Chapter 40
JULES
Mom’s voice chirps through my phone. “Juliana! Perfect timing. I was just telling Brad about your new position with a promotion—”
“It’s not exactly a promotion, Mom.” Though I did get a raise.
I’ve been on autopilot for a while, and when I recently checked my biweekly direct deposit from Meridian, the amount was substantially more than expected.
However, the payment to dad’s debtors was made, so I don’t understand why they had to go and burn my house down.
Oh, right. People like that don’t care about people like me.
While Linc packs for the trip to the lake house, I sink deeper into his inordinately comfortable couch.
It almost feels like a hug. Cradling my phone against my ear, I cannot bring myself to reveal to my mother that I was chased through underground tunnels in DC or that my apartment building burned down.
Never mind that I’ve never told her about Dad’s gambling debts or the monthly payments I make to keep dangerous thugs at bay.
Or so I thought.
“You’re working directly with management now!
That’s wonderful, sweetheart.” She’s outrageously positive about everything I do.
During grade school, I’d bring home what amounted to a scribble with an “Excellent” sticker on it and she’d plaster it on the fridge, telling everyone within earshot that I’m a genius.
In middle school, I did a presentation on the water cycle and she was convinced I would someday be president.
I have my own personal cheerleading squad named Tina Harris, and while usually I appreciate it, right now I’m feeling defeated all the way down to my bones.
“I suppose.”
My banking app shows numbers that would normally make me panic, but the raise helps.
I already transferred a second payment to the account number I’ve memorized.
If only I could explain to them that I’m good for the money, that they don’t need to resort to arson to make their point.
But now they’ve been paid double this month, so hopefully they’ll back off.
A cold fear grips me. What if they decide to make a connection to Mom?
“How are you and Brad?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Oh, peachy. He surprised me with tickets to see an Elvis Presley tribute show for our anniversary next month. Can you believe it? Speaking of, are you going to be at our anniversary party? You still haven’t committed.
I know it’s hard to get time off, but your brothers will miss you if you’re not there. ”
“I doubt that,” I say with a laugh.
But Mom’s happiness is infectious, even through the phone. After my father ditched us, I never thought she’d find someone again. Brad the Dad might not be my biological father, but he makes her laugh, which is far better than making her cry.
“You sound tired, sweetheart. Everything okay? Any hot dates keeping you out late?”
My mother comes from a time when dating was the ultimate goal.
It was the weekend plan that, with any luck, would lead to a lifetime of happiness.
While I’ve diversified my interests somewhat from her generation—meaning my evenings and weekends might include a variety of activities—finding my forever someone is a little hope I keep hidden in my heart.
It’s not that it’s been broken too badly. More like I just haven’t found someone where we click in a way that tells me our primary interest is furthering the relationship, rather than getting a quick fix or pursuing our own separate agendas.
Until now, maybe.
“No hot dates.” Technically true. I glance toward Linc’s bedroom door. “Just work stuff.” Also accurate. However, I did find the Post-it note with my name on it from when he refused to address me by my name stuck to the mirror in his room.
Mom and I chat for a few more minutes about the usual topics—her succulent garden, Brad’s attempts at learning to cook, my cousin’s engagement—before she has to investigate a burning smell coming from the kitchen.
“Oh, by the way,” I say before she hangs up, “if you need to reach me this weekend, I’m staying at a friend’s cabin.”
“A friend’s cabin? Which friend? Is it a male or female friend? How long have you known this friend?”
“Mom—”
“I’m just asking! You’ve never mentioned friends with cabins.”
She’s such a mom, skilled at cracking my bad mood and making me smile. “It’s only for a few days. I’ll call you when I get back.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of Linc’s penthouse, surrounded by luxury I’ll never be able to afford, preparing to run away to a lake house with a man who is out of my league, even if we kissed like that.
But it’s a game. Theater. Our very own World’s Fair exposition.
A depiction. A showcase. A temporary construction.
How did this become my life?
Linc is vague about what he was doing on his business trip, but I assume that deciding how best to approach the insurance fraud situation weighs heavily on his mind, which prompted our excursion.
