Dearly Beloved, page 25
“Hey! Short is sexy,” Manuel joked.
Her eyes widened; her throat clogged.
“Sorry, did I offend you?” Manuel asked, catching her shock.
“No.” Renée shook her head. “You surprised me. I say that all the time,” she confessed.
They shared a comfortable, conspiratorial smile.
Manuel approached, cautiously placed a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, my sweet Renée. I’m so sorry we lost so much time. We can make up for that now, though.”
Why was she so emotional today? Sheer willpower fought down the lump in her throat. She didn’t feel the instant connection she thought she’d feel, but she felt something. It was a start. Every relationship started somewhere.
She patted the hand on her shoulder before deftly shrugging out from under it. Touching was too intimate for this new acquaintance.
“Is there somewhere I can make a quick call?” Renée asked, standing.
“Sure, sweetheart. We’re going to get dinner ready,” Cheryl informed her. “You can make your call here.”
“Thank you.” Renée pulled her cell phone from her purse.
Manuel and Cheryl went toward what must be the kitchen.
Andrew glanced at his phone display. Sighing in relief, he swiped his finger across it and put the phone to his ear.
“About fuckin’ time. You’re still in there?” Andrew asked in place of a greeting.
“No, I’m right next to you. I’m wearing my invisibility cloak,” Renée joked. “God, you’re such an ass. Of course, I’m still inside. Where else would I be? They want me to stay for dinner and a couple of days, too.”
Andrew’s head shook before she finished her sentence. She must be crazy. “Hell no, Née!”
“Chill,” she directed. “I already said no. But I am staying late, though. And I need you to be cool with it,” she said quickly, probably sensing his objection.
What to do? What to do? Alex watched him expectantly. He ignored Ashley’s continual taps on his shoulder. Andrew exhaled loudly.
“Fine,” he relented. “Your judgment has been good so far, I guess. Stay for dinner. We’ll all go back to the hotel. Call when you’re done.”
“Really?” Renée squealed, sounding surprised. “Thank you, Drew. I love you. You’re the bestest big brother ever.”
Then why did he feel so stupid? A sharp pang of sadness struck his heart. Seemed the only way to get her to admit she loved him was to indulge her.
Ashley flopped back against her seat in a huff and intentionally kicked to his seat. She was a brat, too. He lifted his eyes heavenward.
“Shut up! You’re going to make me blush or throw up,” he teased.
Renée giggled. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Lucy and Ricky Ricardo are cooking dinner.”
“Okay, Little Bit. I… you,” Andrew said, using their cheeky endearment.
“Aww…” Renée crooned, touched. “And I… you, big brother. Bye.”
Andrew’s insides warmed at the rare moment of affection between him and his sister. Until…
“What the fuck! Ashley!” He shouted when a powerful blow hit his back through the seat. Andrew turned an evil eye on his sister’s friend.
Her eyes bulged. Usually, pale skin appeared even paler, making her freckles stand out. “Wasn’t me, fucker!” She huffed indignantly, crossing her arms over her small chest.
His glare shifted to his friend seated beside her. “May I help you, dick? Break my seat; you buy it and me a whole new ride, man.”
“Where is she?” Chris asked through tight lips.
“Who?”
“Who else? Shit!”
“None of your business. Renée’s my sister, and she’s fine,” he stated matter-of-factly, pushing the button to start his truck.
Wind sweeping his neck warned him to move. Andrew jerked forward and dodged left before Chris’s hand connected with the back of his head.
“What is your deal, Clark?” Alex interjected before Andrew could.
“We’re not leaving her,” he demanded.
“She wants to stay to eat. What am I supposed to do?” Andrew asked, still shocked at this uncharacteristic protective edge he heard and saw in his friend’s demeanor.
First Alex, and now, Chris. What the hell was going on with his friends? Yes, they all cared for Renée, even Chris, in his own way, but none more than him. Treating him like he couldn’t handle things pissed him off.
“Tell them to set five more places or saddle up, and we can all head to the corral or something,” Chris’s insolent offer.
