Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT | TARYN
Unblinkingly, I stare at the screen, the contact on my phone stirring the anxiety swirling in my stomach. It’s been months since I talked to my parents.
I haven’t updated them, and they’ve sent nothing to me.
Well, I guess that’s not true. They have. But it’s just a collection of pictures of them in Costa Rica, unaware that their daughter was abducted and is now living in a completely different state from the last time they spoke to her.
It’s been a week, but the conversation Colten and I had in his bed plays on a loop in my mind. He watched his father murder his mother. And yet, here I am, anxious to talk to two people who still love me.
Who I still have.
Even if our love looks slightly different in how we don’t talk or see each other very often, it’s still there. And my heavy heart sinks in my gut, knowing I haven’t been as grateful as I should be.
Why do we only appreciate what we have when we witness others’ misfortunes?
I exhale slowly, digging my fingers into Rossco’s fur as he lies on my bed, mustering up the courage to tap the call button before I change my mind.
I press the button, and the phone rings; each chime in my ear feels like an invisible cord is wrapping around my chest, tightening like those old phones with the cord plugged into the wall.
Perhaps they won’t answer. If they call back, at least I’ll feel a bit better knowing that, to some degree, they are looking out for me.
“Taryn,” my mom’s bright, cheerful voice drifts over the line. Sometimes, it’s crazy how similar we sound, especially now that I’m older.
The words come out destructed as emotion worms up my throat. “Hi, Mom.”
“Peter, get in here! Taryn’s on the phone,” she yells away from the speaker. “How’s Arizona honey? Is it hot there?”
My tongue feels like sandpaper when I lick my dry lips. “I’m not in Arizona anymore. I— Uh…followed a job to Washington.”
The line remains silent for a few seconds, and I pick some dried grass out of Rossco’s coat, setting the blades on my bedside table. He rolls over onto his back, begging for a belly rub. I can never say no when he asks.
“Well, that’s exciting. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Tears swell behind my eyes, and I shrug, knowing she can’t see me.
I could tell them the truth: I came here for a teaching position but was deceived by three brothers and abducted to be a nanny.
Yet, that doesn’t even feel like the truth anymore because the reality is that I enjoy it here.
It’s the first place in a long time that has started to feel like home, but with that comes the apprehension.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but my room in the tower feels smaller than it used to.
The vast expanse of the orchard makes it seem like the property line is closing in day by day.
Perhaps it’s because I spend so much time on the hill, or maybe the carefree girl who loved to bounce around now wonders if she could truly be happy settling down somewhere.
Maybe I’m more like my parents than I care to admit.
But settling down here? Could I learn to push past the anxiety of staying in one place and learn to love the steadiness?
Colten and I aren’t exclusive; at least, we haven’t had that conversation despite how much we’ve fucked.
I’ve spent several nights in his bed, and every morning, I wake up to his handsome face next to me.
Yet, there are two other men in this house with whom I have had physical relations with.
They could very much be affected by a decision like that if I only choose one of them.
Shit. I am in over my head.
I sniffle, and she fills the void with her motherly tone when I don’t say anything because I don’t have a good excuse. “Well, if you’re happy, we’re happy. So, you said you followed a job? Oh—your dad is here now!”
“Hey, sweetheart! We miss you,” my father says, nearly breaking me completely.
God, why did I ever think that they didn’t care?
I hear it in their joyful voices, more so now than I ever did, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of Lindenvale Hill.
Or they’re just having a blast in Costa Rica.
I shake my head at myself, willing away the thought.
What this fragile family has gone through is incomparable to my relationship with my parents. I may be a world away from mine, but at this moment, I feel closer to them somehow.
“I miss you too. And yeah, Mom, I’m a nanny for a family in Cedar Creek Cove.”
“A nanny?” my dad says, surprised. “I thought you were teaching?”
“She moved to Washington,” my mom informs him, her voice farther away from the phone as she catches him up.
“Do you like the family?” he asks.
The smile that transforms my lips is instant. “Yeah. I really do. They own Lindenvale Hill Orchard.”
With my mom’s response, I can practically sense her eyes bugging out of her head. “Really?”
“Wait, isn’t that the family where the father was charged with the murder of the mother?” my dad cuts in.
“I’m surprised you know about it,” I say.
“We might travel a lot, but we don’t live under a rock, sweetheart.” My mom chuckles.
My dad’s warning is clear. “Just be careful.”
For the next half hour, they tell me about their recent travels, and I tell them about Cedar Creek and the Lindenvale kids. When I tell them how much I’m making nannying for them, the line goes silent, and I think they’ve stopped breathing.
My mom takes a deep breath. “No wonder you aren’t teaching! Well, we are very happy for you.”
“We need to leave to make our dinner reservation, but please don’t take as long to call us next time, okay?” My heart sinks into my stomach like a boulder at my dad’s comment.
That’s what they always say.
Because I’m always the one to reach out.
The one to initiate a phone call or a text.
Never them.
I nod, letting the first tear fall free from the corner of my eye. “Okay.”
