Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(96)

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.

Dad knows what I do. Well, not exactly what I do, but he’s smart enough to put two and two together and not ask questions. He despises Alliance and companies like Alliance that profit from war, taking money that should be put toward funding the troops. That means he despises men like Bentley, living in their Napa vineyards, reaping the rewards.

He was watching from the window the day that Bentley pulled up in his car and took me for a long, enlightening drive. He was watching when Bentley dropped me off and shook hands with me, and handed me an envelope full of cash and my first false ID.

And when he asked me what it was all about, and I told him that I couldn’t give him details but that I’d be doing good work, he warned me not to go down this path. He warned me that I’d get burned. Then he turned his back on me.

He would have come around, eventually, I think.

But I was a f*cking mess back then. Lost, angry, and unable to handle that perpetual disapproving gaze of his. So I packed my bags and left the next day, and haven’t been back since.

I figured that was best for everyone.

“Did Mom get the birthday card?” I ask, leaving his question unanswered. Her birthday was six weeks ago. I always send one, just to let her know I’m thinking of her, and that I’m okay. It never eases the guilt.

“She did.” His cheeks lift in a tight smile. “She’s always happy when those arrive.”

Silence hangs over the backyard as we both puff away at our cigars. I used to love sitting on the porch floor and watching him smoke them with one navy buddy or another while they went off about the government and what they should be doing, and what they weren’t doing.

I check inside the house to see Ivy and my mom in the kitchen, their backs to me. Ivy’s peeling something, from the looks of it. I probably shouldn’t have left the two of them in there alone, but there’s not much my mother can tell her that Ivy doesn’t already know, and there’s no way my dad told my mom anything about Bentley.

It’s always been that way between the two of them. My mom, happy and oblivious in her world of gardening and catering to my father’s every need. They’re straight out of the 1950s as far as their marriage goes, and both are content with that.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“Here. In San Francisco.”

He nods, his mouth opening to say something, but hesitating. Captain George Riker forms opinions of people quickly. I’m sure he’s already formed an opinion of Ivy, and that’s without seeing all her tattoos.