21. Rush Rush
Rush Rush
Charlotte
W hen Arden’s letter arrives, I take it from the delivery man’s hand and open it while standing on my front lawn. Bronnie plays on her pirate ship, and I read it twice in a row, my throat tight and heart squeezing.
I tease Arden sometimes about showing up at his place in disguise, but I could do it. If anyone asks who I am, I can say I’m employed by Dooney & Smith. They don’t have to know I’m only an intern or that Arden hasn’t hired the company.
I eye Bronnie as she gleefully scales the hull of her ship using the attached rope net. My child has no fear.
Don ’ t be a coward, Charlotte.
If I go, I’ll crash straight through the wall between us. At the very least, I’ll build a door in it.
Together with Arden in person. It’s a crazy thought. You could end up with not only your heart in shreds but harassed by reporters. They could figure out what happened with Polford.
But that’s paranoia, isn’t it? Reporters wouldn’t be likely from a single visit, and Arden needs me. Sometimes words are just air.
Hands shaking, I punch in my parents’ number on my cordless phone.
“Hello?” Mom’s voice is a happy little chirp.
I reread the way he signed his letter . “Hey, Mom. Do you think you could keep Bronnie overnight for me?”
I arrive in Brooklyn Heights after six hours on the road. Leaving my car in a parking garage more than a block away, I walk the last leg to Arden’s place. The homes in this neighborhood are stunning, all of them well beyond the million-dollar price range. I dressed in my best skirt suit, hoping to look as though I’m here for business, but it feels like there’s a sign taped to my back with the words “I don’t belong” written in red.
Shoring up my courage, I stand under the shadowed wash of light from the streetlamp across the street from Arden’s home. I dial his number, and hope he has the phone he uses for me turned on.
“Hey, honey.” His voice is ragged and so different from his usual confident baritone.
“I got your letter,” I say.
He sighs. “I should have waited for our call. I made it sound like an emergency when it’s not. This guilt isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” He blows out a breath. “I should have given him the benefit of the doubt. I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life. The diagnosis is actually a relief, though. Things that I didn’t understand make sense now. What bothers me is that I didn’t see that he needed help. My job is to protect him. I did everything I knew to keep him safe and teach him to survive in this world, but I’ve been failing him the entire time.”
My heart pangs. “You’re only human. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try to get it right, we’re going to make mistakes.”
Across the street, a small boy with messy light brown hair and glasses peers at me through a first-floor window. It must be Henry. He turns his head to speak to someone in the room, and a pretty redhead in an ivory sweaterdress joins him, looking my way. She shoots me a withering glare then yanks the draperies closed.
Crap. I probably look like a stalker or the paparazzi.
“I know, but, God, the guilt I feel for not seeing this sooner,” he says, oblivious to the brief exchange I just had with his . . . What? Who was she?
“Henry has always known you love him and that you’re proud of him. Now he’ll know you believe in him, and you’re trying to understand him. He needs you to come at this from a positive place,” I say.
“I know you’re right,” he says.
“Those magic words—” A siren sounds somewhere in the distance, and I pause until it fades before continuing. “I should have called first, but you sounded like—You said anytime, so . . .”
Arden’s voice sharpens. “Are you in New York?”
“Surprise.”
He’s silent for an unflatteringly long moment.
“This is a bad time. I get it,” I say, voice flat. Maybe there’s no such thing as a good time. Maybe his invitation was a platitude. Something you say to be polite.
“I want you here. I’m glad you came, but, Charlotte . . . honey. I’m not there.”
I turn down his offer of a helicopter ride and drive myself out to his mansion in the Hamptons. Following his directions, I pull up to the second, smaller, wrought-iron gate, rather than the large one.
It’s evening, but lights flood the entrance. Nobody could skulk around in the darkness here.
The man who approaches my car window is the same one who walked me to my vehicle that day at the theater a few years ago. At the time, he said he wished he could be a fly on the wall.
“I figured out who he was,” I quip.
His lips quirk in a suppressed smile, then his expression turns stoic. “May I see your identification?”
“I’m pretty sure you know who I am.”
“Protocol, Ms. Miller,” he says.
When I’ve run through the security checks, the gate opens, and the man drives ahead of me in a black car, leading me down a winding drive to what appears to be a massive garage and a side entrance to the main house.
The moment I step out of my vehicle, the glossy, black-painted side door to the mansion flings open. Arden stands in black trousers and a white button-down shirt with the top button undone. His sleeves are rolled up, and a slow grin stretches across his face. He crooks his fingers in a “get over here motion” and mouths the word Anytime .
I take a step toward him, but he doesn’t wait. Arden reaches me in the space of two heartbeats, wraps both of his arms around my waist, picks me up, and swings me in a circle.
He kisses me, and the feel of him, his mouth on mine, is so electric that an inadvertent moan escapes me.
The security guy clears his throat.
Arden and I break apart.
“Oops,” I say.
Arden lifts his chin toward the guard with a grin. “Clay has no room to complain. His kid tells him to ‘get a room’ at least once a day.”
“Because Dante thinks he’s a comedian,” Clay says. “Not because I’m ravishing the missus in front of him.”
“Ravishing” is a little extreme to describe a four-second kiss. Still, we are outside.
Some secret communication seems to pass between the two men. Arden nods at Clay briefly, then turns abruptly, taking my hand to lead me into the house.
“Are the boys okay?”
He nods. “Yes. I spent the afternoon with both of them before I got the call to deal with some things here. Henry doesn’t know about his diagnosis, yet. We have a therapy appointment together tomorrow. The psychologist will explain things, then be there to answer questions.”
When we get inside, Arden wraps an arm around my waist and leads me through a large mudroom. “You’re probably tired after your trip. What can I get you to drink? Are you hungry?” He shakes his head. “Of course you are. You’d have been on the road during dinner. Unless you stopped on the drive.”
I’ve never heard him talk so fast.
“I’m not hungry or thirsty. I just want you.” I meant I wanted to talk with him. Or I mostly meant that, but the simmering look he sends me has nothing to do with conversation.
Hurriedly, he guides me through a maze of hallways. The rooms pass in a blur of soaring ceilings, paneled wainscoting and hand-painted silk wallpaper, gleaming hardwood floors, chandeliers and wall sconces.
Arden indicates a door. “Powder room?”
I press my lips together to keep from snickering and outing myself as uncultured swine. It’s not as though I don’t know a powder room is a half-bath, but I’m not used to hearing anyone who isn’t a woman over the age of seventy call it that.
He lifts an eyebrow and looks as though he thinks I’ve misplaced my marbles.
“Nope. I’m good. I . . . uh . . . powdered my nose at a highway rest stop.” Oh my God, shut up, Charlotte.
I sneak a sidelong glance at Arden as he opens another door, then I follow him into the dim space. Arden closes it behind us with a firm click.
The room is only lit by a couple of lamps positioned at the ends of a brown leather sofa and one that pools a warm glow onto a massive desk. I get nothing more than a sense of bookshelves, elegant mahogany walls, and the scent of beeswax and paper before his mouth is on mine. One of Arden’s hands delves into my hair to cradle my skull. The other slides down my back to squeeze my butt.
This isn ’ t why I came here. But the thought is fleeting because it was part of the reason, and lying to myself is stupid. Burying my fingers in the warm silk of his hair, I kiss Arden back with everything in me.