Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
F rankie was upstairs that third day. She made the bed and vacuumed, listening to the thumping stereo downstairs and the soprano holler from one of the girls who’d come to the beach house with Greg that morning. The beach house was preparing for yet another in a long string of raucous parties. Fresh bottles of liquor had arrived that morning, and Bernice was making pizzas in the pizza oven, using a massive wooden slate to remove the pizzas when they were cooked to perfection. The smell was heavenly. It wafted up the stairs and filled the entire second floor with the scent of oregano and melted cheese.
That was when Frankie noticed Zane’s car coming up the driveway. She hurried to the window to watch him. It was so rare that he was all alone, and she was curious what that looked like. Did he still smile to himself? Did he still look just as dashing?
Zane parked the BMW in the driveway but remained in the vehicle. Frankie couldn’t get a good angle to see his face, but his hands were still on the steering wheel.
Suddenly, another car appeared on the road along the beach house. It was white and dirty and at least ten years old. Something about it triggered a memory that Frankie couldn’t fully make sense of. How did she know the car?
The car turned into the driveway and parked next to Zane’s BMW. Zane’s hands fell off the steering wheel. Frankie’s were sweaty. She wrung them and waited with bated breath. It felt like a scene in an old Western film. It felt like something horrible was about to happen.
A woman stepped out of the dirty white car.
But she wasn’t just any woman.
Shelby. It was Shelby.
Oh no! She found me! She knows where I am! And she’s come to get me! Frankie stumbled back from the window so Shelby wouldn’t lift her head and see her plain as day through the glass.
It stood to reason that everyone in Ida’s world would go off looking for Frankie. It stood to reason Ida would gather her own troops for a search.
But Shelby didn’t stride up to the house with the air of someone about to take Frankie back. Instead, she walked around Zane’s BMW and leaned down to look at him through the glass. Her smile was strange, almost sinister.
Zane opened the car door. Shelby jumped back and touched her bob. Her smile crumpled.
Zane closed the car door and glanced up at the house. Was Frankie mistaken, or was he looking directly at her window? She ducked farther down until he returned her attention to Shelby.
A thought struck her. It was like he didn’t want me to see him with Shelby.
But it didn’t make sense.
Shelby and Zane were in a heated discussion, gesticulating with their hands and occasionally stomping their feet. Shelby, in particular, looked passionate, her cheeks red. Frankie tried to read her lips but couldn’t make sense of any of it.
For nearly fifteen minutes, they talked and talked and talked until Shelby whipped around Zane’s BMW and clambered back into her car. The engine purred. With a jolt, she backed out of the driveway and fled down the road.
Did he tell her to leave me alone? Frankie wondered. Did he tell her that our relationship has nothing to do with her or with my mother or with anyone else?
Frankie hurried downstairs and into the frantic swirl of another party. Zane entered through the front door and flashed everyone a handsome grin, one that indicated he’d never been happier to see his friends in his life.
But he looked so upset with Shelby.
“Right where I left you!” Zane said, clapping Greg on the shoulder and winking at Bernice.
“We have plenty of pizzas,” Bernice said. “Help yourself.”
“You’re a dream, Bernice,” Zane declared.
Frankie stepped closer to Zane. Her heartbeats felt like splatters. When his eyes found hers, his smile fell for a split second before righting itself.
“You good, Frank?”
Frankie flared her nostrils. “Can I talk to you?”
At first, Zane looked as though he wanted to say no. Like he’d already had enough of people coming after him and talking his ear off today. But he clenched his fist and followed Frankie into the side room that inexplicably held three pianos and an electric guitar. He picked up the guitar immediately and began to strum it.
It makes him look ten times more handsome, she thought, then paused . Pull it together, Frankie.
“How do you know Shelby?” Frankie asked. Her tone was casual. She crossed her arms over her chest.
Zane didn’t hesitate. “Shelby’s an old client of mine. We’ve known each other for years.”
“An old client?” Frankie asked. “What do you mean?”
“We used to work together,” Zane said—enunciating the words clearly, as though Frankie was too stupid to understand them. “But we don’t anymore.”
“That doesn’t make sense. She’s worked with my mother for years.”
Zane raised his shoulders and strummed several chords across the guitar strings.
“She still works with my mother,” Frankie said. “She’s basically a member of my family. I called her Aunt Shelby for most of my childhood.”
“Aunt Shelby?” Zane’s eyes sparkled. “That’s rich.”
Frankie chewed her lower lip and considered the number one rule of “The Factory.” It was important not to ask Zane what his company did. But why? The answer fell into her lap almost immediately. Because it’s illegal; it’s always been illegal.
“Maybe she figured out your mother isn’t who she says she is,” Zane said.
“What do you mean?” Frankie asked.
“Maybe Shelby figured out she wants something else for herself,” Zane suggested. “Maybe she wants to get out from under your mother’s control.”
Frankie cocked her head with surprise. Ida’s version of reality was that Ida and Shelby were best friends forever, that they’d begun a business out of the goodness and optimism of their hearts and would do anything for one another. Frankie had always assumed that was Shelby’s version of reality, too.
“Why did she come here today?” Frankie asked. “What were you talking about?”
“That’s private.” Zane laughed and strummed the guitar again, then sang, “Private, private, private,” like a seventies folk singer might have.
Frankie’s heart felt bruised. She took a tentative step back, suddenly aware she was alone in the music room with this man who would only ever tell her things on a need-to-know basis.
Realizing this was akin to feeling wet paper disintegrate through her fingers.
It was akin to realizing she’d built her home on a mound of sand.
But Frankie knew better than to run out on Zane immediately. She knew better than to make him think she didn’t respect him.
I’m terrified of him, she realized suddenly. I’ve been sharing my bed with someone I don’t even know.
“I’d better go help Bernice with the pizzas,” Frankie stuttered.
Zane removed the guitar from his shoulders and beckoned for a hug. Frankie stepped into his arms, her eyes filled with tears. They stood that way, listening to the violent winds against the side of the house and the rabid cries of the partiers in the main room.
Frankie thought, How on earth will I ever make it home?