Filfthy (55 page)

D
erek

“
W
ho’s Serena
?” My mother doesn’t greet me with her traditional “hello, my love” when I pick Haven up Friday after work. She pulls the front door wide, her hands on her hip. “Haven hasn’t stopped talking about the ‘girl with the mermaid hair’ since Royal dropped her off earlier.”

“Oh, yeah?” I glance down at my daughter, perched at the foot of the steps, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she tries to maneuver her feet into fluorescent light-up shoes.

Preschoolers
.

Can’t keep a secret for anything.

“Yes, Derek. So who is she? And why is she staying at your house?” My mother’s stare is unrelenting.

“She’s a friend. And it’s temporary.”

My mother knows me too well, which is why her lips mold into a deep frown in response to my casual answer.

“Come on, Haven.” I reach my hand out. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t shut me out when I ask you a question.”

“You’re making something out of nothing.” I look past her. Haven’s skipping around my parents’ foyer “Come on, baby. Let’s go.”

“You’ve been divorced two years. You haven’t so much as mentioned a woman in my presence. And now your daughter says some woman is living with you.” Mom’s arms fold. “I’m allowed to pry. I’m your mother. It’s
kind of
my job.”

“Kind of.” I meet her gaze with a smile.

She swats my chest. “Don’t get smart with me. Who is she?”

“She’s a client.”

Mom takes a step back, slack-jawed. “Does . . . does your father know about this?”

“No, and I’d appreciate if it stayed that way until I get a chance to explain.”

“So you’ll tell him?”

My hesitation elicits a gasp from her. “You can’t keep things from your father. He’ll find out, and he’ll be very upset. And you know how he gets.”

Haven squeezes between my mother and me and slips her hand into mine.

“Which is why,” I say, “it’s in your best interest to pretend like this conversation never happened.”

We step onto the front porch, and Mom follows.

“Can I at least meet her?” she calls out. It’s a test.

“No, because it isn’t like that.” I tug Haven’s hand and we make a beeline for the sidewalk.

Mom stands on the front steps, watching me load my daughter into the backseat. “All right, Derek. I’m done prying. For now.”

“Grandma asks a lot of questions.” Haven wrinkles her nose. “Why does she ask so many questions, Daddy?”

“Because that’s what grandmas do,” I say, kissing her on the top of her head and breathing in the scent of her peach shampoo.

“Grandma Karen doesn’t ask that many questions.”

“Grandma Bliss is
special
.” I shut the door, finding my mother suddenly standing behind me.

“You
will
tell your father.” Mom gets the final word and struts back to the sidewalk before I can protest.

* * *

“
D
addy
?” Haven asks when we’re a couple of miles from my place.

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you think Serena has a pretty heart?”

I squint, stifling a smile. Kids ask the most random questions, but this one feels a little heavier than what I’m used to from Haven.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Serena says a pretty heart is when you’re kind and nice to people.”

I could give her the complicated answer: the truth.

I don’t know Serena that well yet. I don’t know if she’s kind and nice to people. But she’s been nice to me. Nice enough, at least.

It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted, so I give her the easy answer. “Yes, Haven. Serena has a lovely heart.”

“No, a
pretty
heart.”

“Okay. A pretty heart.”

“I gave Grandma half of my cookie today. Does that mean I have a pretty heart?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. That’s called sharing. It’s a nice thing to do.”

“Can Serena come to my birthday party?”

Haven’s question catches me off guard, and I almost blow through a four-way stop. We come to a hard stop, and I take a deep breath, wrapping my fingers tight around the steering wheel.

“I don’t know, baby,” I say. “Your birthday party is in two weeks. Serena might have plans then.”

“I asked her last night and she said to ask you.”

Damn it.

“All right. I’ll talk to her about it and let you know.” Lying to my soon-to-be four-year-old daughter isn’t a bright and shining moment in my life, but I’m not going to bother Serena about coming to my kid’s birthday party. Shit. I don’t even want to be there. Kyla chose a princess theme this year, and made damn sure no fewer than five of Haven’s favorite Disney princesses will be there in full costume.

If it were up to me, I’d take her to the zoo, let her feed a giraffe and ride a camel. Just the two of us.

“Aunt Demi invited us over for dinner tonight,” I change the subject.

“Yay! Aunt Demi!” Haven squeals from behind me, kicking the back of my seat. “Can Serena come?”

“What is your obsession with Serena?” I laugh.

“What does
subseshon
mean?” she asks.

