Hudson(61)

After a moment, she chuckled. “You’re so ridiculous, you know. You’re like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. All the time he doesn’t think he has a heart and yet he really does.”

“An interesting comparison.” I’d always identified more with Hannibal Lecter from the famed Thomas Harris series about a psychologically curious sociopathic serial killer. Though I wasn’t a serial killer, the way the character molded and manipulated others, studying and predicting their behavior—reading him had felt like looking in a mirror. “Except I don’t really have a heart.”

Even in the dim light, I saw her roll her eyes.

I tapped a finger on the arm of the chair and considered the basis of her analysis—she saw kindness in things I’d done, I guessed. Though she may have perceived benevolence, it wasn’t sincere. “You realize, Celia, anything that appears like an act of compassion on my part is simply that—an act.”

“Why act at all? I mean, with me, for example. Why claim to be my baby’s father? Why let me bully my way into your ‘experiments?’” She used quote fingers when she said the word experiments.

There were a handful of answers I could have given, some with a bit of truth, some downright lies. The fact of the matter was that I felt obligated. It was the one emotion I owned, and as such, I owned it well. If my sense of duty was going to be the reason for most of my existence, then I’d make sure I lived up to it with all I had. I was responsible for Celia’s predicament—there was no doubt in my mind of that—and for that alone, I was obligated to her, no matter how strong the alarm of doubt in my gut.

“I see you formulating a response over there, Hudson. Don’t bother. If you aren’t going to answer honestly, don’t answer at all.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I’d prefer if you just said you didn’t know.”

So that was what I chose to say. Because it was easier. “I don’t know.”




The nurse arrived then, and I slipped out. It was near seven and I had to get home and changed before heading into work. A night with no sleep was going to make for a miserable day at Dad’s office, but worse would be a day with my mourning mother.

The nursery was on the way to the elevators, I told myself, when I found my feet heading in that direction. A lone male figure dressed in a suit and tie stood peering in the windows, and even down the hall, with his body half-turned away, I recognized him.

I didn’t say anything as I approached the windows next to him. I forced myself to look in, forced myself to gaze at the newborn babies. Forced myself to recognize that there had been a loss in this world—in my world—and there should be at least a moment of grieving.

The disappointment from earlier returned. But that was all.

For my dad, though, there was more. Tears streaked his face, and I realized I’d never seen a grown man cry, let alone my father.

Without any greeting, without looking at me directly, he asked. “Was it mine?”

Perhaps it was appropriate that he was the one in mourning. But the facts surrounding his bereavement—the too-young daughter of a friend that he’d knocked up, the wife he’d driven to drink, the secrets that required him to be there incognito in the early hours—angered me too much, overwhelming all else.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” I said, confirming his suspicions. “But that child was never yours. Don’t ever speak like it was anything but mine again.”

He closed his eyes as a new wave of pain furrowed his expression.

I left him there at the windows and headed for the elevators. Left him to struggle through his regret and guilt and sorrow and heartache—all those ridiculous emotions that made him weak.





Chapter Fifteen



After



I only have a few minutes before Alayna returns from the bathroom. I’m supposed to be waiting for her naked on the bed when she returns, and I will be. I’m already half-undressed and full-hard. But as I finish shucking my pants and briefs, my mind sifts through a vacation’s worth of thoughts at lightning speed.

This room, this place—I’m overwhelmed.

Mabel Shores holds a lifetime of memories, yet the prominent ones right now are the summer with Celia’s experiment. It taints every wonderful thing that has happened here in the Hamptons this weekend with Alayna. It buzzes in my ear as a reminder of my faults, of my flaws, and there’s very little I can do to silence it.

My father’s presence here this weekend doesn’t help. While I should be grateful that he is a counterbalance to my mother’s bitchy welcome, I don’t trust his motives with Alayna. I don’t want him to befriend her as he has. Though she would never betray me the way Celia did, though he’s never made a move on anyone I’ve known in the years since, I can’t stand the idea that he might try something with Alayna. It frightens me, and I’ve never been one to scare.

The memories haunt others too. My mother is constantly reminded, and she takes it out on Alayna. Her unwillingness to move past Celia’s miscarriage and embrace Mirabelle’s pregnancy as her first grandchild makes me suspicious. In the back of Sophia’s mind—does she know? Does she suspect the secrets that surround Celia’s baby? Probably not, but how can she not feel that there is something off about it?

I suspect that’s why she brought it up again today, throwing it in Alayna’s face. I understand that the recollection doesn’t let my mother go—it doesn’t let me go either. But it’s no excuse for the way she hurts Alayna. The way she hurts me. It’s another new emotion that has cropped up in my repertoire in the last few days, but I’m not sure of its name. Sympathy? Compassion? It’s a pain that digs deep into my chest whenever Alayna is hurting, and I’m desperate to prevent it—not for my sake, but for hers.