8 Gemma
Gemma
As if Gemma had manifested it, the girls did, in fact, get their periods.
And had they planned for this? Had they known it was coming?
Had either of them packed a tampon or a pad or a single pair of period underwear?
No. Of course they hadn’t. Because if Gemma didn’t tell them to do something, they didn’t do it.
And if she did tell them to do something, half the time they still didn’t do it.
And then they basically called her an evil, controlling shrew and told her to jump off a cliff.
Not in so many words, but that was the gist.
So now it was Gemma who was ransacking the various bathrooms of the Villa, looking for feminine products while her daughters were over at the guesthouse with what appeared to be brand-new washcloths in their underwear.
After five bathrooms on three different floors, she was seriously considering checking the primary suite, if she could find it.
Every time she came around a corner, she discovered a hallway she’d yet to explore.
This place was like a maze. A very airy, very well-appointed maze with some creepy-as-hell artwork.
She much preferred the watercolor paintings in the guesthouse, thank you very much.
She’d also walked in on Sean and the guy who worked here, Trevor, locked in some sort of intense discussion.
They’d both shut up and stared her down until she’d backed out of the room they were in and closed the door.
One more reason to feel uncomfortable around these people for the rest of her time here.
She had just decided to text Hazel and ask her where her products were when she heard a slam and a crash, followed by what sounded like a strangled-off scream. Gemma froze. Straining to hear, she pressed her fingertips into the wall to her left.
“Just tell me!” a man’s voice shouted. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been screwing my best friend?”
Gemma’s hand flew to her throat. She had already changed for the party, and her fingers tangled in the multiple gold chains around her neck.
Normally she hated wearing jewelry. It made her feel oddly claustrophobic.
But she’d brought every piece she owned in an effort to fit in.
She’d paired the necklaces with a flowy black jumpsuit that looked sophisticated but felt like pajamas in order to compensate for the discomfort.
“Josh, stop. Please just listen to me—”
That sounded like Juliet. There was another crash, and Gemma tripped forward, trying to figure out where. Where were they? There were so many doors. Why did this house have to be so extraordinarily huge? Behind her she heard one of the babies crying, a soft voice shushing them.
“Josh, don’t!” A plea. “Don’t touch me!”
There was an awful sound like flesh hitting flesh and Gemma saw red.
It was coming from down the hall. She ran, opening the first door she came to—a linen closet—then the second, a storage room filled with canvases and easels.
When she flung open the third, time seemed to stop.
Juliet was sprawled across a sunken chair, her face in her hands as she cried, while a man—wiry and taut and seething—stood over her.
He wore trousers and an expensive shirt that was unbuttoned and open, exposing a tattooed chest. She had seen this exact tableau so many times growing up.
Her mother on a chair or on an ottoman or on the floor, her father standing over her, seething. Something in her snapped.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gemma shouted, rushing over to Juliet. “Get away from her!”
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. He wore Harry Potter glasses that were fogged somehow, and there was sweat across his upper lip. His dark curly hair stuck out on one side, and he clenched his right hand into a fist.
“Did you hit her?” Gemma asked, glaring up at him. She had instinctively crouched next to Juliet’s chair, her shoes crunching on something strewn across the floor. Beads, she realized, from one of Juliet’s necklaces.
“No! No, of course not,” Juliet said, coming out from behind her hands. Her makeup was smudged, and there was an angry red mark on her right cheek near her ear. “My necklace got caught on the bedpost, and I tripped.”
Lie, Gemma thought. Obvious lie.
Juliet looked up at the man—at Josh, who Gemma understood to be her husband—and communicated something with her eyes. Josh nodded and took his glasses off to wipe the lenses on the hem of his shirt.
“Yeah, it was just a misunderstanding. I’m Josh,” he said, replacing the glasses and offering his hand in a genial way. “Josh Jacoby.”
Gemma said nothing. She simply rose to her full height, which was taller than Josh’s, and stared him down.
Gemma had never been one for confrontation, but since the day she was old enough and tall enough to stare down her father in exactly this manner, she had not backed down when she saw someone being preyed upon by a bully.
It was one thing she could not abide. After letting his hand linger, untouched in midair, for a few seconds, Josh withdrew it and smirked.
This man was definitely a predator. And the look in his eye sent an ominous tingle right down Gemma’s spine. How was Juliet married to this man? And how was Lincoln friends with him?
“This is Gemma,” Juliet said. She sucked in a breath and stood up. “She’s here with her husband and their girls.”
“Ah . . . yes. Grant Sutherland, right? That’s your husband? Hollow and Sutherland?” His smirk became more condescending—not an easy feat. “You must be very proud.”
It was all Gemma could do to keep herself from spitting in his face.
“Juliet, I need your help with something,” Gemma said, turning fully, so that Josh was looking at the side of her face. “It’s a woman thing.”
Josh raised his hands. “That’s my cue. I’m gonna go take a shower and get the city off me.”
He maneuvered past Gemma to kiss Juliet on the cheek—the uninjured one—a performative act if Gemma had ever seen one. Juliet gave him a tight smile as he gripped her wrist quickly, and then he was gone, disappearing into the attached bathroom.
“Are you all right?” Gemma asked.
Juliet started to nod, but then her entire face crumpled, and the tears came.
Silent, fat, ugly tears. She backed up until her butt hit the bed and then bent forward, pulling the rest of her necklaces off over her head and hair.
She tossed them on a bedside table and brought her hand to her mouth, still crying, still quiet as the grave.
There was a crumpled blue note card in the center of the bed. A hard knot settled in Gemma’s gut.
She sat down next to Juliet, put one arm around her, and let this relative stranger cry all over her sophisticated black jumpsuit.