22. Gilbert
22
GILBERT
It’s not every day that Russell Hargrove calls to ask me for a favor, especially one that involves Ashlynn. I thought he was testing me at first since the favor was my giving Ashlynn a ride home, a system we’ve been working to find a good balance for her. That is, until he told me what transpired at her dance class this afternoon... and at school earlier in the day.
I hightail it out of the office before Russ is done talking. By the time I arrive at Brookfield Academy, the parking lot is almost empty. The sun is starting to set, casting a warm glow over the building.
I step out of the car and spot a man standing nearby. He’s tall, with dark hair and warm brown eyes, casually dressed in jeans and a fitted navy t-shirt. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him.
He notices me and gives a friendly nod.
“You here to pick someone up too?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, extending my hand. “I’m Gilbert. I’m here for Ashlynn. You?”
“Ernest Marchetti,” he says, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m here for Wynter. They went across the street to catch up.”
I turn to look in the direction of the café, as though willing her to appear. As I do so, the name clicks, and my gaze snaps back to meet his. “The Wynter Martin?”
He nods again. “We’re married. Sort of.”
I lift a questioning brow. “How does one sort of get married?”
The irony of my question doesn’t escape me. Isn’t that how Rachel and I came to be? Except… I doubt it’s the same situation. From his body language, it’s clear that he likes her. Although, that hint of familiarity claws at the edge of my mind, a loose puzzle I can’t quite fit.
Ernest scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s complicated. You and I, we’ve met, actually. Briefly, five years ago.” At my puzzled look, he adds, “Rose Tremblay was my niece.”
The rest of the puzzle pieces fall into place.
Small world indeed.
Rose was a patient at Aspen Grove nine years ago, and one of Rachel’s students at the time. She wasn’t my usual type of patient, and I was in between assignments at the time, so I took her on. I remember her clearly because their situation was similar to Ashlynn’s and mine’s. Rose’s parents had just died suddenly, and Ernest had been appointed her legal guardian since she was a minor at the time. I never met him then, but Rose spoke highly of him in our few sessions.
She was struggling with the sudden death of both her parents, and with her family’s reputation — specifically their strong ties to the Italian Mafia.
Her parents struggled with it too: her dad for being born into it, and her mom for marrying into it. She talked about how much worse her uncle had it. All three did what they could to keep her as far removed from the family as possible, but she still struggled to balance their expectations with her career plans.
Straddling both worlds was exhausting for a seventeen-year-old, and she wrestled with the decision to use her mom’s maiden name in the ballet world to separate both worlds. That it was one thing to be judged for her abilities, and she didn’t want people to assume she was something she wasn’t because of her family’s last name.
Very few patients whose stories and struggles stay with you — in a professional capacity, that is. Rose was one of them. Sheila took over her appointments when I got called away on an urgent assignment and had to leave again on short notice. I always wondered what became of her. Imagine my surprise when, four years later, I saw her name on the list of casualties from the accident. She was one of the passengers in Rachel’s car. Her injuries were extensive, and she ended up in a medically induced coma before succumbing to her injuries. It would’ve been kinder had she died on the scene like Rachel and Hannah did.
The whole thing was overwhelming, and I ran when the opportunity arose. I’m not proud of it, but I’m done running. I should never have run in the first place. When Rachel and I ran away from home decades ago, we decided to put down roots somewhere so we would never have to run again. We choose to settle down in Chicago together. Getting married was more of a legal formality to keep our families out of our lives. It worked, seeing as it didn’t take them long to label us the black sheep of the family and completely write us off.
Good riddance, I said
. Rachel and I had each other. It might not have been intentional, but our lives have always been intertwined one way or the other. Even though my career frequently took me out of the country, I always had a place to come home to. Rachel made sure of it.
That’s why her death hit me harder than I expected. And that’s why, as tempting as it was at first, I’m not the best person to help Ashlynn with her therapy. It would probably explain Sheila’s reluctance to take on another student connected to Rachel.
But, you know what?
Ballet wasn’t just Rachel’s world. It is my world, too. It was always my world; I just didn’t see it then, but I do now.
Ernest and I stand there in a comfortable silence, watching the café where our ladies are.
“We may have different roles, but it seems we share a common goal,” I tell him. “We both want to protect and support the women we care about.”
“Absolutely,” he replies with a small smile. “Wyn is everything to me. I want to make sure she’s happy and safe.”
I know exactly what he means by that.
“I feel the same way. Ashlynn’s been through a lot, and I want to be there for her and help her achieve her dreams.”
He nods, understanding in his gaze. “It’s not always easy, is it? Balancing our own lives with the responsibility of caring for someone else.”
“No, it’s not,” I concede. “But it’s worth it.”
Just then, Ashlynn and Wynter walk out of the café together, chatting and laughing. Ashlynn’s auburn hair glows in the fading light, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Wynter’s arm is thrown over her shoulder as they cross the street together, her dark hair framing her face perfectly. They both look so young, yet so strong.
