17
Sydney busies herself at the sink while Bianca enjoys her pancakes at the table.
They haven’t discussed yesterday’s awkward conversation.
Obviously Syd didn’t want to bring it up with Curtis and Damian around, but it’s been playing on her mind.
She had tossed and turned last night, slipping in and out of disturbing dreams. It wasn’t Bianca’s stated feelings that kept her up: Sydney’s flattered by her interest, maybe even a little titillated.
It was another comment that has her troubled.
Bianca brings her empty plate to the sink.
“Delicious,” she says, touching Syd’s waist. They do this, Syd’s noticed.
Both Bianca and Damian are tactile and affectionate—with each other and with her.
She doesn’t mind it; maybe she even likes it.
But she wonders if Curtis has noticed. If he has, does it bother him?
“Ready to do another coat downstairs?” Bianca asks, sipping the last of her coffee.
“Sure,” Syd replies, rinsing the frying pan and setting it in the draining rack. She turns as she dries her hands on a tea towel. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Bianca sets her mug on the counter.
“Yesterday, you said that Curtis doesn’t appreciate me. What makes you think that?”
“It’s just a vibe I pick up from him,” Bianca says breezily. “I’m an intuitive person. I always have been.”
“So Curtis hasn’t said anything?” Syd presses. “Or done anything?”
“Not really…” But it’s practically an affirmation.
“Not really? Or no?” Syd’s chest feels weighted, and she struggles for a breath. It’s anxiety, that familiar tightness in her lungs. “Tell me, Bianca.”
The Australian sighs, rakes her nails through her long hair. “It’s nothing overt. But Curtis gives off a certain energy when we interact. It’s hard to put a finger on it.”
“What kind of energy?”
Bianca’s gaze is steady. “I guess I’d say an available energy.”
Syd swallows dryly. Curtis has been coming on to Bianca, subtly, even unconsciously.
If she confronted her husband, he would laugh, tell her it’s a bunch of woo-woo nonsense.
But Syd believes in women’s intuition… doesn’t she?
And yet, Bianca may have an ulterior motive.
If she’s got a crush on Sydney, maybe she’s trying to cause problems between her and Curtis?
Syd’s mind swirls, but there’s a dark pit of knowing in her belly.
Because all Curtis’s promises, and all their therapy, cannot erase the fact that he betrayed her.
That he was willing to cross that line, to break her heart.
She can’t even be sure that Collette was the first time he did it.
And she can’t be sure that he wouldn’t do it again, right here in their home.
Bianca’s eyes flit to the side door then, and Sydney turns toward it. Curtis walks in, his hair dusty, bloody scratches on his arm.
“You’re bleeding.” Syd steps toward him. “What happened?”
“Damian was on the roof. He kicked some shingles down on me.”
“What?”
“It was an accident. I’m fine.”
“I’ll get our first aid kit from the van,” Bianca offers.
“It’s nothing,” Curtis calls after her, but she’s already gone.
“I’ll get a cloth,” Syd says. “We should wash the dust out of the wounds.”
“Later,” Curtis says brusquely. “I need to show you something first.”
“What is it?” Sydney asks as she follows him outside and up the hill. They’re heading toward the shed the guys have been renovating, but there’s no sign of Damian. He must have gone to retrieve something from the van or to cool off in the pool.
“You’ll see,” Curtis mutters.
Her husband’s vague response frustrates her.
She understands that Curtis is miserable.
He’s still got the jellyfish welts bothering him at night, and now he’s had shingles dropped on his head.
But Syd’s in no mood for the steep walk in the already oppressive heat, and she doesn’t appreciate his surly demeanor.
Bianca’s insinuations have her conflicted and on edge.
“Just tell me, Curtis,” she insists, stopping in her tracks.
But Curtis keeps moving through the brush, circling the massive oak at the back of the property. He points at the ground. “You can’t smoke out here, Syd.”
“What are you talking about?” She joins him, sees the scattering of cigarette butts on the ground next to a cluster of wild mushrooms.
“If the grass caught fire, this whole hillside would ignite.” He sounds sanctimonious, even smug. “We could lose our house. We could even be killed.”
Syd crouches down, peers at the butts. “These aren’t mine.”
“You don’t need to lie,” Curtis says. “If you’re having trouble quitting, I get that. I know things have been stressful.”
“I’m not lying.” Sydney stands. “I smoke Chesterfields. The filter is yellow. These filters are white.”
Her husband glances down to confirm. “Maybe Bianca’s been smoking back here.”
“She has asthma. It must have been Damian. He can’t smoke around her, so he’s been hiding out behind the tree.”
“But Damian found these,” Curtis explains. “He thought they were yours.”
“It must have been kids then,” Sydney mutters, peering around in the grass.
“What kids? There are no kids for miles.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sydney gasps, dropping down onto her haunches. Her hands riffle through the tall grass, parting it. “Look.” Curtis hurries to join her.
There, nestled in the dry weeds, is a pair of slim leather work gloves.
And a machete.