Chapter 21 Naomi
I hardly sleep that night. Anya dropped me off at a dead-quiet house. No one was here, which proved a comfort as well as a fright. Anya wanted to stay, but how would we have explained her presence? We hardly were BFFs who could improvise a sleepover—that’d tip my father off she was looking out for me, under the directive of my uncle.
It still stuns me when I think back to earlier and how my uncle stepped into my life. The drive back home didn’t happen in a vacuum. I pumped Anya for information, and she replied as truthfully as she could. Some things she still kept to herself, though I couldn’t fault her for that. She was meant to look out for me, not to report back to me.
It turns out my uncle and grandparents were banned from seeing my mother once she married my dad. He cited her ‘fragile health’ as the reason, didn’t want to upset her, he said. As if seeing them would put her into a state, like a child seeing their parent randomly once inside their classroom in kindergarten during the first days of the school year.
She wasn’t a child, yet a part of me wonders in what state she was during her time with him. Every time I now recall the picture I saw at Valentino’s house, I want to sob. Because there’d been a soft look to her—she did indeed bring to mind a lost child…
What the fuck did he do to her?
So, her family couldn’t see her, couldn’t take care of her. They found a way to keep an eye on her, though. The cook in our New Jersey house was someone they knew and trusted. Then they made sure the housekeeper who was hired at the summer residence in the Hamptons was a woman who reported to them.
What good did it do, though? None of them could stop her accident from happening. And a sinking feeling had started growing in my gut. Was it an accident, or was it deliberate? I wouldn’t go as far as saying my father killed her—he’s not the sort to get his hands dirty. So…suicide?
I close my eyes tight and ward off the thought, the very word, every time it returns to plague me. She can’t have…
Can she?
The nightmare of that possibility circles and circles around me all night long. I barricaded myself in my bedroom, turning the lock on the door and then pulling a chest of drawers slightly in front of the panel to ward off anyone trying to break in. I can’t be sure Thad won’t be a merciless scumbag who tries something on me again. I need to talk to my dad about it, about him—maybe Anya is wrong. Maybe they’re all wrong. Anya, my uncle, Valentino. Quick glances across the yard from my bedroom window reveal no light at his window. Didn’t he come home tonight?
Sleep eludes me, and I doze off when it’s close to dawn.
I awaken, groggy and confused, to a knock on my bedroom door.
“Naomi?” my father’s voice calls out.
It sounds like the pounding of nails in my brain, so much a debilitating headache is crushing my head in a vise.
“Yes?” I voice out, mouth dry and tongue feeling thick.
“We can have a quick breakfast before I have to leave.”
I don’t want to confront him. In fact, a part of me never wants to see him ever again. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Until last month, I didn’t know my parents’ marriage wasn’t blissful. Until that day, I didn’t doubt whether my mother was okay or not. Her death was a tragedy, period. Until yesterday, I didn’t know I had family actively looking for me and looking out for me. Never mind the fact I own the apartment in New York—I love it, true, but it’s a possession. All my life, I’ve felt lonely having only my father as family after my mother died. I grew up believing he loves me, and I learned to be content with just the two of us. But now I find out that he kept me away from my uncle and is probably a liar and rapist and pedophile.
Stop! You don’t know his side of the story.
And I suppose I should get that, before I form a definite opinion.
Plus, there’s the issue of Thad I need to address. Anya’s wrong—my dad will put me first.
“Coming,” I croak, then repeat louder.
I hear his heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, and I push myself off the bed. In the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and rinse my face. I gather my hair up into a messy bun, then change my clothes in the room, donning a pair of jeans and a thick-knit cream wool sweater.
My feet trudge down the stairs, and I pause on the first floor. Sounds are coming from the kitchen, and I make my way there prudently. So far, it seems to be just the two of us in the house. I’m expecting Thad to jump out of the woodwork at me, but I make it safely to the breakfast nook and no sign of him.
I take a deep breath, the smell of bacon frying infiltrating my nostrils. For once, I don’t let the delicious aroma distract me.
“Dad? We need to talk.”
He putters around, pouring eggs into the pan. I can’t believe he’s making a frittata right now.
He doesn’t know what happened , I remind myself. I take another deep breath.
“Dad, please.” When he glances up at me, I continue. “Thad tried to rape me yesterday.”
His hand stills on the handle of the cast-iron pan. His entire body freezes, except for the small twitch of his left eye as he stares at me. Then he seems to snap out of it, pulls the pan to him, bends, opens the oven door, slides the pan in, closes the door, and whips the kitchen towel he’d placed over his shoulder.
My eye is now twitching. Doesn’t he care? How can he think of food and cooking right now?
He presses his hands on the counter, leans on his forearms, then shakes his head and comes my way.
His hands settle on my shoulders, and he peers into my eyes.
A lick of fear erupts from the base of my spine, slithering its way up. There’s no expression on his face. His eyes are dead. It feels threatening, like he’s going to shake me like a rag doll next.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I have to blink to register his words. My focus also breaks on his expression, and I can see concern in his eyes, in the deep eleven-lines in between his furrowed brows.
“No,” I mumble. “Of course not.”
“Oh, darling.” He pulls me into a hug.
I don’t resist, and I melt against him. “He has to go, Dad.”
My words come out muffled against his shirt. He runs a hand over my back.
“Of course, my girl. You won’t have to see him again.”
He put me first! I want to jump around in joy and vindication. Suddenly, I feel like a little girl again. Daddy’s precious little girl. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t make right when I was younger. Except for bringing my mother back, that is.
I stiffen when I think of her. He pulls away at my reaction. His face is rife with worry, body tensing up.
