Chapter Eleven
CECE
“What?!” Sage Harper cried into the phone, her dismayed squeal barely audible above the whoosh of wind.
CeCe pictured her friend aboard the Unbound Bookshop, her honey-blond curls whipping around her shoulders as her boyfriend, Flynn, expertly steered the svelte sailboat across the sparkling blue waters.
“It’s a fake engagement to help a friend,” CeCe shouted into her single earbud, gingerly navigating her fragile Fiat Jolly down her mother’s pitted gravel drive.
The wicker driver’s seat creaked beneath her weight as the wheels rattled over yet another pothole.
Her father had promised to refill the divots during his next visit—a visit that felt more improbable every day.
“It sounds like a terrible idea,” Sage shouted back. “Your feelings for Jayce are complicated enough as it is. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’ll be fine,” CeCe assured her, although she had yet to convince herself. For good measure she added, “I don’t think about him in that way anymore,” despite the claim not being entirely true. More like wishful thinking.
“Why don’t I believe you?” Sage was the only living soul she’d told about her silly unrequited crush, and she’d been sworn to secrecy.
But that still didn’t stop her friend from having an opinion on the subject.
An opinion that often involved encouraging CeCe to tell Jayce the truth.
Advice she’d tried to take once, although it thankfully hadn’t panned out.
“Because you’re madly in love, which makes it hard for you to think straight,” CeCe teased, tearing her thoughts from her unpleasant past.
Sage laughed. “Guilty. But I still can’t say I’m on board with a fake engagement. Lies tend to cause more problems than they solve.”
Sage had a point. And from the moment she’d agreed to Jayce’s proposition that morning, she’d second-guessed her decision more than once.
Deep down, her heart knew it wasn’t wise.
But something had compelled her to say yes.
And she didn’t want to admit—even to herself—that the impulse probably stemmed from those pesky feelings she purported to no longer possess.
“You’re probably right,” she admitted. “But I can’t go back on my word now. I just need to know if you have an opening for a sailing tour tomorrow morning for me, Jayce, and his parents.”
“For you, yes. Anytime. But, CeCe—” Another gust of wind barreled into the cell phone speakers, drowning out her words.
CeCe felt a pang of guilt at her relief.
She couldn’t stomach another word of warning to echo her own misgivings.
“Sorry, Sage. I can’t hear you. Too much wind.
Plus, I’m almost at my mother’s for dinner.
Text me what time we should meet at the marina tomorrow.
Thanks!” She hung up her phone the same moment she pulled up to her mother’s tiny beachfront cottage.
In actuality, a beach shanty was a better description of the scant two-bedroom dwelling sitting on stilts. The peeling papaya-colored paint had seen better days, and some of the double-hung windows were warped shut, but the home still held a special place in her heart.
With the carefully boxed Toto cake in hand, CeCe rounded the side of the house, following the scent of grilled plantains to the backyard oasis.
Caribbean music blended with the hum of the ocean, which could be reached by a narrow footpath down to the beach.
Vibrant hammocks swayed in the gentle breeze beneath the trees, and flaming tiki torches glowed in the soft light of the setting sun, bringing an island feel to the rugged coastline of California.
Despite being a second-generation American, her mother held on to her roots in a way CeCe admired, and she’d loved visiting the Caribbean on multiple occasions as a child.
But her mother’s heritage wasn’t the only influence in their home.
Unusual artifacts from her father’s travels taunted her from all corners of the house.
Treasures , her father called them. But the souvenirs merely served as reminders of his true love in life, the career that kept him from her.
“You’re here!” Her mother’s beautiful face brightened when she spotted her.
She stood barefoot at the grill in a blue cotton sundress, her black curls tied haphazardly with a silk scarf.
Ageless in both appearance and spirit. “Just in time. Hand me the peppers, please.” She gestured to the picnic table set with a colorful tablecloth and votive candles flickering in eclectic glassware, from assorted Mason jars to antique apothecary bottles.
After setting the pastry box on the table, CeCe grabbed the basket of Scotch bonnet peppers picked from her mother’s garden and brought them to the barbecue. Brown stew salmon simmered in a cast-iron skillet on the side burner, sending the savory aroma of rich gravy and heady spices into the air.
