Chapter Five
Adam
I stumbled out of the library and back to the party.
I didn’t need more appetizers, I’d made that up just to get out of there, just to get away and get my head on straight.
As much as I’d wanted that moment, I’d also just risked my entire future for one kiss.
I was a staffer in this house, a kid trying to get a scholarship, so I’d have a chance at a future that didn’t involve working for tips or checking out customers who looked right though me.
Kissing the boss’s daughter put all of that at risk.
I didn’t know what the hell had come over me in the library. Still, I couldn’t deny I wanted more of it. More of her. Not just Lila’s lips, but the way she looked at me. Her presence. Her smile. Her stupid little origami boats.
I weaved my way through the garden, my eyes on the entrance to the kitchen, the endless chatter of the party and the music of the bandstand filling my ears.
She probably wouldn’t follow me to the kitchen, wouldn’t breach the unspoken divide that ran between her reality and mine.
Once I got there, I’d be safe. Able to catch my breath.
Able to figure out what the hell I was doing to myself and my future.
“Adam,” Martin called. I hadn’t noticed him near the large planter of sculpted boxwood. “Come here.”
Still tasting Lila’s cherry lip gloss, I followed his orders. “Do you need something?”
Martin’s eyes searched my face. “How are you holding up? You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, forcing my voice to stay steady. I didn’t want anyone—least of all Martin—to suspect something had just happened. “The night is going great.”
“You’re not finding this party too overwhelming? Too much?”
“Oh, it’s a lot,” I admitted with a sweeping glance at the party. “I see now what you meant. There is a lot riding on this night.”
“There is.” Martin kept his focus on me. “For all of the Montagues. Even Lila.”
My breath hitched at her name and blood rushed to my ears. “Lila. Of course.”
“Speaking of which, I haven’t seen her in a little bit, and the last time I did, she looked pretty upset.”
“That’s a shame.”
Martin nodded, then stepped closer to me, lowering his voice.
“Listen, I’ve seen the way she looks at you sometimes, and the other day, I saw her slip one of those origami pieces she makes into your locker.
I know this isn’t the time or place to say this, but fair warning, okay? Stay away from her.”
“Trust me.” I raised my free hand. “I’m staying away. Far away.”
Martin narrowed his eyes, still studying me. “No, Adam. I don’t think you are.”
His words jolted me, and I stepped backward. “What does that mean?”
“It means, be careful,” he replied. “And don’t forget your place.”
Lila
PRESENT DAY
She was sitting on the garden bench when I arrived. I pushed through the double doors and pressed into the South Florida sunlight, warm and revealing. My stomach relaxed when I saw her. Maybe this is a good day. God, how I hoped for one. We needed that.
“Hey there.” I kissed her on the cheek and sat across from her in one of the wrought iron patio chairs.
“Oh, hello.” A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “Your name. I’m not sure what it is.” She snapped her fingers. “You told me, didn’t you?”
“Lila. Lila Montague.” I didn’t dare add what I wanted to—and I’m your daughter. I’d made that mistake a half dozen times before, and it would only scare and confuse her. My God, life had turned so heavy where it had once been as light as cotton candy. “Good to see you again.”
“Well, Lila, it’s nice to see you too. How long have you worked here?”
“A few months.” Not true, but also not worth correcting her. “Not long at all.”
“Well, I know they must love you.”
No, Mom. I love you. That’s why you’re here.
“They do.” I decided to change the subject, hating the small pricks of pain that came along with being mistaken for somebody else. “Perfect weather for sitting in this garden.”
“It certainly is.”
Homecare West Palm Beach had a large tropical courtyard on its property, and the facility website touted it as one of the better reasons to place long-term care patients there.
Once I had agreed with that, but I only saw dollar signs now whenever I came into the facility.
This place is going to bankrupt me. I pushed the thought from my mind and pointed at the boxes of puzzles on the table in front of my mom.
“Which one do you want to work on today?”
“The seascape. Do you want to help me?”
“Yes, I do.” Once more, I didn’t add the other fact about this familiar tableau, that I helped her complete puzzles at least once a week, and we’d already done each of the puzzles on the table. Those days, all my efforts centered on keeping her calm, happy, and centered.
Still, I couldn’t help but think about how much her reality really had changed, and at only sixty-seven years old.
Gone were her days of hosting fabulous parties, conversing with ambassadors, and tending to her own garden in the back of our family home, a rectangular swath of bougainvillea and orchids she’d never allowed the gardeners to touch.
Now, her life revolved around puzzles, what the cafeteria staff planned to serve for lunch, and conversations about the weather with people she often forgot the moment they left.
To me, early onset Alzheimer’s was one of the worst fates the universe could impress on someone—a slow torture of fading memories and changing personality that burdened everyone.
With a deep sigh, I picked up the top box, a one-hundred-piece puzzle of a beach in California. “What do you think? How about we work on this one?”
“I was just thinking that.” She smiled, and I saw a glimpse of the elegant woman I knew, the one who’d always been my example, even during the darkest of times.
Maybe it was good that woman wasn’t here now, though; she’d been buried in a neurological disaster.
That woman would be so ashamed of what I’d been forced to do, all that had become of our family, and all of it done in the name of saving her.
I opened the puzzle box and dumped the pieces out onto the table. “I like to do the border first. Makes it easier.”
“I like the border too,” she replied with a large smile.
Two hours later, I left the garden feeling at least a little buoyed by the visit with my mom.
She was happy there, at least, and if I could keep things that way, then the dreary, bleak reality of my life outside the walls of her facility would be justified.