“This is her thing, man,” Andrew said calmly, trying to defuse the situation. Things were getting intense. They were all on edge and cramped in the Denali. Cooler heads needed to prevail. “We can’t interfere.”
“Why does everyone just do whatever she wants?” Chris grumbled. “Someone needs to stand up to her.”
“You’re one to talk,” Christina grumbled from the far back.
“Chrissy,” Ashley hissed, turning to stare at her friend.
Okay, he didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it. Something felt off. The air was charged with more than their usual sarcasm and irritation. It was another vibe he didn’t particularly care for or know how to name. Plus, in the pit of his stomach, deep, where he didn’t want to acknowledge, sat a brick. Gut-churning intuition. Maybe he shouldn’t have given in so easily. Andrew put his foot on the gas and eased his vehicle away from the curb. Thin fingers flicked his ear.
Ashley.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Renée nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around.
“I’m sorry,” Cheryl apologized, looking abashed. “I wasn’t listening—I swear. I was coming to tell you dinner will be ready soon.”
“It’s okay,” she assured her. It wasn’t her house.
“Sounds like you’re pretty close to your brother,” Cheryl commented, proving her earlier statement false.
“Thought you weren’t listening?” Renée quipped.
Cheryl laughed. The loud sound seemed exaggerated and made her feel uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t define. Even being in the living room alone with the woman caused unease. She didn’t want to retake her spot on the loveseat, afraid to put herself at a disadvantage with her. Cheryl was nice enough, but Renée felt ill at ease in her presence.
“You caught me, sorry,” Cheryl apologized insincerely. “So, are you two close?”
Damn! Pry much.
“I guess,” Renée answered. Things between her and Andrew were complicated. She didn’t want to talk to this strange woman about it. “We were when we were younger.”
“That’s good.” Cheryl smiled. “I bet you and little Manuel would be close, too. I’ve gotten very close to him and Shenae. He’s around every other weekend.”
Renée’s brows furrowed at that news. Shenae had said the exact opposite the other day. Manuel Jr. wouldn’t want to be near Manuel Sr. if what Shenae told her was true. Or was Cheryl lying?
Why would she lie? This made little sense. She wasn’t looking for a replacement for Andrew. They had unresolved issues of their own already. But this trip healed some of those issues for her. He’d taken her to dinner after her meeting with Shenae went south and she’d ended up having an anxiety attack and rushing out. Of course, she hadn’t told him what happened. However, his being there with her made things better for her somehow. Anyway, she didn’t want to trade brothers. And why would there be a difference in Cheryl and Shenae’s stories? Who was lying?
“Look what I found,” Manuel announced, breaking into her thoughts and re-entering the room. He held several large brown leather binders. “Photo albums!” He held up one for her inspection. “They’re pictures of the whole family in these, some of you as a baby, too.”
Her heart stopped momentarily. She’d never seen baby pictures of herself. There were pictures galore of her and Andrew at home on The Wall of Shame/The Wall of Fame. Ashley and Christina both had pictures of themselves at their homes and could trace their lineage decades and decades back. She couldn’t trace her own image farther than first grade. Renée only had one picture from that time, and the rest didn’t start until her tenth birthday. Dumb as it might sound, she envied all of them for having those ties to their pasts when she didn’t.
Her heartbeat was erratic. “That’s crazy,” she breathed. “I’ve never really seen pictures of myself as a baby. I think I have a vague memory of seeing one when I was little—velvet red dress, white ruffles. That’s it. My parents don’t have any.”
The word slipped out before Renée considered her word choice. She didn’t normally censure herself when referring to her parents. Seeing Manuel flinch at the word parents made her wish she’d thought before she spoke. Here he was giving her this giant gift, and then she trampled all over his feelings.
“I mean my adoptive parents,” she rushed to correct herself.
Cheryl was at her side at once. “It’s okay. We know what you mean.” She smoothed her hair, and Renée cringed inwardly. “Your dad’s just over-sensitive. He even cries at commercials.”
