The Sound of Temptation: A Standalone Second Chance Forbidden Romance, page 11
Her expression clears, and a coy smile spreads across her face.
“Oh God. What?”
She grins. “Your father left you the lake house.”
“What? He did?”
“You’ll see when you open that envelope. It was the only thing he owned from his life before me, and he wanted you to have it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s yours. You might as well use it. No one will find you there. And maybe you’ll finally see Beth.”
“Ugh, Mom—”
She squeezes our joined hands. “Find out what happened. I know she hurt—”
“She didn’t hurt me,” I lie and clench my fists. Not in anger, but to stop myself from rubbing away the phantom pain blooming dead center in my chest
“Oh, Carter…” Her eyes soften, and she reaches up to brush a lock of hair off my forehead.
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
She nods, her closed mouth a tender smile.
I hate the pity in her eyes. I stand and head to the sink and busy myself with the pile of dishes I’ve neglected all week.
“I was just thinking that maybe you could sublet your place while you’re gone”
“Gone where?”
“To East Winsome.”
“I’m not going to East Winsome.”
“Oh, yes you are.” She comes to stand beside me, one hip resting on the counter with a determined smile on her face.
I pick up a glass that’s lined with something dark and crusted. I grimace, not sure what was in it. I decide it’s not worth salvaging. I drop it in the trash. My mother sighs the way she used to when we’d track mud through the house or when our dog pissed on her rugs.
“Carter, that’s not disposable. Oh! Dear Lord, never mind.” She grimaces and drops it back in the trash. She bumps me aside with her hip and washes her hands.
“This mess…it’s so unlike you. Your tenant is going to need a hazmat suit.”
“Hardy har, har,”
“Carter, I think it’ll be good for you. You’ll have it all to yourself, and you’ll be so far away no one could find you. And she who I shan’t name lives a good hour away in Winsome. You won’t see her unless you make the effort to. There’s a check from the insurance company in that envelope. So, you can live for a few months without your students.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Of course you do, dear.”
It’s not a bad idea. And after messing things up with Porsha, maybe getting out of dodge would let us continue our sponsor/mentee relationship from a safe distance.
“I loved it there. I felt like myself more than almost anywhere else.”I confess.
“I know, my baby.” She tucks an errant lock of hair behind my ear and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Just like you do behind the piano.”
“Yeah…I don’t know why dad fought me so hard on it.”
“I didn’t really understand either. But you were so good at both, and as far as bands go, drums are ubiquitous in a way the piano isn’t.”
“I played with the guys last night.”
“Really? How was it?”
“Great. They want to get back together. With me on the piano.”
She claps her hands together. “Oh, Carter. That’s great….or not?” She raises a quizzical brow.
“It used to piss me off. Now that he’s gone, I feel guilty choosing the piano.”
“Oh honey… I know your father pushed you toward the drums, and I know you wanted to make him happy. But you don’t owe him anything. Play the piano and write music if that’s what you really want.”
She walks over to the small loveseat and eyes it the way she would a rickety bridge.
“Have you ever had this thing cleaned?”
“No.”
“You should. There’s a place in the East Village…”
“It’s from Ikea. I’m not taking it downtown to have it cleaned.”
“I need to tell you something,” she says, changing the subject. When I turn to face her, she looks downright scared.
I lean my hip on the edge of my counter and eye her warily. “Do I need to sit down?”
“I’m putting the brownstone on the market.” She slaps a hand over her mouth as if she can’t believe she said it out loud.
I can’t believe it either. “I thought you said you’d leave there in a coffin or not at all.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and tenses. “That’s when I was sure your father would outlive me. He’s the one who ran marathons, slept well, and ate like he was still an elite athlete. He said it was karma, that all the running in the world couldn’t possibly make up for the hearts he’d broken.”
That’s the most candid thing Penn has ever said to me about my father. Growing up, it was ‘your father is a good man.’ Or, “You did change us. In many ways for the better.’ It was that last thing she’d say that hurt. Because it meant in a few ways, not for the better.
My parents’ relationship was strained and cohesive at the same time. They made decisions based on what was best for the greater good, but that always meant one of them making a sacrifice that cast a long shadow of resentment over their relationship.
“I know you love me, but do you think that if he hadn’t brought me to live with you, you would have been happier?”
Penn jerks her head back, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping. “Oh, Carter. Do you think I would trade you for anything? Or even contemplate it? No. The answer is no. We couldn’t have been happier. We were so very happy.”
“But, he cheated on you.”
She gives a sheepish shrug. “Yes. He did. I was hurt, but I never thought about leaving him. And I didn’t want us to be miserable if I stayed either. So, I chose to be happy. The tension between us was driven more by his guilt. He couldn’t forgive himself. I think you get that from him.” She pats my cheek. “I want you forgive yourself for whatever it is you think you’ve done. Your father knew you loved him. He wanted the best for you. He wanted to protect you from the world.”
“You really forgave him.” I shake my head in wonder.