“Never mind.” I shake my head and pull into the parking garage. Fuck it. We’ll invite Serena. The girl’s got to eat, and she’s technically a house guest. I shouldn’t make her fend for herself.

I pull into my spot and text Demi to set another place at the table. She’s going to freak out when she sees who I’m bringing. Wouldn’t be surprised if she stroked out. She’s never met a celebrity, as far as I know, and she seemed to know an awful lot about Serena last week.

The engine dies down, and I climb out and grab Haven, taking her hand as we head inside.

Haven skips, swinging my arm as we walk.

By the time we reach my apartment, gone are the sounds of the TV drifting from under the door. When the door pops open, the place is eerily silent.

“Serena,” I call.

No answer.

“Daddy, where’s Serena?”

The pit of my stomach is heavy and hard. We haven’t spoken since last night, when we fucked like two hormonal teenagers incapable of keeping our hands off each other. I haven’t experienced that little restraint since I met Kyla—when Kyla was someone else entirely. When Kyla was some kind of wonderful.

Or, as I like to say now, when Kyla was false advertising.

“Serena.” I try again.

Still no answer.

“Hang on, baby.” I release Haven’s hand and trudge down the hall. The room to the guest suite is open. All her things are there.

Except Serena. Serena is gone.

S
erena

I
saunter
down the sidewalk outside Derek’s building, my purse slung over a tired shoulder and my feet aching from the hours of small town exploring I did this afternoon.

I enjoyed a cupcake from a bakery. Lunched at a sidewalk café. Played with puppies at a pet store. And helped a group of little old ladies locate the antique store they drove seventy-eight miles to come see.

A black Infinity SUV pulls out of the parking garage and comes to a stop at the curb. The passenger window rolls down, and I step near.

“Hey.” I give a short wave, my body tensing at the sight of him as if it instantly remembers the toe-curling things he did to me fewer than twenty-four hours prior. “Where are you two headed? Hi, Haven.”

“Hi, Serena!” Haven waves. “We’re going to Aunt Demi’s. Want to come?”

I glance at Derek. “We’re going to my sister’s for dinner. Hop in. She’s setting a place for you.”

“Oh, um.” I could tell him I’m not hungry. That I stuffed myself all afternoon. That I’m not entirely sure I can sit across from him, with his family, no less, and not think a million dirty thoughts.

“Come on, Serena!” Haven beckons.

“Yeah.” Derek’s voice is dry. “Come on.”

I’m getting mixed vibes from him, and a cool sweat lines my spine. Does he want me to go? Does he not? Are we setting a dangerous precedence? Should I be meeting his family? What do they know about my situation?

“You really want me to come?” I direct my question to him.

“Yes.” He gives me a stock answer and wears an expression I can’t read.

I lift a brow, and a rampant breeze ruffles my hair around my face. It’s evening now and has grown colder. I’m dressed for a balmy spring afternoon.

Grabbing the door handle, I climb in, silencing the confused commentary littering my thoughts and buckling up instead.

“Was surprised to find you MIA when we got home,” he says several blocks down the road.

“Just went for a walk,” I say. “There are some really nice little shops in this area.”

“A note would’ve been nice.” He flips his turn signal, staring ahead.

“Am I in trouble?” I sort of snort.

“Nope. It’s just a courtesy thing.”

“I’m sorry.” I hide my chuckle with the back of my hand. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll
punish
me later. “I’ll leave a note next time.”

“Appreciated.”

“My phone actually works here, you know. You could’ve called me.”

He reaches for the radio, turning up the Disney station to drown out our conversation.

“Were you worried about me?” I glance at him.

His car rolls to a stop at a red light, and he turns to me. “Yeah. I kind of was.”

No one has ever worried about me. Not even my own father. He always paid other people to worry about me.

“Anyway.” I exhale and rattle on about a pug puppy I held today named Munch. He’s six weeks old with the most endearing under bite, and I almost walked out of there with him in my pocket. I’m not in any position to have a dog. And I’ve never owned an animal of any variety. But he was the sweetest little guy with the biggest brown eyes, and it was a severe case of love at first sight.

“Daddy, can we get a puppy?” Haven yells over the music, which clearly does very little to keep her from hearing the goings-on up front.

“No.” Derek shuts it down.

We pull onto a highway, heading toward yet another small town. I think it takes a special kind of person to love the small town life. Someone with a content nature. Someone who loves peace and quiet and stillness. Someone perfectly capable of being alone with their own thoughts. Someone unconcerned with comparing their happiness to the person’s next door.

Derek certainly seems that way.

“My sister,” he says as we pull up to a yellow ranch on a wide corner lot. An older Subaru is parked in the drive. “May or may not freak out when she sees you.”

