Remembering Everly (Lost & Found #2) (11 page)

“So, these are not the infamous trees I’ve heard so much about?” I asked, looking up at the small palm trees as we got out of the car. They were no bigger than me and had probably been planted in the last few years.

“Nope. Those tiny things wouldn’t hold me even as a girl. I was a wild child,” She gave me a flirtatious smile. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

I thanked the driver and told him I’d let him know when we needed to be picked up before we began our walk up the driveway. We were no more than halfway there before we were attacked by a barking, licking, crazy dog.

Magnolia laughed as I tried to save my suit, finally giving up to pet the mutt.

“This is Mango,” she said, rubbing the ears of the large golden retriever. The dog groaned happily as her tongue flopped out to the side.

“She’s cute,” I added.

“Thanks. We rescued her a few years ago, while I was still in college. I’ve always wanted to take her with me to the city, but I know it wouldn’t be fair to have her locked up in that small apartment. So she stays here with my parents. But she’ll always be mine, won’t you, Mango?” Her voice changed, becoming squeaky and high, making the dog’s tail wag in excitement.

“Looks like she got to you first,” a female voice called out. We both looked up to see an older version of Magnolia walking toward us. Dressed in casual black pants and a soft pink sweater and pearls, Mrs. Yorke smiled the instant she saw her daughter, running to meet her open arms.

“I missed you, Peanut,” she said happily.

“I missed you, too, Mom.”

“You keep forgetting you’re just an hour away,” Mrs. Yoke commented.

“You keep forgetting how busy I am!” Magnolia laughed, giving her mom a soft tap on the shoulder.

“I know, I know. So grown up and sophisticated now. Even bringing boys home.”

Her eyes met mine with a tiny wink, making me smile.

“Oh my gosh, Mom. He is far from a boy. And please do not embarrass me. Already.”

“I’ll stop trying if you introduce me to your man friend,” she promised, emphasizing the word “man” with a smirk.

I like her already.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet August Kincaid. August, this is my mother, Lisa Yorke.”

I stepped forward, offering my hand. She took it and we shook. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Yorke. Magnolia always speaks very highly of her parents.”

“Thank you, August—you can call me Lisa. It’s very nice to meet you finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I silently groaned. God only knew what that could mean.

“Let’s all go inside and see if we can find that father of yours,” she suggested with a warm smile. She turned as Magnolia and I followed, the exuberant dog chasing behind.

The house was decorated just as I’d expected it to be. Warm and inviting, with family touches everywhere. Baby photos of Magnolia adorned the walls, vacation mementos and even a few wedding pictures from years gone by. It filled the large space, making it feel cozy and inviting, rather than the drafty void I came home to everyday.

“It’s my long-lost daughter!” Mr. Yorke announced, coming around the corner into the living room, his arms held wide for his daughter. They embraced for a long time and he kissed her head, pulling back to wrap her under his arm.

“Now, who is your friend, Peanut?” he asked, giving me a gentle smile.

“This is August. August, this is my father, Paul.”

More handshaking commenced, before he offered us all a seat and a drink. Magnolia came and sat next to me while Lisa took a cozy spot next to her husband.

We spent the next half hour or so making the usual small talk while we nursed glasses of vintage wine. Paul asked me what I did for a living, although I suspect he already knew. I think he just wanted to get a feeling for the man who was dating his daughter, and so I complied, going through the motions of what I did with Trent. I knew Trent would want me to push more, advertise our strengths as a team and really sell our company, but I knew if this was going to work, it had to be done slowly.

Paul Yorke was a complex man. He was a multibillionaire who lived like someone with a fraction of his income, and yet he sent his daughter to manners classes and cotillion so she could compete with others in society. If there was one thing I learned quickly from the short time I spent with Magnolia’s father, it was that he was smart. Damn smart.

I had my work cut out for me if I was ever going to broker a deal with him, and a large part of me hoped he turned me down flat. He was kind and loved the hell out of his family.

No part of me wanted to take advantage of this man, or his daughter.

But if I didn’t, Trent would do his best and try, and the last thing I wanted was his slimy hands all over this precious family, muddling up their perfect little world. Or worse, putting his hands all over Magnolia.

She deserved better than that—they all did.

Hell—they deserved better than me, but at least I wouldn’t leave them destitute, and I was slowly re-learning my skills. I might even be able to do right by them, rather than take them for everything like Trent usually did.

“August, care to join me outside? I was about to start the grill and figured you might enjoy the fresh air,” Paul offered as he stood from his place on the sofa. I gave Magnolia a quick sideways glance and her amused grin told me I was going to get the special talk.

The “what are your intentions with my daughter” talk.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Sure,” I answered, feeling like a worm on a hook, about to go airborne into a lake full of ravenous minnows. Currently there was only one minnow I was worried about, and truthfully, he was looking more like a shark.

Walking through a large sliding glass door, we stepped out onto the expansive deck. Standing here, I could see why Mr. Yorke would want to retire in a place like this. Perfectly sloped green hills, sparkling blue water—it was like a little slice of paradise. With a little bit of golf thrown in.

