Chapter 15
Phoenix
Mavis is sitting up in her bed, haughty and intimidating as always, with that slightly manic gleam in her eyes. The sun should be streaming in through the blinds in her giant suite, but they’re closed, leaving the room in a depressing state of shadow.
I’m not fazed or surprised. This is just how Mavis is.
She’s never looked like a grandmother—not soft or sweet like Nana Lu. Her brows are thin and spidery, her curls iron, her perfectly made-up face set in a faint frown. One of the earliest childhood memories I have is being scared of her. It was nothing she said or did, necessarily; she was just wildly unpredictable, and she always gave off an aura of disapproval.
She still gives off that aura, but I’ve learned how to deal with it now.
“Mavis,” I say as I more or less burst into the suite, Holland at my heels. “I’m glad to see you’re looking well.”
“Don’t sweet talk me,” she says, raising her penciled brow at me. “You all can’t wait for me to die.” She gestures vaguely to her bedside, which is when I realize that my uncle Clarence and my cousin Lawrence are both here. Clarence looks as foul-tempered as ever, and Lawrence looks as cocky, his blond hair spiked perfectly.
“I’m sure that isn’t true,” Mavis’s sycophantic assistant says—a nervous, bespectacled woman with a spine of rubber and phenomenal organizational skills.
“Of course not,” an unfamiliar voice chimes in, followed by a tinkling laugh. I turn to look and discover the speaker is a dark-haired woman standing next to Lawrence—the supposed girlfriend, I assume—wearing a black dress and pink high heels. I dislike her on sight, though I have no real reason to.
“Dorothy,” she says when our eyes meet. She gives me a little wave. “Call me Dot.”
I don’t acknowledge her—or Clarence and Lawrence, for that matter. I also don’t bother denying that most of Mavis’s progeny are eagerly anticipating her death. I just beckon Holland forward until the two of us stand side by side at the foot of Mavis’s bed.
“You wanted to meet my wife,” I say. Then I gesture to Holland, who stands up infinitesimally straighter. “This is Holland.”
“Mmm,” Mavis says, little more than a buzz between the thin lips on her ancient raisin face. Her advisor steps closer to Mavis’s side, whispering in Mavis’s ear, and Mavis nods. “Holland Blakely—” she begins, but I cut her off.
“Holland Park .” I emphasize the word just slightly.
Mavis pretends not to hear me and goes on, flipping through the packet of papers the assistant has just handed her. “Resident of Sunset Harbor,” she says. “Aged twenty-seven, employee at Cuts and Curls salon. You’ve been heard calling her”—she flips through her notes and then cackles—“ that woman and Amsterdam. ” Her laugh ricochets unpleasantly, but I just grimace.
Because good grief. How did she work up such a thorough dossier so quickly? I only told her yesterday that I was married, via Wyatt.
But I’m pulled back to the present when Lawrence’s girlfriend snickers. “Amsterdam,” she says.
In the corner of my vision I see Holland tense, barely noticeable if not for the fact that I notice everything about this woman. Something sours in my gut, squirming and rancid. She doesn’t like being called that, and I don’t like hearing that name come from anyone but me—especially someone associated with Lawrence. I turn slowly to Lawrence’s girlfriend, maintaining a pleasant expression even as my fingers try to curl into a fist.
“Dorothy, was it?” I say, forcing myself to relax.
“Dot,” she says with a little frown.
I nod. “Well, Dorothy.” My expression doesn’t change, but I can hear the ice in my voice as I go on. “You do not call her that. I will call her whatever I choose, but to you she is Holland. Or”—my lip curls in disgust as I look at her—“perhaps you should stick to ma’am. ”
I shoot a look at Holland, just to see how she’s doing, but to my surprise, she’s giving me a strange look—one I’m not sure I’ve ever seen from her. Her eyes have widened the tiniest bit, subtle enough my family probably doesn’t notice, and her lips are parted. When my gaze meets hers, though, that look is gone, and she turns to Dot.
“ Holland will be fine, Dot,” she says, speaking for the first time. “Please forgive my husband.”
I blink, my brain momentarily short-circuiting at the sound of that word.
But Holland just laughs lightly and then goes on. “You know how overprotective men can be when they’re in love.” She loops her arm through mine and then pats my bicep fondly. I’m hit with a twinge of pity when Dot’s face falls, though; I have no doubt that Lawrence has never once tried to protect her.
“Of course,” Dot says, her words strained as her eyes fall to Holland’s arm linked with mine. “I understand completely.”
Holland smiles at her, a brilliant, blinding, dimpled smile.
And it’s probably because I just heard her call me husband, but…my stomach flips when I see that smile.
It flips.
