Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
AMELIA
Max’s low but urgent and edged with panic voice pulls me awake, and my heart lurches as I blink into the dim light of my room.
Jason’s small form is still curled beside me, and his steady breathing is quiet.
My eyes snap to the open door in time to catch Max’s silhouette storming out, his broad shoulders tense.
To say that I am alarmed is an understatement.
I sit up, careful not to wake Jason, my pulse hammering in my ears. What’s happening? The air feels charged, thick with tension, and I catch Sara’s figure standing still in the doorway, her hands limp, her face pale under the hallway’s soft light.
I slide out of bed, my bare feet brushing the plush rug, and pad toward her in my baggy pajamas against my skin.
“Sara?” I call softly, my voice tinged with worry. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Amelia,” she says, her voice trembling, “I couldn’t find Jason—his bed was empty, and I was so scared. We looked everywhere, the kitchen, the den, everywhere. I didn’t mean to wake…” She trails off, her hands fluttering.
My heart softens, the alarm giving way to understanding.
“It’s okay,” I say, stepping closer, my hand reaching for hers.
Her hand is cold. “He’s here, safe. He had a nightmare and came to me.
I’m sorry, I have no experience with kids, so I didn’t think to tell you—I should’ve taken him back to his bed. ”
Sara shakes her head, her lips pressing tight.
“No, it’s not your fault. Of course, not.
You couldn’t be expected to wake us up in the middle of the night for something like this.
I just never imagined that Jason would have come to you.
You’re almost a stranger,” she says, her voice steadier now.
“I was just so worried. We have a pool out back and a pond in the front, and there’ve been stories lately—children drowning.
I’m always cautious about where Jason is in the house.
I… I’m just relieved to find him safe and sound.
I’m sorry for waking you up. Perhaps next time you will take him back to his bed.
It’s too scary to find him out of his bed, and I hate waking you up like this. ”
Her words are earnest, her fear palpable, and I squeeze her hand, my own guilt stirring. “I understand,” I say softly, my voice warm, trying to ease her. “I’d be scared, too. He’s okay, though. He’s fast asleep. I’m sure he won’t wake up if you want to take him.”
She nods, a small smile breaking through, relief softening her features. “I’ll see you later then for our day together.”
I watch her tenderly scoop Jason in her arms and wish to God I could cancel our outing tomorrow, but after this episode of my unthinking naivety, I’ll just suck it up and stick to the plan.
Later that morning, I stand before the vanity, my fingers brushing the fabric of a simple pink dress.
It’s delicate, a cotton sundress with a fitted bodice and a skirt that flares just above the knee, its blush hue catching the light like a whisper of spring.
I put it on, the hem swaying as I move, and slip on white flats, their leather soft against my feet.
A deep breath steadies me, and I head downstairs, the scent of fresh coffee and warm bread guiding my steps.
Sara’s in the breakfast nook, a sunlit corner of the open plan area.
She is seated at a round glass table with cushioned chairs around it.
Her blonde hair is glowing in the morning light.
She’s in a blouse and tailored pants in shades of weathered stone and sand, and her smile is radiant.
A gleaming metal teapot steams beside a row of sleek white cups.
A plate of scones, golden and crumbly, waits with a jar of clotted cream and a bowl of red jam.
Jason is at the table too, his dark curls combed neatly.
He was nibbling at a scone, but with my arrival, he put it down on his plate, but Max’s absence looms, a shadow I can’t ignore.
I know he’s not my brother, not bound by blood, but he thinks he is, and every thought of him is a tightrope I walk, balancing love and guilt.
“Good morning,” I call out.
Sara turns around with a bright smile. “Morning, Amelia. Usually, it’s cereal for Jason, eggs for Max, and a green smoothie for me, but Maria has made scones on account of your arrival.”
“Morning, Aunt Amelia,” Jason echoes solemnly. He keeps his eyes on his plate, and his voice is wooden. “I’m sorry I disturbed you last night. I won’t be so selfish again.”
For a second, I’m too shocked to respond.
The memory of his poor, tear-streaked face last night is still vivid in my mind, and my first reaction is to tell him that he did not disturb me, and it was not selfish of him to find comfort when he has a nightmare.
But one look at Sara smiling approvingly at his prepared little speech makes me clamp my mouth shut.
