Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which we learn the true comfort of family is that they are simply there when needed.
Scarlett…
Wallace won’t look at me.
He hasn’t spoken a full sentence since that horrible, “My father’s been shot.
” I try to hug him, bury my face in his neck and tell him it would be okay, we’d go face it together, but he's already in motion, pacing the kitchen and calling his personal pilot - my husband has a personal pilot and a jet?
- issuing commands in a cold, clipped voice.
I call after him. “I’ll pack for both of us, okay?” I get a short nod, but he doesn't turn to look at me.
Hurrying through the bedroom, I pack as fast as I can, throwing open the dressing room door and pulling out the closest clothing items at hand. Throwing our toiletries in a bag, I pause by a heavy, silver framed photo of Wallace and Alastair.
The frame has the Taylor family crest on it, a lion snarling across the shield, like the one on Wallace’s chest. His father’s hand is on his shoulder and his smile is warm.
Wallace, though, is looking slightly out of the frame.
His pose is the same, tense, angled like an arrow ready to shoot in a different direction.
“Are you ready?”
I nearly drop the picture. Wallace is looking at me, his expression is blank and a little chilly.
“You have an English accent,” I say, blinking at him.
“Yes, well…” He looks down, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt. “It’s time to go home.”
The cool despair in his voice makes me hurry closer, wanting to hug him. “I’m sorry, this must feel so scary.” This time, he lets me put my arms around him for a moment, patting my back.
“Do you have everything?” He picks up the bags.
“Yeah, I think,” I agree. Murder Mittens leaps onto my shoulders, wrapping herself around me and purring soothingly in my ear.
At least she’s not freaking out.
“Since when do you have a jet?” I ask. “You’ve always used one from the MacTavish fleet.”
“This is a Taylor Holdings jet,” he corrects as the Range Rover pulls up to the private airfield where we’d landed when he brought me here from Salem. The jet in front of us is a gleaming white with a royal blue logo, cool, and sharp.
Wallace hustles me up the stairs and introduces me to the flight attendant. “Marco, this is my wife, Scarlett MacTavish-Taylor, please make her comfortable.” He turns to me. “I have to speak with the pilot, why don’t you get settled.”
“Of course,” I give him my brightest smile. “Do what you need to do. Don’t worry about me.”
Murder Mittens nearly takes a bite out of poor Marco when he offers to take my coat. “Sorry, don’t take it personally,” I apologize. “She hates everyone.”
“My mother-in-law is the same way,” he says graciously, moving his hands out of biting range.
The interior’s bright with white leather seats, blue accents, almost blinding. There’s a square glass conference table with two sets of seats facing each other. I pick the couch, thinking it might be easier to talk that way.
We’re already up in the air and Marco is plying me with drinks and snacks by the time Wallace makes his way back.
“Sit down,” I pat the spot next to me. “Can we talk?”
He pulls off his jacket, throwing it on the couch, rolling up his sleeves. At any time less terrible than this, I’d be complimenting him for being the living embodiment of suit porn, but I keep it to myself. What is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry, love. I must make some calls. Give me a moment.” He’s already dialing another number.
“Of course. Can I…” I flounder, he feels like someone else in that suit with that English accent. “Get you a drink?”
A quick, distracted smile. “Thank you.”
I almost have to shove Marco out of the way to make the drink myself. It’s silly, but it’s all I have to offer Wallace right now. My heart sinks a little to see he’s already set up his laptop on the glass table, scrolling through some documents as he talks in a low murmur.
Sitting back down on the couch, I pet Murder Mittens until she’s irritated enough to bat my hand away. My phone rings and I dive for it, grateful for any distraction.
“Are you all right?” It’s Sloan. I like how she cuts to the chase.
“I am. I mean, I’m worried about Alastair and Sorcha, of course, but Wallace…” I look over at the conference table. He’s put on a headset and he’s pacing.
“Is he shouting and throwing shite, or going all cold and calm?” Arabella calls from the background.
“The second one,” I say. “Who’s there?”
“Kenna and Luna are here, too,” Sloan says.
“The uncles are all losing their shit,” Luna adds. “An attack on one brother is an attack on them all, you know how they are.”
I let out a little half laugh, half sob. “It’s really nice to hear your voices.”
“Any one of us can be there within two hours if you need us,” Sloan says gently. “You have to take care of Wallace, who, being a MacTavish, will insist that he doesn’t need any help.”
“Yep,” Luna agrees.
“Oh hell, aye,” Arabella says fervently. “They’re a nightmare.”
Given that she’s married to Logan, who is a walking, talking, ticking chaos bomb, the woman knows what she’s talking about.
“What should I do?” God, I feel like an idiot, asking how to help my own husband.
“Give him the space right now,” Kenna says sympathetically. “He’s gathering information to try to gain some sense of control. Once he’s had a chance to see his father, he’ll calm down, aye?”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
“Hang in there, okay? We’re here if you need us.” Sloan ends the call with the others calling out their goodbyes as she does.
Other than Morgan, I haven’t had any true family since my parents died. Now, suddenly, there are so many people wanting to look out for me, who are worried and care, even if they couldn’t help.
Looking at Wallace, I suck in a deep breath. I doubt I can do anything either, but I’ll just… be here. For when he needs me. Getting up, I head over to pick up his glass.
“Another one?”
Distracted, he looks up briefly and nods before going back to his conversation.
Murder Mittens leaps off my shoulders to sit next to Wallace’s laptop, her gaze fixed on him.
Maybe she’s just being there for him, too.
Fixing another drink and a plate of small sandwiches, I put them on the table next to his elbow and sit back down.
And I wait. Which is the hardest thing in the world to do.