“We love you, Taryn,” my mom declares. She already sounds distant from the phone.
“Love you guys, too.”
Then the line goes dead, and I swallow down the reaction I’ve felt too many times after phone calls like this. Placing my phone on the nightstand, I pad across my floor to go back down and join the twins, Elena, and Tristan since it’s a Friday night and the kids don’t have school tomorrow.
Rossco follows me down to the first floor, but the chatter from the kitchen is accompanied by music from the opposite end of the house. The soft sound of a piano drifts through the foyer. Curiously, I turn left, heading toward the living room and hallway leading to the master bedroom.
Cameron’s room.
As I amble down the hallway, I notice the music isn’t coming from his room but through a cracked door at the end of the dark hallway that is always locked.
Delicate yellow light creates a line across the wood floor, drawing me closer.
When I reach the door, I stand and listen to the ballad playing over speakers momentarily before nudging it open.
My head tilts as I absorb the office-like space.
It’s not an office, though. I stand still, my eyes scanning the wooden table filled with tubes of paint and jars of brushes in various sizes.
The light from the sconces on the wall casts a warm glow against the black walls and dark wood finishes.
On the other side of the room, an easel stands with a dark canvas covered in shades of red, dark green, and black.
I know I shouldn’t be in here, but I can’t stop myself from entering the room. The scent of oil paint hangs heavy in the air, pulling me in. The three walls that aren’t windows facing the yard are covered in framed paintings against the dark walls, and suddenly, the recognition hits.
The artwork in this room is in the same style as the masterpieces hung throughout the house and the paintings displayed above Colten’s bed and in his living room.
As I walk toward a wall, my eyes drop to the cursive handwriting—a signature I never bothered to seek out whenever I passed the canvases.
But now, the barely legible cursive is recognizable.
Cameron Lindenvale.
I analyze the room, my body moving from painting to painting. His style is abstract realism, all of them landscapes or plant life.
It’s breathtaking.
It is the kind of talent that has your jaw dropping and eyes watering because it evokes emotion.
“Of course, the one time I leave the door open to go to the bathroom, you find your way in here.”
Cameron’s raspy voice from the doorway startles me, but I can’t stop staring at the painting of a forest before me, featuring what looks like a young girl standing in the middle of a dirt road.
She has light blonde hair and is wearing a black dress that contrasts beautifully with her pale skin and the deep greens of the trees.
It’s dark. Eerie. Hauntingly striking since it’s the only painting that depicts a person.
There’s something about this one. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Sorry. It’s just— These are incredible, Cameron. Why have you never mentioned that you paint?”
He walks up beside me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Because it’s personal to me.”
My gaze finds his. “But they hang throughout the house.”
“But you would’ve had no idea I created them unless you found this room,” he contradicts.
True. My lips twist to the side, my eyes magnetizing to the painting again. “This one is my favorite. There’s something about it.”
He shifts his weight, both of us gaping intently at his artwork. “It’s my favorite too.” And I believe him. His voice is lighter. Brighter. Proud.
I study the brushstrokes across the canvas, some messy and some not, to create that abstract realism look. But each stroke is perfectly placed.
“Who is she?” I can’t help but ask.
His lips lift. “My muse.”
The silence stretches, and classical music fills the void. Although I never considered him a classical guy, I can see why it accompanies him while he creates these masterpieces.
He steps away from me, wandering to the unfinished canvas he’s working on. When I turn to look at him, I realize he isn’t wearing a shirt. Random splatters of paint cling to his muscular chest and arms.
“Why are you in here, Taryn?”
“I was curious, I suppose. But also—” I swallow, considering whether this is the right time for this conversation. However, it must happen eventually, so I see no reason to prolong it and complicate the situation more.
He tapers a brow.
“I like Colten,” I breathe. An immediate weight lifts off my shoulders, hearing the confession out loud.
Eyes narrowing, he surveys my expression and smirks. “I’ve known that for a while.”
“I still need you, though. I don’t want this to change our friendship.” Wow, that sounded desperate.
He grabs a dirty, paint-smeared rag from the table and places his hands on his hips.
“I’ve seen you two together, and I know how you are around Brennan and me.
You’re different with him.” He shakes his head.
“I’ve noticed it since that first week, even though I wish I didn’t—” He tightens his lips.
“It’s okay. Really. This won’t change anything. ”
“But will that make things awkward if I tell you I want him? We all did things—together.”
“Yes, we did,” he agrees. “But I wouldn’t change what happened. Family comes first, Taryn, and he’s better with you. Colten’s put everything on the line for this family, and I have no intention of taking away the one good thing that has happened to him since Mom disappeared.”
I swallow, nodding as tears swell in my eyes, hearing him care for his brother like this.
God, Cameron is going to make some woman so lucky one day.
“But there’s one thing you should know about Colten,” he says, and I straighten my spine.
“He makes decisions with his head and ignores his heart. He’s been through a lot over the years and despises it when people break their promises.
So, if you’re choosing him, I need you to think carefully about your decision before it goes too far.
Because if he gets hurt again, I don’t think there’ll be anything to save him this time. ”