I smirk. “What? Why?”

“She’s . . . kind of a fan. Which I didn’t know until last week.”

I’ve run into fans all the time, even though the whole notion of a socialite heiress having fans makes absolutely no sense to me, but the moment
Page Six
talks about you or
Us Weekly
publishes a photo of you, you become somebody.

I didn’t have a choice, but it is what it is. I have to respect that there are people out there who know my name and my business and that some of them believe they like me—the public version of me.

“It’s fine, Derek.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out, straightening my blouse and slipping my bag over my shoulder. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”

Derek takes Haven by the hand, leading her to the garage door, where he punches in a code and walks in like he owns the place. Maybe small town people do that? Small town families at least?

“Knock, knock.” He opens the garage entry door and pokes his head into what appears to be the kitchen. “We’re here.”

The scent of red sauce is carried on a breeze of warm air as we step inside.

A young woman with thick, dark hair piled high on her head is flitting around the kitchen, tending to boiling pots on the stove and a beeping timer on the oven.

“Hey, hey,” Demi calls out, her back toward us. “I’m just finishing up. You guys go have a seat in the living room. Royal will be home any minute.”

Haven kicks off her shoes and runs off like she’s been here a thousand times and knows exactly where to go.

Demi shoves a pair of oven mitts over her hands and pulls a pan of garlic bread from the oven, waving away the smoke that escapes before quieting the beeping timer.

Pulling the mitts off, she wipes her brow and turns to greet us, her eyes landing first on Derek and then on me.

She freezes, her mouth hanging. “Oh. Uh. I-I’m . . .”

“Serena, this is my sister, Demi. Demi, this is Serena Randall. She’s a client of mine, and she’s staying in Rixton Falls. Temporarily.” Derek’s hands are folded in front of his hips, and I wonder if he’s always this formal.

Demi’s smile rises and falls, her eyes nervous. The woman acts like she’s stuck between a hand-shake and a curtsy, so I do her a favor and lean in for a hug. I doubt anyone out here kisses cheeks, and I don’t want to freak her out anymore than she already is.

She melts against me, exhaling and breathing me in, returning my hug with a tight one of her own. The scent of drugstore shampoo and raspberry body spray fills the air I breathe. She’s authentic. She’s real. I love that.

I pull away and offer her a warm smile. “So nice to meet you.”

Demi fans herself, remnants of oven smoke circling the three of us. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have made more than spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti.” I shrug.

Derek places his hand on my shoulder.

I don’t know why.

But it lingers. And falls to the small of my back.

And puts me at ease.

It’s like he knows I’m out of my element, and it’s not that I need his reassurance or his comfort, but it’s a nice gesture, and he didn’t have to do it.

Demi watches us intently, scrutinizing her brother’s every move until he slips between me and the refrigerator and disappears in another room.

“Would you like any help?” I offer.

Derek’s sister blushes, staring around her modest kitchen like she has some kind of reason to be embarrassed, and shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Serena. Can I call you Serena?” She stumbles from the sink to the stove, gathering a colander and tongs and a bread knife.

“Of course,” I say. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

I offer my assistance, knowing full well I’ll look like a bumbling idiot who doesn’t know her way around a kitchen, but it seems like the polite thing to do in this instance, and perhaps it’ll help her get over the initial shock of preparing dinner for someone she’s only ever seen in the glossy pages of a magazine.

“Um.” She glances at the spread on her counter. “If you want, you can drain the spaghetti noodles?”

I pick up a pair of oven mitts and place the colander in her sinks. This I can do.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask, carefully pouring the pot of boiling water into the strainer.

“Since Christmastime,” she says. “I’m substitute teaching at a school here in town, and Royal’s going to law school. Well, he’s pre-law right now. Two more years, and he’ll finish, then he’ll go to law school.”

“Will he be joining Rosewood and Rosewood?”

Demi saws off garlic bread slices from the hot loaf on the pan. “I don’t think so. He wants to go in a different direction.”

“Good for him. I assume your father would give him a job in a heartbeat. Couldn’t be easy to walk away from a guaranteed job after college.”

Demi pauses, glancing at me. “I mean, he’s following his heart, but I think there’s some hurt there between my father and Royal. He won’t admit it, but something happened a long time ago, and my father didn’t believe Royal, and . . . I won’t bore you with the details, but it really hurt him, and I just don’t think he wants to depend on my father, you know? I think he wants to carve out his own path.”

“Very admirable.”

