Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Six Months later.
“Lolo, can I have cake and cupcakes for my birthday?” Cara asked as we walked home from her school.
Panic gripped my insides. Cake and cupcakes. It had taken me a month of practicing every day for a month while Cara had been in school to finally get a batch to turn out. That was two-hundred and forty cupcakes tossed into the trash.
I had not been practicing baking a cake.
Shit.
“It’s your birthday. You get whatever you want.”
“I knew it,” Cara exclaimed. “Natalie says she has to pick. She can’t have both. But I knew you’d say yes. Can we FaceTime Miss Flora tonight?”
Damn, I missed Flora.
She’d left a week after I got back and I wasn’t sure who missed her more, me or Cara.
I had to hand it to the older woman; she’d tried to cram everything she knew about parenting into a week.
Unfortunately at the time I’d been heartbroken and hadn’t retained even half of what she’d tried to teach me.
No. Not heartbroken. Pissed. Furious. Murderous. Not that I committed any kind of crimes these days, especially felonious ones. Hell, it had been over a month since I’d plotted a beautiful torture scene starring a dumbass who’d almost rearended me while Cara was in the car.
I was taking that as me adjusting nicely into my retirement.
“Remember I told you that Miss Flora is traveling but she’ll FaceTime you on your birthday next week.”
Crap. I had a week to learn how to bake a cake.
I used to shoot bad guys for a living; one would think something as simple as baking wouldn’t send me into a spiral of despair.
Yet here we are.
The infamous Lore fretting over some flour and sugar.
Sugar.
I was allowing Cara to eat way too much sugar.
“I have an idea,” I started. “I’ll make cupcakes for you to take to school to share with your friends and we’ll have the cake for our celebration.”
Cara stopped and tipped her head back to stare up at me. “Why would I give my friends a cupcake on my birthday? It’s not their birthday. Shouldn’t they all be bringing me a cupcake?”
Um.
Shit.
I quickly scrolled through my limited arsenal of parenting comebacks and found I didn’t have an answer that would not scar her or make her emotionally unavailable or screw her up in general.
Think fast!
“Because it’s a nice thing to do. And that way everyone can have a cupcake to help you celebrate.”
There.
That wasn’t great but it wasn’t horrible.
“Do I have to be nice? I love cupcakes and you’re making special birthday cupcakes. I think because it’s my birthday, I shouldn’t have to be nice and share.”
I actually agreed with her, but I was a scarred, emotionally unavailable, cold-hearted bitch so of course I wanted to hoard all the cupcakes.
“Yes, sweet pea, you have to be nice.”
I couldn’t be sure but it sure did look like she was trying to come up with a new and valid argument to get all the cupcakes. But before she could fully work through the problem Mr. Stevens came out of his house with a smile.
“Harper. Cara. How are you two lovely ladies doing this afternoon?” he politely asked.
“My birthday’s next week, Mr. Stevens,” Cara told him and I had to physically restrain myself from scooping her up and running back to the house so I could issue another safety lesson about giving out too much personal information.
“Well hot diggity dog!” Mr. Stevens exclaimed with more exuberance than necessary. “A birthday. That’s exciting. Is Lolo making you a cake?”
Cara beamed a wide smile that was so sweet and dazzling I vowed to spend the next week learning how to be the best cake baker in Maryland.
“And cupcakes, but I have to share those with my class because Lolo says I have to be nice.”
Mr. Stevens being approximately a hundred years old—okay, that’s a slight over-exaggeration but the man was getting up there in age—and having children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren didn’t miss the dejection in Cara’s tone.
“Never did understand why I had to share treats on my birthday,” he returned.
“But your Lolo’s right, it’s the nice thing to do.
” Cara’s ‘I told you so’ eyes slid to me before they went back to our neighbor.
“Amy and Rocco will be here this weekend. I bet I can talk Mrs. Stevens into making an early batch of cupcakes for you.”