Her mother set a whole pepper into the sauce to infuse its spicy flavor, then flipped the plantains.
CeCe cracked open a cold bottle of orange soda, watching her mother work. To a casual observer, Durene Dupree simply loved to cook. But CeCe knew cooking was a healing salve as much as a hobby. “How are you doing, Mama?”
“Fine, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”
Oh, I don’t know , CeCe thought. Maybe because your loving husband broke his promise, yet again. Suppressing her urge for sarcasm, she asked, “Have you heard from Dad? Does he know when he’s coming home?”
“Not yet. But I heard someone else is in town.” Her mother tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you invite Jayce to dinner? I haven’t seen that boy in far too long.”
“He had plans tonight. But he promises to come see you soon.”
“Well, you should’ve joined him. I keep telling you a young woman should not be spending her weekends at home with her mother. Go out, have fun with your friends.”
“And miss a delicious home-cooked meal? No thanks. Besides, there’s something I need to tell you.” Her mouth dry, she took another swig of soda. The creamy liquid did little to assuage her nerves.
“Help me get this food on the table first.”
Grateful for the delay, CeCe obliged. Once seated, and after they’d said grace, CeCe waited for her mother to take her first bite of flaky salmon, hoping it would soften the blow.
Her mother chewed slowly, her expression unreadable as CeCe explained Jayce’s predicament—emphasizing his altruism—and her agreement to help. When she’d finished, she sucked in a breath, her apprehension stealing her appetite.
Her mother set down her fork and dabbed her mouth with the cloth napkin.
Say something , CeCe silently pleaded, stewing in the agonizing silence.
Setting the napkin back in her lap, her mother met her gaze across the table. “Your salmon is getting cold.”
CeCe’s heart squeezed. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“And what should I say, ma chouquette ?” She evoked the term of endearment with a heavy note of sadness. “Lying? Pretending to be something you’re not? You’re a twenty-seven-year-old woman, not a little girl anymore. You know better. This isn’t how your father and I raised you.”
“ He didn’t raise me,” she mumbled under her breath, but not soft enough to go unheard.
“That isn’t fair. He’s your father and deserves your respect.”
The shame of disappointing her mother mixed with lingering resentment creating a potent concoction that blazed hot across her skin. She could feel the fire of long-suppressed wounds—of a thousand unspoken thoughts—burning in her gut, threatening to erupt like emotional lava.
For too long she’d kept quiet, not making a fuss or expressing her feelings, simply accepting the status quo like a good daughter. “Then let’s talk about pretending.” Her voice quivered, hoarse with impending tears. “I learned from the best.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“ You , Mama. You taught me how to bury the truth. Why won’t you admit that Dad’s actions—or lack thereof—hurt you?
That every time he misses a phone call or postpones another trip home, it digs the wound a little deeper.
” CeCe’s clenched fists trembled in her lap, but once she’d unleashed the words, she couldn’t stop them.
“I know his indifference, or lack of consideration, or whatever polite term you want to give it, kills you. But for some reason, you pretend like everything is fine and dandy all the time. At least my lie is to help someone. What does yours accomplish?”
Her eyes burned, but no tears fell, granting her an agonizingly unobstructed view of her mother’s stricken expression. Why had she gone down this road? Hadn’t she come to comfort her mother, not cause her more heartache? Or had she really come seeking her approval?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, struggling to stand as her legs weakened beneath her. She wanted to take back every word she’d said, to apologize and make things right between them, but the line between honor and honesty had irrevocably blurred.
Now that she’d spoken her mind, could she ever undo the damage? Where would she even begin? And for goodness’ sake, why hadn’t her mother said anything?
Strange shadows flickered across her mother’s strained features in the candlelight, and her dark, glassy eyes glimmered like bottomless pools of black water. She’d retreated inside herself, so deep CeCe feared she couldn’t reach her. At least, not in her current state of emotional emptiness.
By unburdening her own pain, she’d wounded the one person she most longed to protect. And after what she’d done, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever live with herself.