The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 8

  It only takes a few minutes to pass through and before long, Alex navigates down a treelined drive toward the sprawling colonial giant we once called home. Slowing, he pulls around the central fountain, coming to a stop outside the stately, portico-shaded entrance.

  The doors are open, my father standing on the threshold. Straight-backed, strong and tall at sixty-eight, he smiles and lifts a hand in welcome. As I gather my purse from the floor, Alex exits the car and rounds the hood. Father and son embrace tightly.

  As I open my door, Alex says, “More and more grey up top, eh, Dad?”

  Benedict—Bennie to his friends—chuckles. “Nona expressly forbid me from dying it. She says it looks distinguished.”

  I walk toward the men. “She’s right. Hey, Dad.”

  My father’s brown eyes scan my face, his expression a mixture of worry and relief. “Candace,” he says, opening his arms. I walk into them, awash in comfort and love. And yes, an old flare of resentment. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your room is ready for you.” Leaning back to hold me at arm’s length, he scans my face again. “How are you feeling?”

  I roll my eyes. “Just tell me I look tired and get it over with.”

  A soft smile lifts his lips. “You look tired.”

  “Candace!” exclaims a delighted, accented voice. I look past my dad’s shoulder to see Nona Bellizzi rushing through the foyer. This time, the surge of warmth and love I feel is untainted. “Come, come, tesoro mio, give me love!”

  I meet her halfway, letting her fold me into soft arms. She smells the way she always has, of French lavender, powder, and herbs. When she takes me by the face, her dark eyes roaming mine, I see white streaking her black hair and deeper creases fanning her eyes and mouth. She’s still—has always been—so beautiful to me.

  “Ah, child,” she murmurs, eyes clouding with sadness. “It’s time to stop fighting.”

  I shake my head in her gentle embrace. “I’m not… there’s no…” It’s pointless—I lose it, collapsing into her arms with great, heaving sobs.

  “There, there,” she whispers, stroking my hair and back. Over my shoulder, she says, “Candace needs her nana. Alex, it’s wonderful to see you. Please take her bags to her room. Benedict, dinner is at six. Forgive Candace for not attending.”

  Her firm, soft voice brooks no argument. I hear murmured assent from the men, then Nona leads me through the house, out the back door, and along a gravel pathway to the secondary residence that’s been hers for thirty years.

  By the time she ushers me inside to the kitchen, my sobs have quieted to sniffles. She deposits me in a chair at the circular table and I drop my head onto my arms, breathing the familiar aromas of fresh sourdough and thyme.

  A thunk on the table brings my head up to see a small shot glass brimming with clear liquid.

  “Drink,” she orders.

  I throw back the vodka, coughing a little, then smirk. “I guess this means you finally think I’m an adult?”

  She smiles. “You’ll always be my little treasure. Now up you go, it’s time for bed.”

  I frown at her. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  She just stares at me, gaze steady and piercing, until I stand and follow her from the kitchen. With the alcohol buzzing in my empty stomach, I don’t notice where she leads me until I’m inside the room.

  His room.

  “Nana, I—”

  “He hasn’t been here in months,” she says, with an undercurrent that makes me look sharply at her. But her expression reveals nothing of her thoughts. “The sheets are clean. Sleep.”

  I sigh in defeat and cross to the bed, sitting heavily on the edge, as Nona draws the curtains. Without another word, she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

  I look around the shadowed room, unchanged from Sebastian’s teenaged years. There isn’t much in the way of personal clutter—he’s always been a minimalist.

  A baseball bat leans against the wall beside an empty desk. There are no posters on the wall, just framed art that Nona picked for him before he arrived from Italy. The only hint of personality is from the bookshelf, which is crammed top to bottom with a broad range of titles.

  Standing, I walk to the small closet and open it. Before I’m fully aware of my intent, I lean forward, burying my face briefly in the sleeve of his letterman jacket. Several shirts and laundered pants hang on the nearly-bare bar, and the shelf above is empty but for a shoebox.

