Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(69)

And once Erik finished college, the sky was the limit: she and Erik and their baby could form a new life wherever they wanted. She didn’t care where, as long as they were together.

Stepping onto the Rexfords’ dock in the darkness, she looked up at Remy, briefly wondering if she’d ever see him again, then banishing the thought from her mind and giving him a weak smile. “I’ll see you soon?”

“I’m s’pose to leave you here.” Remy shrugged. “And Kyrs said to remind you not to come back ’les you’re wearin’ a ring.”

“I won’t,” she said. But I’ll get that ring. I know it.

“Then, uh, good luck, I guess,” said Remy, raising a hand in farewell as he pulled away from the dock and turned back into the dark Sound.

She gulped nervously, watching his stern lights get smaller and smaller, until she couldn’t see them at all anymore, then she turned and walked up to the boardwalk.

Go out with me..

I can’t..

Voices from the past haunted her as she stepped carefully over the planks in the dark, remembering the first time she’d ever set eyes on Erik Rexford.

I will find you! That’s a promise, Laire Cornish!

Damn it to hell and back! Fine! You win!

As she reached the pool deck, she could see a party going on in the living room, a large group of people holding Champagne glasses as waitresses in black and white passed silver trays of light bites.

Oh, God, please don’t let him hate me, she prayed silently. Please let him understand I only pushed him away because I was scared and hurting.

She walked around the pool, by the chairs where they’d held hands, stargazing and talking about Thanksgiving.

Here she was, after all.

On Thanksgiving.

She stopped a short distance from the glass doors, staring at the party inside, at the pianist playing jaunty carols and the merry ding of crystal against crystal. She didn’t see Erik, but he was in there somewhere, and her heart clenched with joy, with hope, and yes, with relief. She had missed him. She had missed him too desperately for words.

Taking a step forward, she raised her chin and—

“Can I help you?” asked a smooth, deep voice, and Laire turned to the right to see Fancy Rexford, the First Lady of North Carolina and Erik’s mother, leaning against a porch column in the darkness, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, the orange bud bright and beautiful in the darkness.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she whispered. She cleared her throat, telling herself to be brave as she walked away from the doors and over to Mrs. Rexford. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Who are you?” she asked without preamble.

“I’ve come to see Erik.”

“Have you?” she asked. “And . . . does Erik know you?”

She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’re, um . . . we’re friends.”

“Friends?” she asked, looking at Laire’s green blouse and simple black skirt with a sniff. “What friend? I’ve never seen you before.”

She had a crystal glass in her other hand, filled with ice cubes and clear liquid, and it clinked as she took a sip, reminding Laire of the first moment she’d ever seen Erik.

Laire wasn’t easily intimidated, but Mrs. Rexford was formidable, even in the dark, Maybe especially in the dark. She cleared her throat. “Well, we, um . . . we spent some time together this summer.”

“You? And Erik?” She laughed, a light tinkling sound like how posh ladies sounded on soap operas or in the movies. “Oh, no. No, dear. I don’t think so.”

“I swear to you. I know Erik. I need . . . I need to see him. It’s urgent.” Her hands moved to her belly protectively, and Fancy’s eyes dropped to Laire’s stomach, narrowing in understanding before sliding slowly back up to her face.

She popped her cigarette between her lips, grabbed Laire’s arm, and yanked her into a shadow, searching her eyes.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she asked in a hiss, her voice fierce with menace.

“Ma’am . . .”

Fancy released Laire’s arm and blew a stream of smoke into the sky before looking back at her. “You’re trespassin’ on my property.”

“No, ma’am. I was invited.”

“Not by me you weren’t.”

Laire’s heart sped up and her breathing became more shallow. “By Erik.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, taking another draw on her cigarette. “Probably saw his picture in a magazine.”

“Please, ma’am.”

“Please what?”

“I need to see him.”

“Why?”

“I’m . . . expecting.”

Fancy’s eyes flared with fury, and she stepped forward, forcing Laire to back up toward the pool, farther away from the house. “You’re expecting an ass whoopin’ . . . because you’re a liar and an opportunist and a goddamned little gold digger comin’ here on Thanksgivin’ Day with your disgustin’ lies about my son.”

“No, ma’am, I swear,” she said, taking another step back. “I’m tellin’ the truth. Please just let Erik—”

“You’re not,” said Fancy, taking another sip of her drink. “What do you want? Money? You heard that Erik Rexford spent his summers on the Banks, and you came up with a plan to extort money from his family? You wouldn’t be the first little bitch to come up with such a clever plan, but you have underestimated your target, girl.”