When we leave the tightly stacked buildings of the city, giving way to the open, rolling countryside, I feel like I can breathe again. Apart from the unexpected trip to New York and then DC, I hadn’t left my immediate environment in … I count on my fingers, nine months.
“Doing some high-level math?” Linc looks sideways at my fingers as he drives north.
In turn, my attention has been on his hands—how easily he navigated through city traffic, how they’re rough on both sides, unlike Nate’s. Oly’s comment about his calluses has stuck with me. But maybe Linc visits this cabin frequently, chops logs, and does other woodsman tasks.
I wonder what he looks like in a flannel shirt.
Giving my head a shake from the mewling little thought, I answer his question. “I was thinking about the last time I left Chicago, aside from our adventure.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” His laugh is husky.
He asks where my mom lives and I tell him that she and Brad the Dad are still in Las Vegas. That my brothers work for the UFC.
“You mentioned that they worked in sports, but are they fighters?” By the slim line between his eyebrows, I can’t tell if this concerns him or brings relief. Both?
“They’re brutes and love the barbarism of it,” I say, using the comment I often tease them with. “But no, they’re not professional fighters, though they all practice mixed martial arts. Since a lot of matches happen in Las Vegas, they work behind the scenes, helping orchestrate the events.”
“When was the last time you were home?”
“Christmas, but my mom and Brad the Dad’s anniversary is next month. They really want me to come.”
“Your boss will make sure you have the time off.”
I chuckle because this has become our joke. “I appreciate that—”
Linc yanks his gaze toward me and then back at the road. “You were about to say but …”
I bunch up my lips. He’s not wrong.
“I know money is tight after everything that just happened, so if that’s the issue …”
I cannot keep accepting his generosity. I’ve paid my own way so far and I don’t want to become indebted to Linc, too.
Turning up the dial on the radio, I say, “This is a road trip. Let’s talk about road trip things.”
“Is that a category of conversation?”
“Of course.”
“Elaborate.”
We talk about traveling, which segues into some funny stories, mostly from him, and then I ask the big, important road trip convo questions like celebrity crush, favorite song, and best movie of all time.
You know, the highly controversial things.
The things that two people who started out despising each other would fundamentally disagree on.
Time flies by and when we finally pull up a winding driveway shaded by bushy oak and maple trees, the so-called cabin on Fox Lake isn’t what any normal resident of planet earth would designate as a cabin.
I was expecting a log exterior or, at the very least, some gaps in the timbers, a roof in need of repair, and a single room—I figured we’d navigate sleeping arrangements later.
This is what a realtor would refer to as a lakefront estate. It’s three stories of rustic elegance, with a wraparound porch and windows that reflect the water like mirrors.
“This was your mother’s favorite place?” I ask as Linc carries our bags up the front steps.
“She and I would stay here all of August when I was younger. Dad would visit on weekends.” His eyes flicker like the turning of a scrapbook full of memories. “She loved the quiet.”
Inside, everything is warm wood and soft fabrics, but it’s the family photos scattered throughout that catch my attention. Especially one on the mantle—a woman with Linc’s eyes and gentle smile, held in a ceramic frame decorated with little acorn embellishments.
“She was beautiful,” I say softly.
“Yeah. She was.” Linc picks up the frame, studying it for a long moment. “I try to remember her this way. She was very sick when she passed away. Dad was away on business in Hong Kong.”
“Were you with her?”
He nods. “She was in hospice care and one day she asked for this photo.” His voice catches slightly. “I think she was waiting for him to come home.”
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache.
“I had one of dad’s drivers bring me all the way here to get it. She held it to her chest as she took her last breath.” Linc clears his throat and says, “You can take any of the guest rooms and I insist you make yourself at home.”
I squeeze his arm, wanting him to feel like he can talk more about his mom if he wants. “Give me a tour first?”
He shows me his mother’s desk by the window overlooking the lake, where she’d write letters and read.
The dock through the big windows where she’d swim and paint watercolors of the sunset.
The kitchen where she’d bake every weekend.
I admire her piano—not at all dusty, which suggests Linc called ahead to have the house readied.
We wander upstairs and I count four guest bedrooms. I take one with a lake view and a balcony. After freshening up from the drive, I go back downstairs.