Ridiculous.
I shake my head and look back to Mavis. “Well, we’ll be off.” The best-case scenario is us leaving this room in the next thirty seconds. So I tighten my arm around Holland’s and then turn away from the hospital bed.
“Wait,” Mavis says—one word, but the entire room stills. Holland and I both freeze. “Don’t you want your wedding present?”
An uncomfortable, prickling sense of dread hits me as I turn slowly back to my grandmother. “That’s not necessary,” I say. “Your approval is more than enough for us.”
One spidery brow lifts—daring me to protest further. “I insist,” she says with a creeping, curling smile. Then, from the table beside her hospital bed, she picks up a credit card, holding it out. I step closer.
No—not a credit card. A room key . My heart sinks down, down, down into the pit of my stomach.
“One night in the honeymoon suite at the Vida Grande,” Mavis says, and I know I’m not imagining the look of smug triumph in her smile. “For you and your beloved. You can check in today. Now, in fact. I even have your bags packed.” She gestures to her assistant, who bends down and pulls two small suitcases from under the bed .
I keep my expression neutral—cold, even—but my heart sinks even further when she rolls the suitcases around the bed and over to Holland and me.
This is bad.
I stare at the card and the bags, considering carefully. If I resist, she’s going to be even more suspicious than she clearly already is.
So, finally, I nod. “Thank you,” I say, taking the room key from her. “We’ll enjoy ourselves.”
“Make sure you do,” she says, her beady eyes narrowing into slits. “I have my doubts, you understand.”
“I do understand,” I say with a little bow. “But it’s nothing more than coincidental timing.”
“Mmm. Coincidental timing. ” Her eyes somehow narrow even further. “You,” she barks, gesturing at Holland, who jumps.
“Yes,” Holland says.
“Come here.” The command rings imperiously throughout the room, and I force myself not to let my nerves show, even though I’m pretty sure this is how my nightmare started last night.
Holland releases my arm and rounds the bed with slow steps, approaching Mavis the same way she might approach a wounded bear in the wild.
“Come,” Mavis says impatiently, waving her vein-knotted hand. “Let me look at you, my darling new granddaughter.” But the words are full of cynical humor, not at all welcoming or loving, and the look on her face is just shy of overtly cruel.
To her credit, Holland remains poised with her head held high, her sheen of blonde hair falling perfectly over her squared shoulders. Something about her outfit emphasizes the innate elegance I didn’t realize she had; it’s not a pearls-and-old-money elegance but rather a watch-me-land-on-my-feet grace that has nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with her character.
I swallow and give myself a little mental shake. I don’t need to be noticing these things.
When she reaches Mavis, she stands perfectly still, looking down at my insane old grandmother.
“Down,” Mavis says to her, waving her hand again. “Down here. Don’t make me stand up, Barbie. Haven’t you heard I’m almost dead?”
So Holland leans down, close enough to Mavis that the woman reaches up and takes my wife’s face in her hands. It startles me just as much as it clearly startles Holland, who jumps slightly. Mavis turns her face left and right, up and down, her eyes sharp, and I don’t think I can breathe; the oxygen in my lungs is suddenly too heavy to expel as I watch them.
Mavis’s inspection seems to last forever, though it’s probably not more than a minute. When she finally releases Holland, she does so with a little push. Then she speaks.
“Take that”—she gestures at the key card in my hand—“and have a proper honeymoon.” It’s not a well-wish; there’s a hint of a threat in there, like she’s tacked on the words I’ll know if you don’t at the end.
My eyes fall on Clarence, Lawrence, and Dot; the latter two just look disgruntled, maybe because Mavis hasn’t given them any gifts, but Clarence is looking at Holland with narrowed eyes.
I don’t want him looking at her. Ever.
So I stride quickly to Holland’s side and take her hand. I give her a little tug, and together we head toward the double doors.
“Wait!”
It isn’t Mavis this time; it’s Lawrence, and I’m not surprised. I look over to see him hurrying around his father and Dot until he’s planted himself right in our path.
“I have to meet my new cousin,” he says, holding one hand out to Holland. His smile is pleasant, but his blue eyes are sharp. “I have to meet the woman whose name in Phoenix’s phone was so intriguing that I had to call her myself to?—”
“We’re leaving,” I say before he can blurt out anything else. I swat his hand away, and he just grins.
“Tsk, tsk,” he says as we move past him with the suitcases. “So rude.”
“Thank you for the suite,” I call, one hand already on the door handle. “And I hope I don’t see anyone lingering around the island who’s not supposed to be there.”
Mavis, Clarence, and Lawrence are all the kinds of people who would send someone to spy on Holland and me. My mother would too, for that matter.
