Her hand turns clammy in mine. “What’s the name of this company?
“Ames Oil and Steel,” I say. “Soon to be Westcott Oil and Steel …”
Her gaze falls to her lap, then out the window. To our left, a vast body of water holds bobbing sail boats and yachts in all lengths. Since my parents perished in the Atlantic, the idea of dipping my toes in that ruined ocean makes me slightly nauseous, but with Sophie by my side and this historical deal on the horizon, I’ll make an exception.
Shingled houses and colonial-style shops and restaurants line the street on both sides as we enter a quaint seaside town. The sidewalks are peppered with people in carefree, vacation-esque attire, bags in tow.
“We’ll be staying in the guest house,” I say. “So fortunately we’ll get a social reprieve at the end of each night.”
I lift her hand to mine and kiss its top. She’s trembling.
Up until now, she was excited about the trip, saying she’d never been to Martha’s Vineyard. All of last night, her phone glowed in the dark of our bedroom as she researched its history and shared fascinating bits of information. And before that, while packing, she held up dresses and brimmed hats and asked my opinion as I chuckled and reminded her we were only going to be there for two days.
Her face is turned away, attention focused outside.
“Can we pull over?” Her breath quickens and she releases my hold to fan herself.
“Of course.” I lean forward and tap the driver. “We need to stop. Immediately.”
He pulls into a packed parking lot on the side of a café. She opens the door before we’ve stopped, rushing to the trunk side of the car.
I hurry around back, finding her hunched over, hands on top of her knees.
“Jesus, are you sick?” I reach for the small of her back as I opt not to check the gravel at her feet.
Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she nods. “I’m sorry … it just hit me back there … maybe it’s altitude sickness from the plane?”
That happens, especially in smaller jets and especially when someone is only accustomed to flying commercial. The G-force hits differently.
“Don’t apologize.” I rub small circles against the spot between her shoulders. “If anything, I’m sorry. I’d reschedule this trip, but I’ve already cleared my schedule and Ames is expecting us. Plus, the sooner we get this over with, the closer I’ll be to closing the deal—then I’ll never have to deal with this difficult bastard again.
Sophie is silent, and out of nowhere our driver produces a bottle of water and sanitizing hand wipes. She cleans up and takes a few small sips before steadying herself against the side of the car.
“I can find a doctor. I’m sure I can find someone who makes house calls,” I say. “Maybe we can arrange for an IV? Get you some hydration? Since we’ll be in the guest house, you’ll have privacy as you recover. I’m sure they’ll understand about the altitude sickness …”
“No, no. I’m sure I’ll feel better after I finish this.” She takes another drink. “Let’s go.”
The three of us climb back into the car, and for the next forty miles, she rides in silence.
Forty-Five
Sophie
Present
“Welcome, welcome! I’m Anabelle.” A tall woman with glossy dark hair down to her elbows answers the door of a sprawling blue shingle house with white trim and a private drive. The landscaping is filled with nothing but green and white hydrangeas, trailing a sweet scent into the air along with the salty ocean breeze. “You must be Sophie?”
She leans in, air kissing each of my cheeks and depositing a faint perfume against my skin that smells like a million bucks and warm chocolate chip cookies at the same time.
Our driver wheels our luggage up the paved walkway. Anabelle waves him closer, telling him to place everything inside the front door. He leaves our bags in the foyer before vanishing into the Town Car and departing down the circle drive.
Children’s laughter fills the background. Somewhere in this home, my daughter plays, oblivious to my presence. My throat constricts, but I force a smile.
“And of course, you’re Trey,” she says, air kissing his cheeks as well. “I know all about you … but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he says.
“Nolan’s out back on the patio by the pool,” she says before rolling her eyes. “Just took a work call. That man wouldn’t know the meaning of vacation if it smacked him alongside the head.”
My stomach twists and hot bile rises up my throat, but I force it away with sheer will. I won’t let him see me quake. I won’t let him get a reaction out of me.
Trey slides his hand around mine and we follow Anabelle through the soaring two-story entry to a sliding door off her impressive white-and-marble kitchen.