Chapter 59 Charleigh
Charleigh
Late-afternoon light streams through the kitchen window. Charleigh, sunburned—and yes, disgustingly hungover—stands there gazing out over her backyard.
She was just in the pool, trying to get rid of said hangover, but the sun is a torch, and the pool is warm as bathwater; the dip wasn’t at all refreshing.
So she’s slicing through a dozen lemons, intent on making a fresh batch of lemonade for herself and for when Alexander and Nellie get home.
Alexander from the shooting range, Nellie from the swimming hole.
The citrus fruits, pulled from the fridge, feel cool against her fingers. At least that’s refreshing.
Whew, this headache, like a vise gripping her temples.
She’d love to have Jackson over right now, mix up some margaritas, a little hair of the dog, but after she toweled off from the pool, she trotted over to her answering machine, which was blinking at her.
He’s in Dallas, or on his way there, staying at the Galleria for a bit.
Maybe she’ll go surprise him in a day or two. Do some shopping.
Because she sure as shit doesn’t want to be around here, around Nellie.
Her daughter’s been moping about all morning, smoldering in her disappointment after seeing Blair together with Luke last night, but unable to be consoled, reasoned with. Every time Charleigh tried to open her mouth this morning, Nellie’s responses were biting. Cruel.
She was even caustic with Alexander, and she never is.
“Wanna go to the shooting range with me?” he asked her at the breakfast table.
She scraped her chair back, stood to leave. “No, you go. By yourself.”
Charleigh had no idea what Nellie meant by that, but she was relieved when she yelled at them from the front door, ten minutes later, that she was headed for the swimming hole.
She hopes that whatever happened last night is all smoothed over by the time Nellie gets back. She hopes Luke is out there, gives her plenty of attention. Or at least a little.
Charleigh is chopping up the last lemon when the back door bangs open, causing her to jump. She’s not expecting either one of them home for another couple of hours, but when she twists around, Nellie is standing there, her hair damp from the river, water droplets pinging the Spanish tiles.
But that’s not the only thing that’s dripping onto the iced-tea-colored floor.
Nellie’s face is contorted with tears; she holds her hands out in front of her. Charleigh races over to inspect what she’s trying to show her, and as she gets closer, droplets of red mix with the river water on the floor. Her white tee is spackled with blood, her cuticles stained red.
“What happened to you?” Charleigh nearly shouts.
Surprising her mother, Nellie wraps her arms around her waist, gives her a hard squeeze. She’s shaking. And sobbing.
“Oh, baby, what is it? What happened? Are you all right?”
More sobbing. Then, finally, she speaks. “There was an accident out at the swimming hole—Blair…”
“Blair did this to you?” Charleigh’s voice flares like a lit match.
Nellie unlatches herself from her torso. “No, Mom, I’m fine. I’m not hurt at all. This is Blair’s blood—”
Alarm bells begin ringing in Charleigh’s ears; her throat constricts with dread. “What are you talking about? What happened? What happened to Blair?”
What she really wants to say, to scream is What have you done now?