I pulled my purse a little closer to my body and thought of what the rest of my day entailed.
Yes, it would be distasteful and wrong, but it was in the name of someone I loved. That made it okay, right?
Yes, yes it probably does…
“Ms. Montague.”
A sharp voice from the reception desk near the Homecare front doors shook me out of my thoughts. I recognized the voice. Dreaded it. Had hoped to avoid it during this visit.
No luck on that front.
“Yes?”
Sylvia, the main accountant on staff, rounded the desk and approached me. Her heels made a jagged clip on the shiny linoleum, a deep frown knitted her sagging brows together, and a pair of reading glasses threatened to fall off her nose. Oh, God.
“We didn’t receive your payment last month.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” I cracked a disarming smile. “I sent it two weeks ago, around the due date.”
“It didn’t come.”
“That’s strange.” I had the excuse at the ready. “I can certainly check on that, because there must be a problem with the bank, so—”
“No, I’m sure that isn’t it.” Sylvia grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the flow of people meandering around the lobby.
When we reached the side hallway, her expression turned even more disapproving, with her eyes narrow and her lips in a hard line.
“We enjoy having your mother here so much. She’s a delight.
But we can’t keep on floating this bill. ”
Of course, they couldn’t, and every cell inside me knew that.
Keeping Mom at Homecare cost five thousand a month after insurance copays, but it was the best option for her now, given the level of care she needed.
The relentless, never-allowed-to-be-late-ever bill was also just one of the many debts I had to pay, and one of the many reasons I’d made the decisions I had as of late.
“Please,” I begged, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible while I fumbled for an explanation—anything that would give me some extra time to pay the outstanding debt. “She’s improving here, and you know it. Don’t…don’t take a stupid bank error out on her.”
“This bank of yours must really be careless.” Sylvia dropped my hand. “Because you had this same problem with payment two months ago.”
Shit. She’d noticed.
“I know this isn’t ideal, but please, give me a few more weeks,” I pleaded, hearing the desperation grow in my voice. “I will get this sorted out. I promise.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please.”
Sylvia’s eyes searched my face. “Okay, this time, Ms. Montague. I’ll give you a week to pay this—to figure out why your bank is having so many problems.” She crossed her arms. “I trust you will get this squared away for good, and it won’t be an issue in the future.”
“Absolutely. I’ll make sure of that.”
But this was a pledge I knew I probably couldn’t keep.
I sat in the car for a long time after I exited Homecare, staring into space, and trying to sort through the new hell my life had become in the last six months.
And really, I was in so much deeper shit than I could have ever expected.
Dad’s death had been bad enough, to say nothing of watching my mom attend a funeral for a man she didn’t remember.
Then, a few weeks later had come the revelations from Dad’s attorneys about the real state of his affairs.
I was angry. Livid, really. Dad had spent his life lying to me and my mom, claiming he had it all figured out, and that we’d be taken care of forever.
I had no clue that a man I thought I knew could be so deceitful. So careless.
I wasn’t above getting a job and knew my work as a magazine contributor was really a job in name only—a bullshit position that had only been given to me because of my status as a Palm Beach socialite.
As I walked out of the lawyer’s office that day, I resolved to take charge of it all.
I’d find a real job and work hard to make sure my mom had the best care that I could find, using whatever income I earned.
But the creditors had come calling, demanding repayments. Immediately.
No salaried position in the world would give me enough money to pay off that load, and these weren’t the kind of people who would accept a traditional payment plan.
Still, in a way, I was lucky. First, none of my clients had recognized me. I’d also been given options, and a path to clear the ledgers and start anew. This period of hellish purgatory only had to be a temporary glitch. Soon, this unfortunate span of events would be just hazy memories.
I threw my car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. Then I headed back to the house, still telling myself this would all be gone soon, and hoping once I pulled into the driveway, I would believe it.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t escape reality, and I knew it by the time I turned the car onto our street. I dialed a familiar number; one I’d been calling at least twice a week for the last month. “Bridgette,” I said when her singsong voice answered the phone. “How’s it coming with the listings?”
“Oh, honey, I was just about to get in touch with you.” Brigette Morrison always sounded upbeat, even when delivering bad news. “I’ve put the property on a new website, and we had a few buyers show interest in the last few days, but no bites yet.”
I sighed and pulled the car into the driveway.
Six weeks earlier, I’d broken down and put the house up for sale.
I’d done it, even though it felt like admitting defeat.
Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I’d hoped I could stave off the creditors and the debts long enough to keep from selling the last vestige of my old life.
That had been a silly and naive idea. The house was my biggest asset, and I knew it.
Selling it would clear my father’s remaining debts and give me money to take care of my mom. I needed to unload it.
“How long?” I asked. “How long before we have a potential buyer?”
“It will happen soon.”
I turned off the car engine, got out, and walked toward the small, business-card-sized sign at the very edge of the front yard. It read Elite Properties of Palm Beach in black script. “It’s already been a month and a half.”
Bridgette clicked her teeth. “I told you when we started the process—this is a nuanced market. It’s a matter of finding the right buyer at the right moment. Houses in Palm Beach sell, but you have to be patient.”
I had little patience at the moment.
“Do you really think we can get ten million?” I knew I sounded desperate, but I didn’t care. “Should we lower the price?”
“No. I think it’s priced appropriately.” She paused. “Listen, Lila, I know your situation is sensitive, and you want something to break now. And it will. I promise, it will.”
I could only hope she was right.