I smile warmly at him and decide to play along.
I’m just a guest here. What do I know about bringing up kids?
I slide into the chair next to him and rub my hands together. “Mmm… I’m starving, and those scones look good enough to keep a dragon happy.”
Jason grins at me.
“They are pretty amazing,” Sara says, pouring tea into my cup, the amber liquid swirling. “Try one with Maria’s homemade raspberry jam—it’s heaven.” She hands me the cup, and I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me, easing the tension in my shoulders.
The scones are delicious and we eat to the sound of Sara’s chatter. It is easy and effortless. She tells me about the city’s best boutiques, the hairdresser she swears by. I nod, letting her energy carry me.
Jason chimes in when Sara goes to the kitchen to give Maria some instructions about dinner. He tells me about a bird he saw in the garden, his voice growing bolder, and I smile, encouraging him.
“Was it a blue jay?” I ask, leaning forward.
He shakes his head, describing its yellow and blue wings with wide-eyed wonder. The moment feels simple, almost normal. Then Sara comes back into the room and takes over with her bright chatter.
After breakfast, Jason looks at me wistfully as we head out. He has to stay with the housekeeper and wait for his Math and English tutor to arrive.
The drive to the city is peaceful, Sara’s sleek silver SUV gliding through tree-lined streets, the skyline rising ahead full of gleaming glass towers under a crisp blue sky.
The radio hums softly, a jazzy tune that blends with Sara talking on the phone with one of her friends.
I hear bits and pieces, but I don’t really listen.
Instead, I watch the world pass by—dog walkers, joggers, people in suits hurrying by, a street vendor selling pretzels, another selling hot dogs. The city is alive with motion.
My hands rest in my lap, but my heart races, a mix of anticipation and unease at the outcome of the day, at being so close to Max’s wife.
We arrive at a sleek salon, the name Claire Huntington etched in elegant script on the glass door.
Inside, the air is scented with the smell of hair products.
The space itself is all white and chrome.
Mirrors line the walls. Claire, the hairdresser, comes out to the reception to greet us.
She air kisses Sara, then her sharp blue eyes turn to me.
She takes one look at my waist-length blonde hair and claps her hands, her bracelets jangling.
“Oh, honey, we’re going to make your hair sing,” she says, her voice brimming with excitement, her energy infectious.
I sink into the plush chair, its leather cool against my back, and face the mirror. One of her girls starts washing my hair while Sara and her go off into the interior of the salon.
When I’m prepped and ready, Claire comes to stand behind me.
She grins at me in the mirror, then her hands begin to move with practiced grace, her scissors snipping with precision, trimming just enough to shape my hair, styling it into bangs and layers that frame my face and fall over my shoulders down to the middle of my back.
Then she starts to blow-dry my hair, cascading down my back like a golden curtain. Fifteen minutes later, and the transformation is startling—my eyes seem bigger and brighter, my face softer, more alive, as if she’s peeled back a layer of the woman I’ve hidden away.
“Bet you didn’t know you could look so beautiful, did you?” Claire asks. Her smile is wide and genuine, but I flush with embarrassment.
Sara, who has been sitting on one of the chairs further along and having her roots done while flipping through magazines and sipping from a glass of champagne, comes over and beams her approval.
“Told you,” she says, nodding with satisfaction.
I touch a glowing lock, and my fingers tremble, still startled by the woman staring back—her green eyes brighter, her face softer, as if Claire’s scissors have carved away a layer of the terrible grief I’ve worn for years.
“You’ve made it shiny… like you,” I whisper, my voice clogged with guilt. My jealous heart has judged her too harshly. She is too kind to hurt. As soon as possible, I must leave her house and her family.
Sara’s hand grazes my arm, warm and encouraging. “Ready for the fun part?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.
I nod and smile brightly, hiding my sadness.
We step out into the city’s chic streets, the crisp blue sky stretching above us like a promise. Boutiques line the boulevard, their glass storefronts displaying mannequins draped in fabrics that shimmer under the midday sun.
The air hums with life—honking taxis, the chatter of passersby, the faint jingle of a street musician’s guitar—and I let Sara lead, her stride confident, her tote bag swinging at her side.
We duck into the first shop, a long, narrow space with exposed brick walls and racks of dresses that spill color like a painter’s palette.