“Yes. He was a shitty lawyer and a very flawed man. But he was also a visionary who built a television empire. He loved life and loved his family. I loved him so much. It’s why being in the house is hard. We moved there to start over at the lowest point in our marriage. It was exactly what our family needed. But that family is so different now, and there are too many memories. It’s been a year, and I will always miss him, but if I stay there, I’ll never be able to move on. It’s self-preservation. I know this is going to sound selfish, but…”
“You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you,” I finish for her.
She gives me a pained smile. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” she asks.
“No, It’s not. You deserve to be happy. Dad wouldn’t want anything less.”
Suddenly she walks across the room, her expression fierce with tenderness. She cups my cheeks and pulls my face down to hers. Her eyes are bright with tears.
“Thank you for saying that. My mother and your siblings think I’m selfish for selling the brownstone.”
“They don’t mean it. You loved him. We all know that. You deserve to move on. I hope when you’re ready you’ll date again. I know how much you like being part of a couple.”
“I do…” she admits with a wistful, bashful smile that makes me happy. And envious.
“Unlike me, you have a track record of getting people to stick around for longer than a night. My relationship switch is broken.” I laugh to mask how vulnerable saying that aloud makes me feel even though I know she sees through it.
Her eyes pierce mine, “That is not true.”
“Fine, then I’m broken,”
“I know you hurt. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re alive. You need to scoop up those pieces, use that old worn out heart like the tool it is, and love yourself back together.”
“I’ll try,” I promise half-heartedly, but that’s more than I could have managed before she came to visit.
She pulls me into a hug and presses a lingering kiss on my cheek before she lets me go.
“You may not be my child by blood, but there are so many things about you that remind me of my father. I guess it’s because I raised you, and he raised me.” She strokes my cheek tenderly, and suddenly, I want to cry.
“I know as soon as you get some closure on things you’ve never allowed yourself to dwell on you’ll be able to move on.”
“Mom that was ten years ago.”
“You fell so hard for her. Maybe this trip you two can work things out—”
I put a finger on her lips to silence her. “I hope she’s not why you want me to go.”
She shakes her head and lifts my finger from her mouth and holds my hand. “No, I think the change of scenery will do you a world of good. But—”
“There’s always a but.”
“I’ve never heard you sound happier than you were the summer you spent with her. So, I won’t pretend I don’t want that for you again.” She grabs her coat and slips it on.
“You’re leaving?” I’ve spent months avoiding her, but now that she’s here, I don’t want her to go.
“I have errands to run, and you’ve got to get packing.”
“Thank you for barging in. I love you, Mom.”
She smiles fondly. “I know you do. It’s amazing how soft your heart is under that unaffected exterior of yours.”
“It’s my armor.”
“I know. That’s why I hoped you and Beth would work things out. She stripped it clean off you.”
That was exactly the problem. She stripped me bare and then poured salt all over me. And I feel the sting every time I think about her.
Glutton for punishment that I am, I pull out my phone and open Nadia’s email. I follow the photo tag for @BWolfe.”
The account only has one post made on May 13th of last year. It’s a picture of a three young people. A boy and two girls who look just like Beth. I stare for at it for a long time. I didn’t know she had a sister, much less a twin.
“Blood of my blood. There is no space or time between us. Nothing can keep us apart. #LiveFreeOrDieTrying. I’ll miss you forever, Bethany.”
I scan the post, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. The boy, who has the same dark hair and blue eyes as the two girls, towers over them as he stands between them. They’re all dressed in bathing suits, and all of them are dripping wet. They’re standing in a yard that’s littered with balloons. I look back at the girls. One of them is smiling as wide and bright as the Beth I knew. The other one isn’t. But I know the unsmiling twin is the girl I knew. Because the glimmer in her eyes, the one she got when she was lost in her own thought, is the same wild unrestrained joy I’d seen when we’re together. These must be her siblings. I remember how her face lit up when she talked about her brother. Why didn’t she even mention having a sister?
I exit the app, open my browser, and search for Bethany Wolfe.
The first hit is an obituary dated two years before I met Beth.
Bethany Mortimer Wolfe was a beloved daughter, sister, granddaughter, and friend. She was a math prodigy and an accomplished pianist. Her love for her family was only matched by one thing, her love for the town of Winsome.She will be remembered for being our mascot when she was a baby and our ambassador as a young woman. Her short life was marked with many successes, and we’ll keep her memory alive by honoring her dreams. She is survived by her father Andrew Wolfe, her mother Claudette Mortimer, her grandmother Agnes Wolfe, her brother Phillip Mortimer-Wolfe, and her sister Elisabeth Mortimer-Wolfe, and an entire town who thought of her as family.
The weight of realization knocks me back in my seat. Bethany Wolfe who looks just like her sister Elisabeth Wolfe
I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but I can’t. I’m choking on a juggernaut of horror and disbelief. But why didn’t she tell me about her sister? I realize her reasons don’t matter. There are a lot of things I didn’t tell her about myself that summer. The phone slips out of my hand, but the clatter of it hitting the floor sounds distant. The rush of blood racing to my thundering heart mutes everything, and I wish it would mute mine.