I can only assume she’s not here because she’s protesting my marriage to someone she didn’t approve first, but she’ll have to meet Holland at some point. I dread the day.
We step through the double doors and out of the hospital suite, and even though I can tell Holland is bursting to speak, I hold up one finger.
“If you’re going to yell, wait until we’ve gone further,” I mutter.
“What makes you think I’m going to yell?” she says, looking affronted.
“It’s hard to tell with you,” I say. “You pulled out a perfect smile in there with apparent ease.” A smile of the sort she never aims at me—one that made my stomach flip. Worrisome.
“Slow down,” she says, ignoring my jibe. “Your legs might be a million miles long, but I’m in heels, Dodo Bird. ”
Great. Now I’m extinct.
“I just think your entire family needs a lesson in boundaries. And also they need to get off their high horse,” she continues in a low voice as we travel the short halls of the VIP ward. “Your freaky grandma can’t actually force us to go to this hotel—you know that, right? And what was that that your cousin said? Is that why he called me that one time? What’s my name in your phone?”
Crap. “Holland, obviously,” I say. Then I move quickly on before she can question the lie. “And when dealing with Mavis, it’s best to choose your battles. She holds my future in her bony, veiny hands. So you and I”—I grimace—“can go to this hotel tonight. We don’t even have to talk to each other. Fine?”
“Fine,” she grumbles. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”
I don’t answer; I can’t make that commitment.
Because Mavis only gave me one key card, which means there could be another one floating around somewhere. I can’t run the risk of someone barging in—I don’t want to believe Mavis would do that, but in my gut I know she would—and finding us sleeping separately.
So even though she doesn’t know it yet…I’m going to have to share the bed with my wife.
The only word for our room at the Vida Grande is opulent.
It’s the same hotel where we took our photos in the gardens out back, but the suite we used then was not a honeymoon suite. This room has carpet so thick and soft my feet sink in, a heart-shaped jacuzzi, and a massive king-sized bed covered in rose petals—there’s even a champagne bottle on ice next to the jacuzzi.
Mavis Butterfield is cruel, and she’s clearly not trying to hide her suspicion.
“Are those…matching robes?” Holland says, her voice dazed as she drifts toward the completely glass shower in one corner of the room. There are no walls for privacy, and my gaze darts around to make sure the toilet isn’t out in the open too; I relax slightly when I see the open bathroom door off to one side.
“Maybe,” I say as I continue looking around the room. A large sliding door leads out to a private patio with a small pool; I’d be tempted by that, but Holland doesn’t swim—ever. Not since she and I and Trev crashed over the edge of that bridge and into the river below. She’s never said it explicitly, but I’ve seen her avoid the ocean and pool enough to know.
There’s no couch in here, I notice, just a chaise lounge that looks like something you’d lie back in while a beautiful woman fed you grapes from a gold platter.
It’s not someplace I could sleep. Even Holland wouldn’t fit.
“We need to talk about the bed situation,” I say firmly, turning to her. I watch as she holds a short, cream-colored robe up to her body, looking down at it; it’s silk, judging by the way the light hits, and the twin of the one hanging on a hook by the jacuzzi.
I swallow, clear my throat, and then go on. “There’s no couch for me to sleep on, and Mavis only gave me one room key.”
“Mmm,” Holland says, distracted. “I noticed that. So she could barge in here any time, theoretically.” She looks up at me. “Right? ”
I give a reluctant jerk of my head.
“But she’s in a hospital bed.”
I nod again. “She’s allowed to leave for short stretches as long as a nurse accompanies her. The doctors just want her to stay for monitoring and observation; she’s on hospice, more or less.”
She hangs the robe back on its hook and then turns to me again. “You realize the only reason she gets away with things so invasive is that you all let her. Everyone in your family must bow to her wishes if she’s doing stuff like barging into hotel rooms uninvited.”
“Yes,” I say slowly, “and no. It’s more complicated than that.” How do I explain the grip this matriarchy has on my life? “Our family is so intertwined with the company, and Mavis has always been a boss first and a grandmother second. Fighting against her doesn’t just affect my family; it affects my career. And while she’s unpredictable as a matriarch, she’s ruthless as a CEO.”
“I don’t get it,” Holland says, her brow furrowing, “but okay.” She eyes the giant bed with its flower petals and red velvet comforter. “I’m still not sharing the bed with you.”
I rub my temples. “Look, Amsterdam,” I say. “I don’t want to do it either. But this is one night, okay?”
She glances back at the bed, and I can see the debate going on in her mind; she doesn’t want to, but she agreed to pretend.
When she turns back to me with a look of irritation on her face, I know I’ve won.