“Magnolia tells me you had an accident a while ago?” he asked, a blatant attempt for information. I watched him walk around the deck, taking in the panoramic view he’d probably memorized by now as he waited for me to answer.

“Not really an accident, sir—” I began, before he interrupted.

“Call me Paul.”

“Okay,” I replied, before continuing. “I was mugged,” I said, going with the original story. No need to elaborate. “I suffered a head injury and was in a coma for over two years.”

He nodded, as if this was information he already knew. “That’s a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still missing bits and pieces?”

“More than bits and pieces,” I clarified. “I’d say the majority is still lost.”

He didn’t ask any further questions, but I could see them on the tip of his tongue as he wandered around the wooden path of the deck.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I finally said.

He turned to me, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tan chinos. “Oh?”

“You wondering whether I’m stable enough to handle being around your daughter. Whether I’m going to break her heart in a matter of months because I’m too wrapped up in my own mess to focus on anything else.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“And I wish I could give you answers, but honestly they’d all be bullshit. Right now, I’m just taking it one day at a time, and Magnolia knows that.”

“All right.” He nodded.

“Letting me off the hook that easily, huh?” I asked as I joined him at the railing overlooking the Pacific.

“Magnolia isn’t a little girl anymore—as much as I’d like to deny it. She’s a grown woman who makes her own choices and I trust her. If she’s chosen you as someone to spend her time with, I’ve got to believe you’re worthy of it.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“Thank you, Paul.”

Guilt ate at me, gnawing at my gut like maggots.

I wasn’t worthy of anything.

“Her first cotillion, she showed up with mud on her tights and dirt in her curls. All the other girls looked at her like she was an alien from outer space,” Lisa joked as we dined over grilled salmon and fresh asparagus on the deck.

“Well, who was the one who told me cotillion was on Saturday, when it was actually on Friday?” Magnolia argued, sticking her tongue out toward her mother. “She showed up in my room that night all flustered with a pink dress in hand, words coming out of her mouth so fast I could hardly understand. I think Daddy went out and bought you a palm pilot or something equally ridiculous the next day to try and keep you organized. You were always getting appointments mixed up.”

“Still is,” Paul muttered under his breath with a laugh.

“Oh shush, both of you. I figured it out, eventually. And you made it to cotillion on time, didn’t you?”

“With dirt in my hair!” Magnolia laughed.

Lisa waved her hand in the air, dismissing the comment as everyone settled.

“Paul, the salmon was fantastic,” I commented, placing my napkin down beside my empty plate.

“I’ll be sure to get you the recipe before you leave,” he offered, leaning back in his chair. His arm relaxed on Lisa’s shoulder, playing with the stray hairs that had fallen out of her bun.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’d hate to destroy a perfectly good memory. I’ve been told my cooking skills are quite terrible,” I replied as Everly’s laughter filled my head from when she’d tried to teach me to cook.

“Something you and my daughter have in common then,” he said. I looked to my side, trying to shake the memory loose.

Stay in the present
, I reminded myself.

Magnolia just sat there staring at the ceiling, pretending not to notice the increased attention.

“Magnolia can’t cook?” I asked, remembering the riot act I’d received when I’d arrived late to a dinner date and botched her perfectly planned meal.

“Last I’d checked, she couldn’t even boil pasta.”

“Oh Daddy, that’s not true!” she huffed before crossing her arms in protest. Her eyes darted over toward me before scurrying away.

“Magnolia?”

“Oh, fine! I ordered out!” she admitted. “I can’t cook for anything.”

Everyone at the table burst into a fit of laughter, including myself. I leaned over and rubbed her shoulder as her eyes met mine.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to stick to takeout.”

“I order a mean takeout,” she said with a wink.

“Just don’t let her anywhere near a stove,” Lisa joked.

Magnolia rolled her eyes and chucked a napkin at her mom. These were the typical antics of a happy family, and it made me long for more memories of my own mom and dad. So far, very little of those had surfaced—a few fleeting flashbacks, but nothing concrete. I’d spent hours…days…trying to figure out a pattern to how the memories came back, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason.

Part of me wondered if it was our house that brought back certain memories of Everly and our life together, which was why I refused to leave it. But often I just believe it was chance or longevity, and that eventually everything would find its way back if I waited long enough.

There was no waitstaff in the Yorke house. Lisa and Paul did all the cooking and tidying themselves. For anyone else, this seemed like no grand miracle, but for most who had the means to do so, a butler and a maid would have been high on the list of must-haves.

Simplistic billionaires. What a concept. It was something I thought about on my way to the kitchen as I helped Lisa with the dishes and leftovers. Magnolia disappeared into the game room to find a deck of cards. Since I’d never heard of gin rummy—or at least didn’t remember hearing of it—she was determined to teach me.

A soft silence settled around the two of us as we worked through the lunch dishes. Lisa rinsed while I piled them in the dishwasher. I made neat rows of plates and bowls and slowly began to wonder if I’d ever done the dishes like this with my own mom.

Would I ever remember it?

“Magnolia tells us you have your own house over the water?” Lisa said, interrupting the quiet.

