Isabelle’s eyes seemed to soften further. “Yes, but at first, you must have—”
“No.” I turned. “It didn’t bring up any memories. I was worried, that’s all.” I turned my head when I got to the door. “Do you want something to eat? I can have May bring you something along with the tea.”
“No. I’ll eat when I get up.”
I nodded, opening the door, and glancing back. Her expression was full of concern—for me I supposed—and I didn’t want that. She was the one who’d been hurt. This wasn’t about me. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”
“Okay,” she said as I closed the door behind me. For a moment I stood in the empty hallway, just breathing, so many emotions coursing through my body, I didn’t know how to separate them all, much less identify them.
I walked to the office on wooden legs, shutting the door behind me and sinking onto the couch.
I heard my father enter the house and stomp to the kitchen, heard his voice as it rose and fell, and May’s tone as she obviously attempted to soothe him. It seemed to work—his voice quieted, and then both their footsteps moved toward my room.
I thought about getting up and joining them, but there was still a vague prickling under my skin and my heart felt sluggish as if it was exhausted from the mini heart attack I’d had when Mick had told me Isabelle was hurt.
The picture came to me then, unbidden, the way the air had been steamy, the water such a bright red. For a moment her eyes had opened, sluggish, unseeing, and I’d frozen in horror. I’d frozen. Just a second, maybe two, before my father had burst into the room, but maybe those seconds could have saved her . . . maybe.
Seconds.
Moments.
Such small measurements of time. But powerful enough to change everything. Vast enough to unravel an entire life.
Christ.
I propelled myself off the couch with a small choking sound, my hands shaking as I poured a drink from the bar cart on the other side of the room. It was only Isabelle who worked in here on a regular basis, and I was surprised she hadn’t removed the liquor from this room, but I was grateful she hadn’t.
I downed one shot then another, the shaking in my hands finally lessening, my breathing growing more even. That memory, God, I hadn’t thought of that in years, hadn’t relived it like that since I’d been a teenager.
Did it . . . did it bring up memories of losing your mother?
She was perceptive, my Belle, because she knew the pain of loss, perhaps even more so than I. I’d lost a parent, yes, but she’d lost a child. Her whole world. How did she even walk around through life anymore? How had she survived? Part of me wanted to talk to her about it, but the other part flinched away from the mere idea, because I didn’t even know what I was feeling inside, had locked the experience away and thrown out the key. And all I wanted was to leave it there.
I felt disturbed, out of sorts, antsy. I’m crazy about you, Isabelle. Crazy, yes. The way I felt for her made me partially insane. This feeling— No. I threw back one more shot, my thoughts blurring. Better. Now I could breathe. And tomorrow I’d be back to myself.
I opened the email Derek had sent that required attention, took care of it, then moved on to the next task. Work. There was always work. That kept me focused. Soon I’d acquire the control I’d held on to for so many years. Control. That’s what I did best.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Isabelle
I was worried about Brant. He had taken the mishap in the yard harder than I had. Much harder. I could still see the raw torment on his face as he’d rushed to where I lay on the ground, his eyes wild, the way his hands had trembled and run over every part of me he could reach as if convincing himself I was really okay. Alive.
And the way he’d reacted when I’d asked about his mother had told me my intuition had been accurate. My accident had brought up memories of losing her. I wanted to ask him more about it, about what happened that had driven him from this house thirteen years before, but he shut down every time I did. He was like that wild stallion in the yard. And I’d pushed too hard with that one and ended up lying in the dirt, half conscious. I didn’t want to push Brant. I could only hope he’d confide in me when he was ready and that that would be sometime soon.
He’d seemed mostly back to normal the past week, though he came in the room smelling like alcohol the day it happened, and he’d made love to me with a desperate fervency that night then looked shaken and pulled me close, caressing me as if he’d realized he’d been less than careful with me and regretted it.
Still, even if Brant was behaving a little differently with me, we’d had several enjoyable dinners with his father. We’d sat around the big farmhouse table in the dining room, Brant and Harry conversing casually. Perhaps they hadn’t completely mended fences, but they’d still come a long way in a short time. Maybe they weren’t exactly friends, but they were no longer strangers.
I placed a few pairs of jeans into my suitcase and zipped it closed, setting it near the door. I was packed and ready to leave for New York the next morning. I’d been apprehensive about going, but now I was glad. It was what Brant needed—to get away from here for a little while and reclaim his equilibrium. He’d introduce me to the places he loved, show me the businesses that brought him so much pride, and I’d learn a little more about Brant Talbot the businessman. I hoped we’d become even closer, that he’d open up to me more, and we’d return here stronger than ever.
A warm flush of hope blossomed under my skin and I smiled as I left the room, heading toward the office. I’d do Graystone Hill business remotely, so I needed to get some paperwork in order, email myself some files, etcetera.
But before that, I would make another call to Aaron. I’d called him a few times over the past week, but he hadn’t returned my calls. I’d decided it was best not to mention contacting him to Paige—it would only further upset her to know Aaron and Ethan might have been involved in something shady. But I needed to know what Aaron knew to figure out the best way to handle this stockpile of cash I now possessed.
I’d started to ask Hank his advice about the money at the party May had thrown, but we’d been interrupted by an emergency call-out, and I’d decided it was for the best. I wanted to talk to Aaron first.
I stood in front of the window as his phone rang, expecting his voicemail to pick up again and planning the message I’d leave—again. And so I was surprised when I heard a clipped, “Hello,” on the other end of the line.