinated – she was so different from them – and she knew things, had access to circles they’d only heard about via urban legends. When she said she could help, they believed her now.
The Daughters of the American Revolution: it had sounded like something she could get behind. It brought to mind images of Martha Washington, the brave spy wives, the sisters, battlefield nurses. The Revolution: taking on the meanest, toughest nation in the world and winning. That was rebellion, that was victory, that was blood on the hands and blades in the teeth, stitching flags by lamplight and hiding minutemen under floorboards when the redcoats came knocking through houses. That was something Maggie loved.
The DAR, though? Bunch of snobs sipping spiked coffee and talking about their summer houses and organizing charitable events whose proceeds went Godknewwhere. Lame. It was just an excuse to socialize, as if these women didn’t have enough of those.
“I’ll tell you something that none of you can repeat,” Maggie said, sinking down gracefully to a tufted ottoman. Every eye in the room fastened to her. “The boys are thinking this was an attack from the dealer who sold Mason those pills…”
They leaned toward her.
Like candy from a baby.
He wouldn’t look at her. His arms were folded on the side of her bed, his forehead resting against one wrist, her hand trapped inside of his, her fingers starting to go numb from the strength of his grip.
Ava stroked his hair with her free hand, slow smooth passes, curling over him, trying to block out the obscene fluorescent light, close enough to smell the Scotch on him.
How strange, she reflected, that it was her comforting him in this moment, that it was Mercy struggling, and her doing the petting.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple.
She felt his lashes flicker as he blinked. “No it’s not,” he said. “Oh,fillette, no it’s not.”
**
Maggie watched the storm build in Ghost, all day, in their snatches of shared time, when their paths crossed; saw the thunderheads behind his eyes and felt the electricity in every casual brush of his gaze.
The storm broke around midnight, after Ava was released and they took her home, once she was dosed with prescription pain meds and tucked in bed, once Mercy had disappeared and the old ladies had gone home, having left casseroles and heating pads and flowers and books for Ava.
Maggie was brushing her teeth when she heard Ghost say, “How long?” behind her.
She glanced up and saw his truly awful expression in the mirror, and glanced away. She spit, rinsed her toothbrush, and took her time stowing it away in the drawer. “You suck at asking questions.”
Clearly, he wasn’t playing that game tonight. “How long did you know?”
“I didn’tknow.” She moved past him, out into the bedroom. “I suspected.”
“Same fucking difference.”
“No, it’s not.” She pulled her robe down out of the closet and draped it across her shoulders, using it as a veil as she shucked her jeans. She didn’t feel like being in her underwear in front of him when he was like this; she didn’t want to feel vulnerable. The sweater came next, trickier, but still doable. She’d been too rebellious as a teen to not know how to ditch her clothes in an efficient hurry. She let the robe drop to her waist as she pulled a cotton nightgown over her head.
Ghost approached her slowly, with predatory grace, so by the time she’d straightened the straps and belted her robe, he was at her side, watching her with undisguised fury. “Let’s just recap here: yoususpectedourteenagedaughter was fucking around with athirty-year-oldmember ofmy club, and you forgot to mention it or interfere in any way?”
“I talked to Mercy.”
“You didn’t think that was my job?”
“No.” She met his gaze with a frosty one of her own. “It wasn’t. Because you only see things two ways: club, and not-club. Ava’s been not-club her entire life, and you don’t even bother to interact with her in any sort of meaningful way–”
“You saying I don’t love my kid? That it?” His tone was solid steel; it vibrated a warning.Be careful, it said.I’m the fucking boss here, it said.
Fuck him.
“I’m saying she’s a girl, and you don’t put a lot of thought into her day-to-day life, until, suddenly, her life is tied up with the club. Well guess what, baby, the club raised her. Every thought that goes through her head is run through the filter of Club. Did you honest to God think she’d have a crush on some kid in math class and go to prom with him? Every man in her life belongs toyour club,” she shot his words back at him. “And she grew up dogging Mercy’s heels. He’s a bigger part of her life than you are. Of course she fell in love with him. Of course he loves her back. Of course it went too far. That’snatural– even if this whole mess is fucked up, it was unavoidable. So stop acting like it blindsided you.”