  Glancing at the closed door, I give in to temptation, pulling down the box and returning to the bed. I sit, balancing it on my knees, and remove the lid. There isn't much within—a small stack of folded papers and photographs.

  The papers are letters he wrote to Nona while away at school, his high school diploma, degrees from Harvard and NYU—all carelessly folded together. And the photographs…

  Nona and fifteen-year-old Sebastian standing outside the guesthouse, smiling. The varsity baseball team. His senior class photograph.

  The fourth image is of him, Alex, Deacon, and Charles in the backyard, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They’re young, shirtless, and laughing. Studying the photo, I recall the weight of the camera in my hands. My mother’s laughter coming from somewhere behind me. My dad’s voice grumbling about cleaning up the mess from a broken window.

  My thumb brushes across the photo before I put it back in the box. As I move to replace the lid, I see a final photograph resting facedown on the bottom. Pinching a corner, I lift up the picture, worn and creased from being carried in a wallet.

  It’s me. Sixteen years old. My face is tilted up, washed in sunshine, and I’m smiling like the whole world is perfect.

  Tingles cascade along my body, and a hand flies to my throat. My heart pounds hard against my ribs, but not in panic. Happiness? Hope? I’m not sure. Closing my eyes, I think shamefully of screaming at him in the hospital, of my callous, selfish words. And his face when I rejected him in front of Robert.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong. It was right. So fucking right.” And it was. So right. “I want to make you happy. Will you let me try?”

  A tear hits the photograph, then another, and I hastily put it in the box. Crossing the room, I shove it back onto the shelf and close the closet door, then rush to my purse and find my phone. I don’t think as I scroll through my contacts and find his name, then press Call.

  When the third ring sounds, I jolt and almost hang up, but a second later he answers.

  “Candace?”

  I clear my throat. “Hi. Guess where I am?”

  He pauses. “Alex told me. I’m glad.”

  His voice is perfectly pitched to convey mild concern. It makes something inside me quake in desperation.

  “Sebastian, I—”

  A woman’s laughter, low and intimate, sounds on his end. That trembling place freezes over in a flash. My throat closes. I grip the phone hard enough that my knuckles crack.

  No.

  I’m sorry.

  Please.

  “It’s not really a good time,” he says. Distant. Polite. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  My voice shaking audibly, I blurt, “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  There’s an unmistakable sound of sheets rustling as he stands. “Yes, you did.” His voice is low and fixed with iron. “You’ve always meant everything you’ve ever said to me, and I’m finally done listening. I’m tired of wanting… You know what? It’s not important.”

  “Sebastian—” I fall silent as tears choke my voice.

  I found the picture.

  Don’t give up on me.

  “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says gently, firmly. “Whatever makes you happy. I have to go. Take care of yourself, Candace.”

  He hangs up.

  Slowly, I bring the phone down from my ear, then place it on the nightstand. Careful, precise movements so I don’t fall apart. Then I crawl across his bed, numbly seizing his pillow and burying my face in it. It doesn’t smell like him,
though I wish it did.

  God, how I wish it smelled like him.

  17

  I open my eyes to a dark room. Rolling over, I squint at the clock on the nightstand. Nine o’clock. My stomach is tight with hunger, my mouth dry as dust. Groaning, I force my stiff body up, across the room, and into the hallway. Light filters up the stairs, as well as the soft sounds of a television.

  Padding barefoot downstairs, I find Nona sitting in her favorite recliner, a padded, floral monstrosity that everyone in the family has tried at one time or another to replace. When she sees me lurking out of the corner of her eye, she points at the two-seater couch. On the low coffee table is a glass of water and a tray of cold cuts and fruit.

  I slump onto the soft cushion and drink the water in long swallows. When I hear Sebastian’s voice on the television, I gaze vacantly at the screen. It’s one of his action flicks. In the current scene, he’s running half-naked through a jungle.

  When I can’t stand looking at him anymore, I glance at Nona. She’s already watching me, the compassion on her face unbearable.