Ernest’s face lights up at the sight of his wife. “Here they come.”
A similar warmth spreads through me, a sense of pride and affection for the woman I have come to care about deeply.
Wynter sees us first, a warm, mischievous smile spreading across her face. She leans in and whispers something directly into Ashlynn’s ear. When Ashlynn looks up and sees me, she pauses mid-step and blushes, the rosy hue in her cheeks deepening. Wynter then drags her the rest of the way and practically shoves her into my arms.
“Lynn has something to tell you,” she says with a wink.
“No, I don’t,” Ashlynn objects hotly. “And I see you two have met each other.” She turns to Ernest. “Did Wyn tell you about?—”
Wynter slaps a hand over her mouth. “How come you’re here?” she asks her husband. “Why didn’t you send one of your goons to pick me up?”
He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood.”
A look of skepticism spreads. “Uh-huh.” She turns to me. “Where’s Russ? I was looking forward to seeing the old man again.”
Ernest’s undisguised growl fills the space, and Wynter chuckles.
“Can I have my mouth back now? Your hand’s getting sweaty.” Ashlynn mumbles under Wynter’s palm. Once she does, Ashlynn pulls her in for a quick hug. “Thank you for today. I really needed this.”
“Anytime,” Wynter tells her, her smile bright and genuine. “You, me, Paris. This summer, my treat.”
The look on Ernest’s face is priceless. Sort of married or not, I’m staring at the face of a man hopelessly in love with his wife.
Ashlynn notices it too, and wriggles her nimble fingers at Ernest. “Hi, Ernie. Bye, Ernie.”
We say our goodbyes and head to the car. The drive starts out quiet as we head home, the city lights begin to twinkle like distant stars against the darkening sky. I steal a glance at Ashlynn, her silhouette framed against the cityscape as she stares out the window with a thoughtful expression.
“You okay?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us.
She sighs softly, her breath fogging up the window. “Yeah,” she says, her voice soft and tinged with weariness. “I’m good. It was really nice catching up with Wyn.”
“That’s good to hear,” I tell her, keeping my eyes on the road as I navigate the familiar streets. “Anything else?”
She hesitates for a moment, staring out at the streetlights flickering past. “Did Russ call you?”
“Yes.” A beat passes, my grip tightens on the wheel, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Should he not have?”
She sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on the window. “It’s not a big deal.”
I feel a pang of frustration, the same protective instinct rising within me. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Another sigh. “Some of the girls at the studio were gossiping about me again…” she murmurs, her voice trailing off. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“What did they say?”
“Just… comments about you, about how lucky I am,” she says bitterly. “And then someone made a remark about my talent and privilege. Like I said, it’s nothing new.”
My jaw clenches. “It shouldn’t be like that, Ashlynn. Teenagers can be cruel.”
“I know that,” she reluctantly admits, her gaze lingering on the passing landmarks. Her voice is tinged with resignation. “But I don’t care. I’m used to it.”
Her resilience tugs at my heart, and her words cut through me, a mix of sadness and frustration. I want to shield her from the harshness of their words, to erase the hurtful words that linger in her mind. To erase the hurt etched on her face.
But I know that it’s not that simple.
She still has to forge her own path to face these challenges in her own way. But she’s strong — stronger than most realize — navigating her world with a grace that belies her youth. My role in her life is to support her and be there for her when she needs me.
As we turn into our neighborhood, the imposing gates loom ahead. I pause long enough to punch in the security code, and they swing open to reveal the long driveway leading up to the mansion. The house stands grand in the fading light, its windows reflecting the last hues of sunset.
I pull into the spacious garage and park, the engine purring to a stop. The automatic lights flicker on, casting a warm glow over the other two cars in the space, one polished and the other covered in a jet-black tarp — Rachel’s car.
Ashlynn doesn’t drive but has expressed interest in learning how to do it. I know Russ has been taking her out for driving lessons. When she’s ready, the car will be hers. Or, I’ll get her another one that’s more to her liking.
“You really should change that code,” she mumbles quietly.
“Why?” I turn to see her watching me, but she diverts her eyes.
She unbuckles her seatbelt, her movements slow and thoughtful. “You know why.”
I reach over to squeeze her hand. “I like it. It means I’ll never forget your birthday.”
The blush I am slowly growing addicted to makes a reappearance. Her smile is faint but genuine as she opens the car door and steps out. I watch her walk toward the house, her silhouette framed against the stately fa?ade.
This mansion, with its sprawling grounds and top-of-the-line security system, is more than just our home; it’s our sanctuary.
I follow her inside, feeling the cool evening air dissipate as the door closes behind us. She heads upstairs, and it takes everything in me not to follow her. I linger at the foot of the stairs for a moment, the day’s events replaying in my mind. Her resilience in the face of those hurtful comments impresses me, but it also stirs a deep sense of frustration and protectiveness within me.
I know I can’t fight her battles for her, but I’ll always be by her side, supporting her as she finds her way in this complex, often unforgiving world.