I turn away and flop onto the booth. He comes sit opposite me.
“What did he do?”
I blink. I can’t tell him in detail how that pig assaulted me.
My expression must’ve conveyed my thoughts, because he lifts his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you relive that. It’s just…”
I frown. “You can’t believe it?”
He sighs. “Frankly, no—”
Fury rips up like an instant storm inside me. Anya was right. I can’t believe it!
“So, it’s my word against his?”
“No!” He looks aghast now. “Well, Thad assured me he loves you. He asked my permission to court you. That’s why I allowed him so much into our house.”
I shake my head. “And you didn’t think to ask what I want?”
“I…I thought it would be harmless. I never thought…”
“You seriously thought I would fall for him? That I’d marry him?”
“I…He’s not your type?”
“No!” He sounded so baffled asking this question, I almost laughed aloud.
He frowns now. “Naomi, is there someone?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you have someone in your life?”
I take a long time to answer. What can I say? Valentino and I haven’t put a label on what’s going on between us.
“Maybe,” I say.
He frowns. “Well, I’d think it’s a pretty straightforward situation. Yes or no, right?”
In a way, he’s not wrong. “Yes.”
“Marriage material?”
A laugh does chortle out this time. “Dad, it’s not the Regency era. People don’t get married after a few dates. People don’t court each other, either. And fathers don’t go setting up possible suitors for their daughters.”
He chuckles, too. “I know, darling. I just want the best for you.”
“I know.”
“So, who’s this person?”
Valentino Andretti. Watch me say this and see WWIII erupt right across the table from me.
“It’s early days.”
He nods. “Ah, if your mother were here today.”
My throat closes when I think of her. We wouldn’t be in this situation if she were alive. Or would we? My uncle Declan would still be persona non grata in this house. Nothing would’ve changed there.
I gasp softly upon recalling I still need to get my dad’s side of the story. I can’t condemn a person without letting them defend themselves.
So, I take a deep breath and delve in. “Dad? You and Mom? You were happy?”
His face sobers and darkens a little. “I think so, yes.”
I frown. Not what I was expecting. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I like to think so. But, your mom, she was…fragile.”
Something in that word rubs me the wrong way. “Enough to kill herself?”
He jumps from the booth so quickly, I’m taken aback.
“Don’t you dare!” he yells. His eyes are thunderous, body rigid with rage. “Go to your room!”
Suddenly, it feels like I’m a little kid who’s done something wrong. I’d forgotten this command was bandied about a lot when I was a teen. I stomp past him and up the stairs, landing face down on my bed.
The tears come, as do the sobs. The anguish pours out of me, and with it goes my sense of misplaced righteousness.
What did I just do? My father didn’t deserve this. I let people who have it in for him turn my head, now look where we are. I hurt him. I threw such a terrible accusation at him, so thinly veiled.
I’m crying and crying and crying. It won’t stop.
When the sobs stop wracking my body, I’m aware there’s a soft knock at my door.
“Yes?” I snarl, still enraged at myself.
The panel opens a little, my dad poking his head in.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” he says. Then he extends his arm in. “I made hot chocolate.”
A watery smile touches my lips, and I sit up in the middle of my bed.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yes. Please.” My voice is hoarse, my throat raw.
He comes in, places the mug in my hands, then sits down next to me.
I peer at the mug and choke a laugh. He made my favorite, fishing out the hearts and stars marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms cereal and adding them on top of the milky froth. I take a sip, letting the comfort wash away the bitterness in my mouth which refuses to leave. Should’ve used more sugar, but I can’t say this. Not when he went to all this effort.
“I’m sorry Thad hurt you,” he says.
“I’m sorry I said what I did about Mom.”
He sighs. “What brought this on, Naomi? You never talk about her.”
You’re wrong , I want to tell him. He’s the one who doesn’t like bringing her up in any talk. But I have to answer with something—good thing I went through all the possible openings and lines I could think of overnight.
“She was twenty-three when she had me,” I start. “I’m the same age, and…I dunno. She died so young.”
“That’s true.” He sighs. “I always thought you’d find her absence most intolerable during your teenage years. I never pondered what it’d be like for you when you’d be a woman and the same age as her for her milestones.”
“You thought I’d also get married at eighteen?” Might as well throw all I had into the pot.
“God, no! But if you’d been in love…”
I sneak in a deep breath. This is my opportunity to ask him about my mom.
“Eighteen is a bit young to get married, don’t you think?”
He laughs. “Not when you’re in love.”
“Like you and Mom?”
He sighs. “It was love at first sight. I know she was young, but our hearts recognized each other, you know what I mean?”
I nod softly. “Soulmates?”
“Yes.”
Silence settles between us. It still rankles that he slept with her when she was still underage. And I can’t come out and ask my father if he waited for his wedding night to have sex with my mother.
So here I am, at a dead end once again.
I drink some more hot chocolate. The bitterness won’t go away. Too much cocoa powder and not enough sugar. He’s lost his touch.
“I know all this has been taxing on you. Do you need to take a break? Go away for a while? Paris is beautiful this time of year.”
I smile, but it feels weird on my face. Guess I’m not in the mood to smile. I shrug instead. I don’t want to be away from here. Valentino is next door. We can meet in Tribeca if we plan things carefully.
“I’m okay,” I mumble.
I am, but I’m also suddenly so tired. It’s like everything comes crashing down on me.
“I want to sleep,” I hear myself mutter.
“Of course, darling.”
I can feel his hand—why is it so cold?—taking the mug from my grasp. My head is feeling woozy, and before I know it, I’m falling on my side onto the bed, darkness claiming me.