Renée sank onto the couch to keep the woman from continuing to touch her. Something about Cheryl rang all her alarm bells. The visit was throwing her off more than she realized.
“You do? I do, too,” she confided, hoping to bridge the divide her careless words created. “I used to cry at McDonald’s commercials. I won’t bore you with the details, but the baby doesn’t get the McDonald's, and I bawl like a little girl.”
Everyone laughed. The tension eased.
Manuel set the photo albums on the coffee table. “Hope you’re hungry. Cheryl made a full breakfast for dinner thing. You like pancakes?”
Renée’s stomach growled on cue. “I love pancakes. They’re one of my favorite foods.”
Cheryl grinned. “Let’s eat then.”
“This is you.” Manuel pointed to a picture in the open photo album. “Hard to believe you’re so skinny now. You were such a gordita. God! Such a fat baby. We used to pinch your cheeks and rolls all the time.”
Not wholly immune to criticism, Renée felt a bit triggered by that description, even though she didn’t resemble the tubby baby in the pictures at all anymore. She tried to laugh it off, but her stomach cramped at the thought, making her sound strangled.
She settled on speech instead. “It doesn’t even look like me. I was adorable.”
“Yes, it does,” Manuel said, bumping her arm with his elbow like they were old chums with a secret. “You’re just a little taller and thinner now.”
Renée smiled awkwardly.
Dinner was delicious. She had three chocolate chip pancakes smothered in maple syrup, golden hash browns with Tabasco sauce, and pulp-free orange juice to drink. Cheryl cooked well. Afterward, they retired to the living room, where they were looking through more photo albums. Manuel hadn’t lied—he had tons of pictures and, yes, pictures of her as a baby. She would have enjoyed browsing the albums more if she wasn’t sandwiched between Manuel and Cheryl on the couch. The happy-family portrait they painted didn’t work for her. And them flipping pages in her lap made her anxious. Too much too soon had her stomach doing flips. Plus, Cheryl’s perfume was choking her.
“Are you okay?” Cheryl asked, concerned. “You don’t look so hot.”
Compliments just kept on coming. No, they hadn’t technically called her fat. Well, technically, they called her fat, but that was past her. Not current. Though current Renée experienced the self-esteem jabs as if they were delivered on her now.
Renée pressed her hand to her stomach. “I think I might have overeaten.”
Pearls from Cheryl’s silver charm bracelet smacked Renée in the face as Cheryl laid the back of her hand on her forehead. Renée didn’t know which was worse, the clammy hand against her skin or the overwhelming rosewood, patchouli, and—acid—fragrance that assaulted her nostrils. The scent never dissipated, just recharged each time Cheryl moved.
“Hmm…” Cheryl hummed thoughtfully. “I know you planned on leaving, but maybe you should stay here tonight.”
Renée shook her head, dislodging the hand affixed to her forehead. Thank God! “My brother won’t like that.”
“I’m sure if he knew you were sick, he wouldn’t mind,” Cheryl tried to soothe her. “Give me his number, and I’ll call him.”
Thick bangs and long lashes hid the suspicious glare Renée tossed Cheryl out of the corner of her eye. Whether or not intentional, condescending tones tap-danced on every one of her nerves. Cheryl seemed married to the tone of voice. Renée’s stomach somersaulted.
“I don’t know.” Renée hesitated. Something didn’t feel right, or maybe she didn’t feel right. Either way, her knotted guts told her not to give her Andrew’s number.
Sitting stiflingly close, Manuel turned to her. Hot breath bathed her face. “If you don’t want Cherie to, I can call. At least he’ll know what’s going on.”
She didn’t—her stomach gurgled. Her eyes darted back and forth. “May I use your restroom?” she asked, leaning forward and placing the photo album she’d been holding on the coffee table.
“Sure,” Cheryl agreed, standing to allow her to pass. “It’s right down that hall, first door on the right. You can’t miss it. It’s the only room with a toilet.”
