Until We Meet Again(77)

Cassandra, what am I going to do?

I can’t go to the beach now. I can’t risk being seen. I hate

myself for hiding like this, but my body refuses to let me do anything else.

The afternoon drags by with intolerable slowness. Then early

evening. By seven, the first guests start arriving. Music floats from the outdoor bandstand. Laughter and the rumble of

bright conversation ripple through the house.

Unable to bear the sight of my room a minute more, I slink

down the stairs and into the shadows of a rarely used sitting room. I need to see if Hank is still in the crowd. I need to

look for Uncle Ned. By now, the anxiety of waiting has worn

my nerves raw. I hide in darkness, listening to the pulse of the party outside and feeling more painfully alone than I imagined possible.

Peeking out between the silk curtains, I watch the swirl of

lights and brightly colored dresses. It’s happy, carefree, oblivious chaos outside. I imagine my gaze pushing past them, traveling to the calm beauty of the beach. The sun will be setting soon, sharpening the colors, casting brilliant, golden light over the waves. I imagine Cassandra standing at the shore break,

her long hair and white gown flowing behind her in soft ocean breezes. Her arms reach for me. Her lips form my name.

And then, like a flame searing past my eyes, I catch a glimpse

of red in the midst of the swirling party guests. The sight brings me out of my dreams. I know that color, that dress. I know that sharp swoop of black hair.

Fay.

She moves through the crowd, searching. For me? I watch

her, my heart rate rising. She happens to move closer to the

window where I stand, unaware that I’m nearby. But she comes

close enough for me to see her expression. Anxiety sharpens her gaze. She looks frantic, turning around any male guest near my age to get a glimpse of his face.

She is looking for me. And she’s afraid.

Before I can think about what I’m doing, I’m out of the house

and into the ruckus of the party. I lose sight of Fay.

The unsettling feeling that I’m being watched grips me once

more. The relentless music and the roar of chatter oppress my ears. I cut a look to either side, but there’s no sight of Hank.

Looking for Fay, I nearly crash into a waiter carrying a tray of fluted champagne glasses. A man with a barking laugh shoulders past me, as if I’m not even there. A woman with too much kohl smudged around her eyes asks me if I’ve seen a little white dog in a clown collar. Dizziness fills my head like water. I spin away, when a pair of dark, sultry eyes meets mine through the blur of faces.

I’ve never been happier to see Fay. She runs up to me, out of

breath.

“Lon. Where have you been?” Her eyes still flash with unmistakable fear.

I grip her shoulders. “What’s wrong, Fay? What happened?”

She catches her breath for a moment. Or is she perhaps

searching for the right words?

“You were right,” she begins, her voice tight with clenchedback emotion. “I’ve been keep a secret from you. From the very beginning. I never should have—

“I know,” I say, pulling her into my arms. I can’t bear to

see the shame on her face. She’s hardly to blame for the sins of her family.

But she pulls from my grip, staring into my eyes with confusion, even a little betrayal.

“How long have you known?”

“I only just found out. But I don’t hold it against you, Fay.

Your family may have mob ties, but that doesn’t make you

a criminal.”

She steps back.

“I watched you from the window,” I say softly. “You looked

so afraid. Are they coming for me? Your family?”

She shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get it, do you?” She

grabs my jacket lapels. “You’re in danger, Lawrence.”

“I know that. Did you tell your family I jilted you, and now

your father wants to defend your honor?”

“What? No! My father’s not the one you need to be afraid of.”

“Then who?”

Fay’s eyes grow dark, even in the intense, golden light of

sunset. “Your Uncle Ned. He’s coming for you.”





Chapter 32





Cassandra


T

he sailing trip with my parents brings me close to a

mental breakdown. I move through the stages of grief

multiple times.



Denial. This can’t really be happening. I’m not gliding happily over the ocean while the love of my life faces death.

There’s just no way.

Bargaining. I’ll do anything if you let me go back. I’m sick.

You have to take me back. I’ll break a hole in the bottom of

this boat if you don’t let me go back.



Anger. So much anger. This one took up most of the day.



But as I sit curled at the stern of the ship, watching the sun sink into a shimmering ocean, the depression sets in. Hard.

My forehead drops against the cold metal of the railing.

I stare at the last wavering band of light, unable to catch

a good breath. My eyes burn from fixating on the sun. Or