No. No. No. I didn’t need to be shown up by an old woman who could bake cupcakes better than I could a week before I wanted to give something special to Cara.
“Yay! I love Rocco.”
Mr. Stevens smiled. I cringed.
Rocco was Mr. Stevens’ eight-year-old grandson and the kid had way too much charm for a child. Cara had a crush, a big one. But she also adored Amy who was sweet and shy. Mrs. Stevens just loved all the neighborhood kids and spoiled them.
“Best let you get home. I’ll have Mrs. Stevens call.”
“Bye, Mr. Stevens!” Cara cried.
“See ya, doll. Lolo.”
I said my good-bye and we finished our walk home.
In all that Flora had taught me about children, she’d forgotten to tell how exhausting they were.
Not that I would’ve believed her if she’d told me that by the time homework was done, dinner was made, eaten, cleaned up, bath was given, and books were read I’d want to fall into bed and sleep for a year.
It must’ve been the energy. Cara was a bundle of excitement.
Always talking, always asking questions—most of which I didn’t have the answers to.
I didn’t understand how Mike and Donna did it and worked.
Well, I did; there were two of them and they had Flora.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to work. Actually, I had more money than I knew what to do with which meant Cara did as well.
She had her parents’ insurance sitting in accounts earning interest. I had my parents’ money which was enough to live three lifetimes and not make a dent.
Not that I touched that money, but it was there plus I had my own.
I could buy Cara all the cupcakes she’d ever want plus hire a personal chef to bake her an extravagant cake.
That’s what my mother would’ve done. She would’ve snapped her finger or rang a bell or some such shit and told Gerard to tell Lucy to bake me a cake.
That was of course, when she remembered my birthday and it was always something rich and complicated.
It wouldn’t do for a McKnight to like something as simple as vanilla.
My parents were dicks.
I closed the cookbook, careful not to disturb the sticky notes I’d placed on the pages.
It was sad I was a grown-ass woman and was just now learning how to cook.
I ruined more meals than were actually edible.
Poor Cara. But I was trying. I would figure this out.
Maybe I’d talk to Mrs. Stevens while Cara was playing with Rocco The Charmer and Sweet Amy and ask her to help me learn to bake and cook.
After double checking the house was locked, the alarm, and Cara was safely sleeping in her bed, I made my way to my room.
Boring. Totally boring. I’d spent time making Cara’s room comfortable and fit for my sweet girl.
The rest of the house was cozy. At least I thought it was, but what did I know, I hadn’t had a permanent home in going on two decades—not since I escaped the prison I was forced to grow up in and there was nothing cozy, warm, or comfortable about the mansion my parents proudly owned.
In college I lived in apartments. After that I roamed.
Four white walls, a bed, some furniture that was nice quality but nothing special. The only pop of color was my bedspread. If muted sage green and grey could be considered color. Cara had loved it in the store, so it quickly went into the cart and was now on my bed.
I wandered around my room getting ready for bed, battling the urge to pull my old, disconnected burner out of my nightstand.
It was a fifty-fifty shot whether I would put it back or if I would open the old voicemails I’d downloaded and saved.
Okay, if I was being honest, it was more like seventy-thirty.
Seventy being I’d listen. I settled in under the comforter and lasted a full minute before I snatched the phone out of the drawer.
Hey, it’s Cash. I need to apologize for being a dick. Call me when you can.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and played the next message.
Hey, it’s Cash again. It’s been a week. I was an out of line motherfucker. I get you’re pissed and you should be but please call me, Lore. I need to tell you how sorry I am.
I skipped the next message, which was left a week after the last one. It was basically a repeat of the last two. I hit play on the next one and braced.
You’re killing me, Stella. Please call me.
Eight seconds of Cash’s whispered plea.
Four messages and I didn’t call him back. Then when he didn’t call back for a month I was both happy and heartsore.