Renée tried to smile, but she was positive it came off like more of a mangled grimace. Clutching her stomach, she ran to the bathroom.
Moments later, still holding her middle and moving slower, she returned. Her eyes bulged at the sight before her.
“What are you doing?” Renée snapped.
Cheryl scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry. You sounded bad in there. I called your brother for you.” She held Renée’s phone out to her.
Renée snatched her property, retrieved her purse from the coffee table, and sat across the room on the loveseat. She would have stormed out, but her intestines were trying to escape her body at present.
“Sorry,” she infused as much contrition in her voice as possible, given the circumstances. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m not feeling well.”
“It’s fine,” Manuel assured her. “Being sick in a strange place is uncomfortable.”
“What did my brother say? How did you bypass the lock on my phone?”
“He was fine with you staying tonight. There wasn’t a lock,” Manuel explained.
Made sense. Renée often turned the lock function off. Usually, she didn’t leave her phone or any belongings around people she didn’t trust. She hated having to unlock her phone whenever she wanted to glance at something. She would have used the lock here, but she hadn’t planned to leave her phone out of her sight.
“Really?” The news about Andrew was shocking. Earlier, he’d been adamant about her not staying. “Wow!”
“Told you he’d understand,” Cheryl gloated. “He sounded really nice.”
Renée smiled tightly.
“We’re going to get the spare room set up. You look at the rest of the photo albums,” Manuel suggested, standing and ushering Cheryl out of the living room before Renée responded.
Forces beyond her control compelled her to check her phone. She appreciated the gesture. But why would modern-day Ozzie and Harriet use her phone? You don’t go into someone’s phone without permission. Not only her phone, but her purse, too. Where her phone had been.
Scrolling through, nothing seemed changed. Of course, they were in their fifties, maybe even late fifties, early sixties. If anything like her parents, they wouldn’t know how to do more than make calls, and barely that. She stuffed her phone into her purse and reached for a photo album.
White-hot fire tore through her abdomen. Pain of the blinding variety stabbed her. She lurched to her feet and staggered to the bathroom.
Gripping the toilet, she prayed for mercy. None came. Every couple seconds, she dry-heaved, but not a pancake or hash brown revisited. If she could throw up, it might relieve her stomach pain some. It had to. Dizzy. Sweaty. Hot one minute, cold the next. She felt like garbage.
“Think her brother believed she took an Uber back and left her phone?” Cheryl’s muffled question filtered through the wall.
A loud crinkling and snapping followed. Sounded like the summer she and Andrew got an inflatable pool, unpacked it from the box, and then shook it out to blow it up.
Renée searched her small confines with her eyes. They weren’t in the bathroom with her, but from the sounds of it, they were in the next room. Their walls were paper thin, apparently. She fell back on her haunches. What were they talking about?
“Seems like it,” Manuel’s garbled reply. “If he didn’t, he’d be here.”
“… Won’t get through if he tries to call. Buy her… going to Arizona?” Cheryl’s unintelligible question.
Renée tried to stand, couldn’t. Her body was laden. Breathing labored, heart beating too fast for her liking. And she didn’t understand what they were saying. Her head was cloudy. Shaking her head, she attempted to focus. Strained to hear their conversation clearer.
“She’s an emotionally unbalanced black girl,” Manuel stated. “White people took her in. They know anything’s possible.”
“Hey! I’m white,” Cheryl said, offended.
“I’m saying Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome comes in handy. She's going door to door in this day and age. Anything can happen. Nothing's a stretch.”
“Shockingly, she’s not less trusting,” Cheryl mused. “Looking at those pictures, she was like a lost puppy who found its way home.”
Tears welled in Renée’s eyes. What was happening? She knew she didn’t like that woman. And her conniving “father.” How could she be so stupid?
“We’ll move her later,” Manuel suggested. “Two or three in the morning. How long until she’s out?”
“Ten—twenty minutes,” Cheryl replied. “She’s small. The amount I slipped her should have taken her out immediately. She was feeling it when we left her, though. Twenty minutes tops.”