“Fine. But— but! ” she says quickly as I open my mouth to speak again. “We will place a pillow barrier down the center of the bed. You will not cross it.”
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I would rather stab myself with the thorns all those rose petals came from than sleep close to you.”
“That could probably be arranged,” she says with a smirk. It fades, though, as she wanders through the room. “It’s the middle of the day. What are we supposed to do in here until tomorrow morning?”
I know what we’re supposed to do. What we’re going to do, though? I’m less clear on that. “Just relax, I guess. Take a nap.”
“I can’t nap during the day or I won’t sleep well at night,” she says, leaning down to examine the jacuzzi. “This tub is huge. We?—”
But she breaks off as a knock sounds at the door to our suite; her eyes dart to me, gleaming with panic, and I hold up one hand. Then, straightening my suit coat, I hurry over to the door and look out the peephole.
“Oh,” I say, the tension draining out of me. “It’s hotel staff.” I frown and look again. “With chocolate-covered strawberries.”
Her anxious expression brightens. “Perfect; I’m hungry.”
I open the door and nod at the man standing there.
“Compliments of the hotel,” he says immediately, bowing. “To congratulate you on your special day.”
“Wonderful,” I say, forcing a smile at him. “Thank you.”
Then, even though it’s abominably rude, I take the tray from him, give one last nod, and close the door right in his face.
I have a nagging worry that Mavis could ask the hotel staff to report back to her. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.
“We should get changed first,” I say, crossing the room with the strawberries and setting the tray on the chaise lounge. “At least give the appearance of trying to relax if anyone else comes.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “Pantyhose are uncomfortable.” She sits on the edge of the jacuzzi and stares at our suitcases. “I’m just scared to find out what’s in there.”
Me too.
“How about you open yours, I’ll open mine, and if we don’t want to wear or use anything in there, we don’t have to. No questions asked,” she says.
“Good idea.” I’m picturing all sorts of things—tiny Speedo-sized pajamas, or maybe matching outfits, because who knows what Mavis is capable of?—and I might end up being more comfortable in my suit.
So we each open our suitcase, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find normal pajamas in mine—flannel pants and a white undershirt—along with basic toiletries.
“Oh,” Holland says, her head emerging from above the lid of her case. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”
“Mine either.”
She holds up what looks like a nightgown, silky and black with delicate straps, long enough that it will probably hit her knees. I take it in and then look away again.
If that’s better than she expected, I’m not going to say anything. “Well, you can change into that if you want”— please don’t, please don’t, please don’t —“or I can give you these for now.” I hold up the undershirt and flannel pants from my suitcase. “I’ll be plenty comfortable once I take off my coat and tie. I’ll probably do some work on my phone for the afternoon; you’re free to do whatever.”
“Those, please,” she says immediately, dropping the silky nightgown back in her suitcase and reaching for my clothes.
I pass them to her with a rush of relief, turning around while she changes .
And look—I’m not a pervert. But there’s something uncomfortably intimate about listening to Holland undress. The rustle of fabric over skin, the buzz of a zipper, the flump of clothing hitting the floor—these are sounds I have no business hearing, not when they’re coming from her.
Fourteen times two is twenty-eight. Fourteen times three is forty-two. Fourteen times four ? —
“Much better,” she says. “I’m decent.” She pauses. “I guess I’ll just read a book and eat strawberries for a while. What a horrible way to spend the day.”
But there’s a little smile on her face when I look at her, a genuine one. I watch as she gathers her hair and pulls it into a ponytail, revealing the curve of her neck that disappears beneath the too-wide neckline of my shirt. She leans down and picks up her clothes from off the floor and drapes them neatly over the top of her suitcase; then she more or less waltzes to the chaise lounge and the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries.
“I’m going to eat every single one of these unless you specifically want me to save some,” she says, settling on the lounge chair. “Even then, it will depend upon how nicely you ask.”
I don’t allow myself to smile at that. “Go ahead,” I say. “I don’t want any.”
“Good.” Her hand hovers over the tray as she inspects the strawberries; finally she chooses one and takes a bite, letting out a little moan.
“That’s a wildly unnecessary sound you’re making,” I say, frowning and watching as she chews.
She moans louder, exaggerated this time, and I roll my eyes.
“Pest,” I say, loosening my tie so that I can breathe. “Eat your food and read your book so I can work in peace. ”
“Fine,” she says, pulling out her phone. “But only because I’m making my way through Sunny Palmer’s backlist, and her books are more fun than annoying you. I’ve got my book club book to read too. I’m all set.”
I hold my tongue, remove my tie and my suit coat, and then settle myself on the floor next to the jacuzzi.
No time like your honeymoon to review expenditure reports.