The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(22)

Sunlight diffuses through my bedroom, lifting me gently from sleep to consciousness. For a moment, the world is perfect and everything is exactly as it should be.

Then I feel the heaviness of a man’s arm across my chest. My eyes blink open, too wide and fast. A headache explodes between my ears. With dawning horror and increasing pain, I turn my head on the pillow… and release a breath of unadulterated relief.

Sebastian is fully clothed and sound asleep. I lift my head to see he’s even wearing shoes. The only concession made to comfort was the unbuttoning of his black dress shirt.

The prior night comes back in fits and starts. I recall pouring Sebastian some wine, and unwisely having a glass myself. Beyond that, I vaguely remember a game of Scrabble that degraded into a yelling match, followed by a water fight with the sprayer from the kitchen sink. And something involving scrambled eggs, though I don’t know if we ate them or talked about eating them.

As I’m puzzling through choppy memories, Sebastian’s arm flexes and curls. I slide toward him like a fish being sucked into the mouth of a whale. My chest hits his, my face coming to rest between his collarbone and throat. God, he smells good. I take a deep breath through my nose.

He stiffens, leaning back to peer down at me. Sleepy eyes, dark chocolate in the morning light, are surrounded by the thickest, longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and lifts his arm.

I duck back into his chest, snaking an arm over his waist and snuggling close. My headache doesn’t hurt nearly as bad, suddenly.

In fact, nothing hurts.

“Candace, what are you doing?” he rumbles, and warmth showers through me at the accent in his voice. Just after waking is the only time the rolling vowels of his first language come through.

I close my eyes and listen to his steadily thumping heart. I’m falling fast toward sleep, but manager to whisper, “Another five minutes.”





15





My mother’s cancer had been in remission for two years when I received the call that it was back. Not from her or my father, but from my eldest brother, Deacon. I’d booked the first flight home.

Spring in rural Massachusetts is achingly beautiful, like walking through a Monet painting. Flowers spill from new buds. Huge oaks, maples, and coniferous pines shade the streets. The air is still crisp, the sky a sedate blue. Soft winds whisper through leaves, swirl through the woods. These are the facts I fixate on when memory of that week rears up.

I spent hours upon hours walking the family property on trails narrowed by time. More hours at the botanical gardens in town. Every minute I spent at my mother’s bedside was matched by time outdoors—it was the only antidote to my constant need to scream.

One evening, I didn’t come home until after dark. When I walked upstairs to visit my mother and bring her a handful of her favorite mints, the light was off in her room. Not wanting to disturb the little sleep she managed to get, I went back downstairs with the intent of fixing a meal.

My path took me past my father’s study. His light was still on, spilling through the partially open door. I lifted my hand to knock, but froze before making contact. His voice, low and urgent, traveled to my ears, with intermittent pauses indicating a phone call.

“I know, I miss you too. Trust me, it’s just as hard for me… I can’t do that. Please don’t ask me to… She’s dying, for God’s sake. Think of the children…”

I counted my breaths in the silence.

Four inhales.

Five exhales.

Then: “I do, Abigail, of course I do. We’ll speak tomorrow. Yes, I promise.”

Into the ensuing silence came the sound of my father’s harsh breathing, then my mother’s whispered name. My hand, still poised to knock, fell slowly to my side.

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the wood. After a time, there were different noises. Gasping and choking. I heard again my mother’s name. A broken plea from my father as he wept.

Can the heart break and harden at once?

With the question in my mind, I walked quietly, numbly away.



When I next wake, it’s to soft voices from the kitchen. Sebastian and Vera. I should be able to decipher their words, but all I hear is my mother’s whispered name. Over and over, spilling with reverence from my father’s lips even as he betrayed her.

Eventually the memory loosens its hold on my mind, and I drop my feet off the side of the bed. I sit for a few more minutes, feeling disassociated and vague. My eyes are dry and gritty, my head pounding out punishment for last night. And my chest feels oddly pressurized, like my rib cage has shrunk and is squeezing my heart.

I make it to standing and down the hallway to the kitchen. My walk of shame isn’t pretty, with intermittent stops to combat the dizzies.

When I round the corner, I stop again and lean on the wall. I can’t seem to get enough air. My vision shines oddly around the edges.

Vera sees me first, her expression slackening with shock. “Candace! Are you all right?”

I’m aware of my fingers scratching and scrambling against my chest only dimly, like the action belongs to someone else. My skin crawls and breaks out in a wash of cold sweat. And my heart is no longer pounding, but fluttering high in my throat like a trapped animal.

I gasp, “I can’t… breathe.”