  “Why was I so mean to him?” I ask her softly.

  She sighs. “Oh, child. So many reasons, yes? You’ve always been a perfectionist. Poised and controlled. Always working harder than you needed to, for everything. My boy… my sweet, smart boy. He brought chaos to your ordered world. I’m sorry that I never saw how hard his arrival was on you, being the only girl.”

  I can hardly absorb her words. “I don’t understand,” I manage.

  She settles back in her chair. “When he returned from that trip to Los Angeles,” amused eyes flash my way, “when the two of you spent time together, he came to me distraught. He loved you, Candace. He wanted to drop out of school and move to the West Coast to be with you.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  She nods. “I told him he was an idiot. That you’d lose all respect for him. I reminded him why he was at the university. There were many reasons for him, too, but one was to prove himself worthy of you. Of all of you.”

  I stare at her, my mouth open. “Why?”

  Her lips curve sadly. “He’s never told you what happened to him in Italy?”

  “No.”

  She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Then I shall not, but know this—deeply ingrained in my nephew’s heart is a need to be worthy. To be loved and accepted. A need beyond, perhaps, the basic need in us all.”

  “But he’s…” I trail off.

  Perfect.

  Brilliant.

  Famous.

  Nona, understanding my silence, says, “He doesn’t see any of that.”

  I drop my head into my hands. “I really messed up, Nana. Sebastian… he wanted to try again, recently. With me. But he hurt me so much the first time, I went kind of crazy. Said horrible things to him. That I didn’t want him.”

  “Mmm,” she says, nodding. “He was your first love, and he broke your heart. And now you’ve broken his. It’s like one of my daytime shows.”

  I snort, but misery swiftly overcomes humor. “Why didn’t he wait for me eight years ago? I waited for him.”

  She clucks her tongue. “More reasons and reasons. So many fears and thoughts in your heads. Perhaps it is as simple as you were both too young, and what you felt for each other was too much. Too consuming.” She pauses. “The two of you have always been unpredictable, Candace. Always fighting, always finding excuses to be close to each other. It was highly amusing for your parents and myself, when it wasn’t driving us batty.”

  Hearing her perspective is sobering and illuminating. And looking back, I can admit that she’s right.

  Every memory I have of Sebastian is touched by a singular vividness. Colors are brighter. Voices are clearer. And he’s always at the center, a wild and magnetic force. Sharp smiles, flashing eyes. Kicking my shins under the table during holidays. Chasing me with the hose or water balloons. Whoopee cushions on my chair. Four-dozen eggs carefully placed in my locker at school.

  Prank after prank after prank.

  “He was kind of mean to me, too,” I realize.

  Nona laughs. “Oh, you were cruel to each other. It’s a tale older than time. The boy who wants to hold the girl’s hand but pinches her instead. Only this girl gave as good as she got.”

  I rub my temples. “What am I going to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” she asks softly.

  Sebastian.

  The urge to call him is so powerful, I don’t say goodbye to Nona as I jolt from the couch and run upstairs. I snatch my cellphone off the nightstand, fumble for my contacts. Find him. Hit Send.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  “Candace,” he says tiredly.

  “I want you,” I blurt. “I’m sorry. I want to try. Please, don’t give up on me. On us. You hurt me, and I was scared, and I fucked up—”

  “Stop,” he snaps. I swallow words with a gasp, a lance of pain streaking through my chest. In a more subdued tone, he continues, “I can’t do this right now. I leave in the morning for a four-month shoot in freaking Cambodia.”

  “Please,” I breathe. “You said—”

  “I know what I said! I also remember quite clearly what happened after—you wiped the fucking floor with me.” He laughs, low and sardonic. “The Candace I want doesn’t exist, and I get that now. She was a figment of my young, horny imagination. The girl in the forest in a white dress.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I murmur, and have a sick flash of memory to him outside my door, beseeching me not to go back to Robert. The rawness in his eyes, the second that I thought I saw… love.