I’ve made tremendous mistakes in my life. Huge lapses of judgement that have cost me dearly. But the enormity of this transgression can’t be overstated.
Because it would have been so easy to avoid.
Why didn’t I just fucking ask her?
Why was I so convinced the only plausible explanation was the one my eyes could fathom? I knew better than to connect dots when I didn’t know the full picture. Why didn’t I have the same faith in her she’d shown in me? Fuck.
No. I shake myself out of it. I can psychoanalyze myself later. Right now, I need to figure out how to apologize.
Not just for ghosting on her, but what I said on live television when I knew she’d be watching. My stomach churns when I remember that moment. She hadn’t done anything wrong; it must have hurt her terribly. I can’t turn back time, and I don’t deserve to. She’s clearly gotten on with her life and isn’t sitting around waiting for me. No, the only real loser here is me.
15
Beth
Stupid Choices
“We’re going to the bar, not a prayer circle,” my best friend, Dina bemoans as soon as I climb into her car.
“I don’t know what kind of church you attend in your fancy pants enclave, but this here is what a respectable young lady wears on a summer night.” I buckle my seatbelt and reach over to adjust the air conditioning vents.
“Why aren’t you wearing your monitoring device?”
“It’s too big. And why are you still being this way.”
“Because, Beth. Marriage is really hard to get out of. I just…I don’t understand. Duke? Of all people?”
“You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Yeah, we were supposed to leave together, remember?”
“We made that plan when we were sixteen. We’re almost thirty.”
“Nice to know you didn’t mean it.”
“I did mean it. I just didn’t realize how far-fetched it was.”
“It wasn’t far-fetched, and thirty isn’t old. We can still go. “
“And how will Wes feel about you running off to Paris with me every summer.”
She snorts. “I don’t care how he feels about much to be honest.”
“You don’t mean that,” I admonish.
“I guess. This move to New York just has me stressed.”
“I thought you wanted to move.”
She sighs and rests an elbow on the window sill as she navigates the road with one hand. “I did. Even after I found out you weren’t coming anymore, but I don’t know. I love him…but, I don’t think I should have married him.”
I’m shocked.
Dina’s been my best friend since sixth grade. In reality, besides my sister and brother, she’d been my only real friend. On paper, we couldn’t be more different from each other, but our love of adventure, our desire to see the world, which existed outside of Winsome bonded us. But it was the loss of our mothers that sealed our bond.
They moved here from Houston when I was in third grade. Because of Wolfe, new families moved to town all the time. But not ones that looked like hers.
Winsome is a lot of things, but diverse isn’t one of them. So, her family stood out like a sore thumb. Her father is Vietnamese. Her mother was from Guyana. At the age of ten, Dina was the tallest person in our class. And the most beautiful. So, the girls and boys hated her in equal measure.
I was too shy to approach her, and she didn’t seem to notice me at all.
During recess, she’d wander around the playground with a notebook writing things down. I watched her for weeks before I started drawing her. She has big, deeply slanted eyes with irises so dark you can’t see her pupil unless she stands in direct light.
When I drew her, I gave her eyes with shutters for lashes and with gold moons at the center of them. And wondered what she might teach me.
I wouldn’t know the answer to that until fifth grade when we were both taking classes at the children’s museum in Austin for the summer and our mothers met for the first time.
I walked out after my very first lesson and saw her talking to a woman I didn’t know. But, I knew right away she was Dina’s mom. She was very tall too and with a darker brown skin than Dina, but with the same wide eyes.
They’d been speaking French when I walked up but switched back to English as soon as I got there.
Dina joined us, and the four of us walked to the car together. Our mother’s slightly ahead of us, heads together talking.
“My mom is obsessed with your mom,” she informed me.
“Really? Why?”
“Well, I think it’s ‘cause your mom’s so pretty and glam. She says it’s ‘cause she speaks French.”
I nodded. “Where’s your mom from?”
“Senegal. But she and my dad met in France, and she’s kind of obsessed with it.”
“Oh, I haven’t been. But I want to.”
She locked arms with me. “One day I’m going to be a famous crime solving journalist with my own television show. You draw, right?”
I nodded, so happy she’d noticed that I was tongue tied. “Well, then you'll be a famous artist with lots of money. And we’ll take vacations in France every summer and make our husbands do all the cooking.”
I fell in love with her that instant. Her imagination was as a vivid as mine. And she loved my art as much as I loved her stories.
And as our mothers became best friends - a bond forged by being wildflowers turned into hot house plants—ours did too.
I was the sheltered youngest of three who’d never been more than a couple hundred miles from home. She, with her all her travels and insatiable thirst for knowledge. She was my window to the world. But those afternoons gave me more than simple companionship.
I joined them at the table, unable to understand any of the conversation. My father hadn’t allowed her to teach us French because he didn’t speak it and didn’t want us to be able to have private conversations.