The garage door swings open, and an incredibly handsome man with searing blue eyes and dark hair cut high and tight and tattoos covering his forearms steps in, dropping a leather messenger bag next to the stove. He doesn’t see me at first, just goes to her.

“Hey, babe.” He kisses Demi, slow and soft, his hand slipping up the side of her neck, and when he pulls away, he notices me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

“You’re fine.” I smile and nod.

“This is Serena,” Demi says. “Serena, this is my Royal.”

Her
Royal. I love that.

We shake hands, his posture straightening and his gaze, to my relief, not recognizing me.

“Smells great.” He pats Demi on the ass and struts off, and I hear him greet Derek from the next room as Haven squeals.

Demi snorts through her nose, shaking her head. “Haven loves Royal. They’re like two of a kind. They act like they’ve known each other their entire lives, and she just met him last Christmas.”

“Some men are just great with kids, like it comes natural to them.”

“Derek’s that way. He should get some kind of Father of the Year Award.” Her lips form a hard line. “I still can’t believe Kyla won primary custody. Sorry. I’m probably giving you way more information than you wanted.”

“It’s fine.”

“I guess every family has drama, right?”

“So true.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Demi calls toward the next room. The kitchen table is already set. Five places. Paper napkins. Thin, ceramic plates with a blue floral pattern around the edge. The cups are mismatched, all of them filled with large ice cubes. She notices me taking in the table arrangement and blushes. “Sorry. Someday, we’ll have nice china and dishes that match.”

“No, no,” I say. “I love it.”

And I mean it. It’s quaint. Homey.

A stark reminder that things don’t need to be perfect to be perfectly wonderful.

Haven and the men come back, and we all take seats as Demi brings the food to the center of the table in mismatched serving ware in shades of olive green and mustard yellow. Hand-me-downs, if I had to guess.

“Smells delicious, Demi. Thank you so much for preparing this beautiful dinner for us tonight,” I say.

“Shut it, Derek.” Demi kicks Derek under the table, and I’m confused. “He was two seconds from making fun of my cooking. I’ve gotten much better, I’ll have you know, dear brother.”

Derek’s lips fight a smile and he pretends to be shocked. “You’re a great cook. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“You’re only here because you didn’t want to cook dinner for Haven. Let’s be real for a minute,” Demi fires back.

“Some things never change.” Royal shoves a mouthful of spaghetti in his mouth.

The food is passed to me, and I take a small portion since my stomach is still full from my afternoon indulgences.

“See, now you scared her away from my cooking.” Demi points to my plate.

Derek shoots her a look, then turns to me. “I was kidding. Demi can cook. I wouldn’t make you eat here if she couldn’t.”

“No, no.” I wave them off. “I had a late lunch at Maraschino’s today.”

“The sidewalk café on Radcliff Street?” Demi’s face lights.

“Yes, that’s the place,” I say.

She swats Royal’s arm. “That’s where we need to go on Saturday. I’ve been dying to try it. I hear they have to-die-for cinnamon bread pudding.”

“What’s she roping you into this weekend?” Derek says under his breath, glancing to Royal.

Royal smirks. “Antiquing. She’s on an old-things kick.”

“Old things?” Derek huffs.

Demi sits up straight, swirling pasta around her fork. “Ever since Brooks, I’ve just been on this anti-materialistic kick. I don’t care about shiny, new things. Or expensive things. I like things with history. Things that matter.”

She places her hand over Royal’s, and their gazes meet, followed by languid smiles.

Derek rolls his eyes. “This week it’s old things. Next week it’ll be things that remind her of her childhood. Slap bracelets. Caboodles. Troll dolls. What am I missing?”

Demi throws her head back, laughing, and the table shakes when she kicks Derek’s shin once more.

“Gameboy, Tamagotchi, Polly Pocket, Barbie Fold-N-Fun house, Popples, Gak . . .” she rambles on.

“I had Gak,” I pipe up.

My father had Eudora take me to Universal Studios once, and they had a Nickelodeon store. I was nine, and Eudora let me buy a case of Gak in every color.

“I’ll never forget the smell,” I add.

“How could you? It was awful,” Demi says, her nose wrinkled. “It would make your hands stink when you played with it.”

“But it was so much fun though.” I used to tear off chunks of Gak and place it all around the house to annoy our housekeeper, who was thoroughly disgusted by the fact that any little girl would want to play with stinky slime when she had a perfectly good dollhouse in the next room.

“I think Delilah has my old Caboodle.” Demi pouts. “She was always stealing stuff from me. Never had to worry about Daphne though. She left my stuff alone.”