  He says wearily, “I have a lot on my plate right now. I don’t mean to be hurtful, but frankly, I’m relieved. My head is finally clearing where you’re concerned. I’m thirty-three, Candace. I’m not interested in being in a relationship that doesn’t have the potential to be long-lasting. And I don’t want to be in one where all we do is fight and fuck. Isn’t that what you said? Well, you’re right. That’s all we’re good at.”

  Every cell in my body screams, You’re wrong! but defensiveness surges. Venom coats my tongue.

  “Oh, was that woman earlier your soulmate, then? Or that blonde at LACMA, or the model on your lap at the club? You’re a coward, Bellizzi.”

  He’s silent for a few counts. “Thank you for proving my point. Goodbye, Candace.”

  “Sebastian—”

  The line goes dead.

  18

  At breakfast the next morning, Nona says nothing about my puffy eyes, though two aspirin magically appear beside my plate when I leave the table to refill my coffee.

  After we eat, she hands me a straw hat and puts me to work in the garden. We plant vegetables beginning with beans, beets, and carrots. Then cucumbers, summer squash, and the mandatory tomatoes. Finally, we plant basil, oregano, thyme, and sage.

  Over the next four weeks, I spend a portion of every morning in the garden. Hunting weeds, aphids, and caterpillars, monitoring the drip sprinklers, and guiding tiny shoots of tomatoes, pole beans, and squash up their trellises.

  At midday, I share lunch with my father and Nona in the big house. My father never asks why I’ve decided to stay in the guesthouse with Nona, and I don’t offer a reason. He’s gone a lot, anyway—playing golf, tennis, meeting friends for cocktails, lunches with old business associates. I don't know if he's seeing a woman, and I don’t ask.

  The nights are the only challenging times, because when I close my eyes… Sebastian. The reason I haven’t moved into my old room is that I’ve become attached to sleeping in his bed. To the thrill of fictitious memories.

  In the darkness and quiet, I torture myself with risks never taken, of a different past wherein I used to sneak into the guesthouse and into his bed on nights he was out late. In my fantasy, he comes home, buzzed and maybe already aroused from kissing a girl at a party. He finds me sleeping. Naked. For him.

  I touch myself in the dark, climaxing fast every time. And then,
as my body hums from his imaginary touch, I remember the things he said. The Candace I want doesn’t exist. And I wonder if he's right.

  As more weeks pass and the weather begins warming, I spend afternoons either swimming, napping in the shade, or walking through the woods. Sometimes Nona joins me on my walks, but we don’t speak of Sebastian. We hardly speak at all, in fact, but it’s a peaceful quiet, without demands, deadlines, or expectations. The silence is important. Healing.

  Slowly, I begin to search within for the thread that withered as my mother’s illness unfolded—the once-carefree version of myself. Candace of the skinned knees and midnight chocolate missions, with no worries outside of homework, homecoming, and soccer practice. The me that walked in the woods at night in a white gown.

  I search, but I don’t find her.

  The first week of June, I finally muster the courage to open the door of my mother’s art studio. Inside is a time capsule to the past. Paint-streaked tarps, half-finished canvases, palettes caked with layers of hard acrylics, and old brushes frozen and useless. Sponges, trays, knives, and the huge cabinet full of expired paints.

  After opening the drapes and cracking the windows, I sit before a blank canvas in the corner of the room and think about how, in the summers, my mother used to try to wrangle all us kids into the studio to express ourselves. Despite her noble intentions, it quickly became clear that she couldn’t teach us anything except how to do whatever we wanted in whatever medium was appealing.

  The boys invariably went for spray paints and acrylics while I loved charcoals. The classes—such as they were—never lasted more than a week before she threw up her hands and kicked us out. Until the next summer, when she’d try again.

  Movement tickles my peripheral vision. I look over at my father, standing in the doorway.

  “Here you are,” he says, smile faltering as he gazes around the space. “Wow, this sure brings back memories, doesn’t it?”