Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(71)

Laire took a step away. “Mrs. Rexford—”

“The jig is up, gal,” said Fancy, toeing her cigarette on the deck until the orange light was crushed. “You chose the wrong boy to mess with.”

You chose the wrong boy.

Laire turned her head, looking over her shoulder to see Erik shake his head indulgently at Vanessa before squeezing her shoulder. Van looked up at him adoringly, saying something that made him laugh, and every hope—every little bit of hope for a happy ending with Erik Rexford—died inside Laire, leaving her cold and empty but for the little, tiny life that deserved far better than him.

You chose the wrong boy.

She reached up and dried her tears, lifting her chin as she looked into Fancy Rexford’s eyes. “You’re right.”

Fancy took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course I am. But as a Thanksgivin’ favor to you, I will not call the police and have you arrested for this little ploy. I’m not interested in causin’ a scene.”

“I chose the wrong boy,” said Laire in a daze. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Get along now,” said Fancy, finishing her drink. “And don’t ever step foot on my property again. If you do, I will be delighted to press charges.”

She narrowed her eyes at Laire, then headed back to her party.

Laire watched her slim figure slip through the sliding doors and walk toward Erik, whom she kissed on the cheek, before kissing Van. She took Van’s hand in hers, admiring the ring with a wink before turning her glance, briefly, back to the patio. With a victorious grin, she nodded once, then turned back to her son and his fiancée.

And Laire, who was invisible in the darkness, turned away from Fancy, from Erik and his Van, from Utopia Manor, and everything else that could ever connect her with the Rexfords. Around the side of the house, past the kitchen and garage, she ran to the road and just kept running.

***

“I have to give it back to you,” said Van to Fancy. “It’s just lovely, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I lost it!”

“Aw! It’s just a li’l ole cocktail ring. And it looks just perfect on you, darlin’. Go ahead and enjoy it for the party,” said Fancy in a singsong voice, her breath reeking of cigarettes and gin. “Maybe someday it’ll really be yours.”

Van’s cheeks colored as she chuckled softly. “Now, Fancy . . .”

“Now, nothin’!” said his mother. “I know you children like your privacy, but whenever you’re ready to make it official, Erik, I’m ready to throw the weddin’ of the decade!”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Really, Mother . . .”

Fancy leaned forward and kissed his cheek again, clasping his face with uncharacteristic intensity. “You know I’d protect you from anythin’, my darlin’. You know that, right?”

Erik was thrown, for a moment, by the sudden fierceness in her voice. “Mother? You okay, now?”

“I’m in my cups,” she said, releasing his cheeks with a soft chuckle. She winked at him, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Will y’all excuse me?”

He watched her walk across the room, her gait certain and elegant, though she’d likely had enough alcohol to pickle a horse. “In my cups” was a quaint expression for “drunk,” which more than explained her strange behavior.

“She’s somethin’,” said Van, smiling affectionately.

“That’s for sure,” said Erik, dropping his arm from her shoulders. He’d gotten used to playing boyfriend with Van over the summer and hadn’t broken himself of the habit yet, though the ruse was unnecessary now that he and Laire were over.

“I couldn’t believe it when she told me to try it on,” said Vanessa, admiring the ring still on her finger. “It was your grandmother’s, but she said someday it could be mine.”

“I heard her.” Erik gave her a sour look. “But we’re not even datin’, Van.”

“I know,” she said in a singsong voice, taking a small sip of Champagne. “But we could.”

“Didn’t I hear you were datin’ an earl?” he asked.

“Just a viscount,” she said, grinning at him, ignoring his mood. She met his eyes, holding them. “Erik, I’m not forward, but you must know . . . I’ve always had feelin’s for you.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked at her sadly. “I only see you as a friend.”

Her face lost some of its hopefulness, but she cocked her head to the side cajolingly. “I’d take my chances that could change. You could take me to the Wake Forest Winter Formal; I could be your date at Duke. We could spend some time together at Christmas break . . . see what happens.”

Over Van’s shoulder, outside on the pool deck, he saw a shadow move in the darkness, and for a second—for a split second—his heart soared, wondering if Laire had come after all. His heart stopped. His breath caught, and he lurched toward the sliding doors, placing his palms flush on the glass, staring outside at the darkness, his heart thrumming with hope.

“Erik?” asked Van, who’d followed him.

“Did you . . . did you see someone?”

“What? Outside?”

“I think I saw someone! A . . . a girl.”