Hey, it’s me. Sorry it’s been a minute. Not sure where you are, if you’ve got eyes on what’s going on, but shit got busy. I’m back home. Please call me, even if it’s to tell me to go fuck myself. I just need to… there was a long pause… know you’re okay.
I really wanted to know what that long pause meant but I didn’t call him back to ask.
The weird part was, I wasn’t angry about what he’d said to me.
Even as it was happening, I understood why he’d lashed out.
Not that understanding made it hurt any less, but I held no anger.
I didn’t call back because I really wanted to.
I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to argue and banter with him.
I wanted to see if I could pinpoint a smile just by the sound of his voice.
I wanted to ask him if he thought there was love and companionship for people like us.
I wanted to tell him how scared I was about screwing up Cara just so he could make a smartass comment about children so I could tell him how wrong he was.
How loving and caring for Cara was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
I wanted to ask him if he wanted to come over for dinner.
But that was me romanticizing a fling. We’d bickered and had sex. We weren’t even friends. Yet I couldn’t stop the feeling that Cash Phillips was the one person on earth who would understand and accept me.
I also knew, I was only feeling this way because Lore was dead.
Not only the facade that kept me safely behind thick, reinforced walls, but also the woman who was always on the go, in the thick of it.
Now I was a stay-at-home momish type who barely turned on the news because I knew whatever was being reported was utter bullshit scripted by people who had an agenda.
The truth didn’t sell subscriptions—sensationalism did.
Rage bait kept social media going. Talking heads and politicos would say and do whatever they were paid to say and do, and it was never the truth or in the best interest of the public, it was to keep the money and power flowing.
Yet, I still in some part knew what Cash meant when he said he’d been busy.
President Graham had cleaned house. As far as presidents were concerned, he wasn’t bad.
In the speech I’d heard he was mostly forthright about the terrorist attacks and the ones that had been planned but had been foiled.
There were holes in his speech, and he’d left out most of the details, but that was in the best interest of the people—globally, not just in the US.
All because a brave woman had come forward and handed over her secrets. I would never know what happened to Irinia Kikoin. But wherever she was I hoped she was enjoying her new life as Irine Peterson.
I pulled the covers up, snuggled into my pillow, hit the play button for the last voicemail, and closed my eyes as Cash’s voice washed over me.
I know I deserve your silence. I was a total asshole.
I said shit I didn’t mean. There’s no excuse but there is an explanation and I know it doesn’t mean shit to you, and it shouldn’t, but I’m sorry, Stella.
So fucking sorry. I can’t say I regretted them the moment I said them, because I wasn’t thinking about you, all I was thinking about was me and the pain that had taken hold.
Then I heard you talking to Zane and I couldn’t get my feet to move.
It was a bullshit coward move. I should’ve stopped you before you left.
I should’ve done a lot of shit differently, but I didn’t and all of that is on me.
I know you don’t care and it doesn’t mean anything to you, but I need you to know the last thing I think you are is cold-hearted.
You are who you are, and you’re brave enough to be honest about it.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you, you’re not perfect exactly the way you are, especially a dick like me.
The last thing I needed you to know is the night we connected meant something to me, baby girl.
I might’ve turned everything to shit the next morning, and you hate me and want to forget everything we shared, but I can’t.
I hope wherever you are, you’re safe and happy and doing all the Lore things.
If you ever need me, I’m there, no questions asked. Take care.
I powered down the phone, tossed it on my nightstand, and tucked my knees up to my chest.
The day after Cash left that message, I disconnected the number.
I was too close to breaking down and calling him back.
That was two months ago. I didn’t trust myself.
Now all I had of him was six voicemails that I listened to over and over, wishing I was brave enough to call him back.
But I knew once he’d said his peace and apologized in person, so to speak, there’d be nothing else to say.
That’d be it—the end of Cash and me. Not that there was ever a me and Cash, but in my loneliness I could romanticize it and pretend there was a spark that, if we’d fanned it enough, it would’ve grown into something real and beautiful.
Now it would forever just be me and Cara.
And she was enough.