Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(95)

“You’re nervous?”

“No,” I lie, smoothing my long hair down around my face to cover where I recently shaved the sides. They were getting too long and mangy.

“Well, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” He sets his jaw, like he doesn’t really believe that.

He curls his fingers through mine, and then presses the doorbell. Moments later, footfalls sound on the other side and the door cracks open, and a small woman with a blond bob appears.

She gives her head a shake. “Sebastian?”

“Hey, Mom.”

She looks dazed for a moment. “Why didn’t you . . .” Her words drift off as she glances from him to me, to our clasped hands, to him again. And then she heaves a sigh and smiles. “Come in, please.”

I smile in return, though internally I’m frowning. Something’s off here. Did he not tell them that he was bringing a guest? I will kill him, if that’s the case.

We trail her inside, getting past the door so she can close it. The delicious smell of turkey wafts through the house and I inhale, savoring the scent. It’s an American tradition that my family never really picked up. Suddenly I feel like I’ve been missing out for twenty-five years.

“Mom, this is Ivy. Ivy, this is my mother, Mona.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet.

I stick my free hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Right, yes.” She nods absently, taking it. “Come in. Come in.”

No. This goes beyond me.

A deep older, male voice sounds from somewhere in the house. “Is that those lawn care people again? They don’t know how to take no for an answer!”

“Uh . . . no,” Mona answers, a slight wobble to her voice. “It’s your son.”

Silence.

My hand grows clammy in Sebastian’s. He’s sweating. When I peer up at him, he offers me a brief, tight smile.

A chair creaks, and then, moments later, a graying man in tan slacks and a button-down shirt appears. He’s tall, like Sebastian, only much more slender. The same shocked expression sits on his face that appeared on his wife’s moments ago. “Sebastian.”

Sebastian releases my hand to offer his. “Sir.” He’s so serious, I half expect him to salute his own father.

After a long pause, and a nervous glance between the two from Mona, Sebastian’s dad takes it.

Sebastian turns to me. “This is Ivy Lee. Ivy, this is Captain George Riker.”

Riker. So that’s Sebastian’s last name.

“Just George is fine.” His dad’s piercing gaze shifts to mine, and I can feel the scrutiny as he holds out a hand.

“It’s so nice to meet you.” I sound like a parrot, but it’s the only thing I can think of. This is beyond awkward.

Mona and George share a glance and a subtle nod.

“So . . . umm . . . I have a large turkey in the oven. You know how your father likes leftovers.” Mona wrings her hands.

“That sounds great, Mom.”

Again, another sigh, then a smile. “Okay. Great. Well . . .” She gestures toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Not much has changed. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

We follow George into the living-dining room. It reminds me a lot of Ned’s house in its layout, except it’s immaculate and tastefully decorated, with couch cushions that match curtains, and an area rug that looks like it has never been stepped on. The dining room on the other side is big enough for six people. Two formal places are set.

And the oddness makes sense now.

I turn to glare at Sebastian. They didn’t know we were coming! Did we just crash Thanksgiving dinner?

He simply shrugs and gestures to the love seat. But when Mona rushes in with plates and cutlery, I head that way instead. “Here. Let me help you with that.” I reach out and take the plates from her.

“Thank you, dear.”

I can’t say the last time anyone has ever called me “dear.”

From behind me, I hear George say something about a cigar on the back veranda. The two of them step through the sliding door, shutting it behind them.

Leaving me alone with his mother.

“If I had known that Sebastian would be surprising us like this, I would have had things ready beforehand,” she rambles on, fussing with the spacing of the knife and fork. “I’ll just have to throw some more potatoes and carrots in . . .”

“I’ll help you. And . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll strangle him later for you.”

She chuckles, glancing out the window at her son, at his profile. “He looks so much older.” Shaking her head, she murmurs more to herself, “I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise after five years, but still . . .”

The butter knife slips from my hand and clatters against the china.

THIRTY-EIGHT

SEBASTIAN

Not until the first ring of smoke sails out of his mouth and into the cool late November breeze does he speak. “So? . . . How are things?”

I look at the cigar in my hand and smile, thinking about the ones Ivy bought and tucked into her top. We never did smoke those. “Fine.”

“Work?” He peers out over the chestnut tree, a few prickly shells still hanging from limbs. The ones that littered the grass have long since been picked up and disposed of.