“Yes, although there isn’t a golf course,” I said with a smirk.

“Hmm, I might like your house a bit better,” she laughed.

“Not a fan of the golf life?”

“It’s all right. It makes Paul happy and he’s worked so hard all these years, he definitely deserves it. And the view isn’t bad.”

I agreed with a single nod as I began stacking a few wine glasses in the top rack.

“Do you miss your old house?”

“Of course, but it’s just a house. The memories are all right here,” she said, pointing to her heart, rather than her head.

“A home isn’t about the building, or the wood required to construct it. It’s about who’s with you inside it. My home can change a hundred times over, but I know those two out there will never change. They’re my home, whether we’re in a shack or a palace.

“Do you have a home, August?” she asked, turning to me as she dried her hands on a towel.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Well, it’s about time you started figuring it out.”

My eyes caught Magnolia as she danced into the living room with her dad, and I smiled as a part of me died inside, thinking of Everly walking down the aisle today as a bride.

“I think you’re right,” I answered. “I think you’re right.”

W
e’re on a plane,” Sarah said, nearly bouncing up and down on the seat next to me.

“Yes,” I replied, avoiding her bubbling expression.

“We’re on a plane, and we are going to Paris!” she exclaimed, so loud that the couple in front of us turned and gave us an amused expression.

“Yep.”

When I still hadn’t jumped on her happiness bandwagon, she then resorted to grabbing my arm and shaking me violently.

“Everly!”

“Ouch!” I laughed. “You’re rattling my teeth!”

“We’re going to Paris!”

“I know, you’ve told me a hundred times since this morning,” I exclaimed, pushing her shoulders down so she’d stay seated. A hundred times might be a little shy of the true number, but it wasn’t far off. Our flight was departing from San Francisco around noon, but little Miss Overeager had decided to wake up at five in the morning.

Five in the freaking morning.

She’d also decided that she needed company at that god-awful hour. Even after I explained to her that we had the longest flight in the history of flights ahead of us, she was still jumping around like a lunatic, talking about the Eiffel tower and the Hunchback of Notre Dame and pastries.
Oh, the pastries.

Hey, I was excited, too, but a girl needed her beauty rest.

And I was starting to believe I wasn’t going to catch a wink of it during this entire transatlantic flight. How much was it to upgrade to one of those fancy first class seats in the front? The ones that reclined fully and came with a three-course meal? I watched as a flight attendant slowly pulled the curtain to the first class area closed, and I caught a last glimpse of the fancy life. Real plates, fancy glasses…leg room for days. It probably cost more than my entire bank account held at the moment.
Or ever.

“Tell me you’re not excited?”

“I’m not excited,” I tried to say with a straight face, but my lip began to curve into a giant smile as my head fell back against the seat cushion.

“Liar! This is going to be the best week ever! Thank you so much for not getting married! I’ve always wanted to go on a honeymoon! And I didn’t even have to pledge my undying love to do it!”

My eyes slanted sideways to give her a dirty look as she made a sour face.

“Oops, sorry. Was that too soon?” She scrunched her nose as if the air had suddenly gone sour. I shook my head in disbelief.

Nudging her shoulder, I replied, “You’re welcome, butthead. But you better not complain about a single calorie the entire time we’re there.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but I caught her mid-breath.

“Not one single word, ballerina girl.”

“Fine,” she pouted. “But don’t ever call me ‘ballerina girl’ again.”

“Okay.”

We were cruising somewhere over the Midwest now. Drinks and meals had been consumed and everyone was quieting down. Many had snuggled into their airplane blankets to watch a movie, while others were reading or sleeping. My airplane partner was still staring at me like I was her sole entertainment for the next eight hours.

“What?” I asked.

“Talk to me,” Sarah whined.

“About what?”

“Anything. Come on, I’m bored!”

“Didn’t you bring anything to do? Books, magazines? What about a movie?” I suggested, pointing to the little screen in front of her. “There are like a million of them.”

She scrunched her face in an unpleasant manner. “I don’t want to watch TV. I want to talk!”

“Okay, fine,” I relented, setting my Kindle down in my lap. I’d been just getting to the good part of the book, too.

Her face brightened and she turned her body to face me, leaning against the window of the airplane. Her knees bumped mine due to our tight quarter of the coach seating and her extra-long legs, but I didn’t mind.

“So, how are you—really?” she asked.

“Good…fine,” I answered, using that word that she and Tabitha hated. She gave me an exasperated look until I finally caved, rolling my eyes in an overly exaggerated fashion.

“Honestly? I’ve been better. There are times when I feel good—like really good. Relieved, you know? But then, I begin to miss him. And then I start to regret everything. It’s wrong, Sarah, so wrong because I know, deep down, I didn’t love him the way I should have, but—”

“You still loved him.”

I nodded. “And it’s weird not having him around. Like, this morning, when I woke up and remembered today was the day we were leaving for Paris, the first thing I wanted to do was turn to my side and wake him up and tell him. But he wasn’t there. He was my best friend—besides you, and now I don’t know how to act. When we were packing everything up, things seemed great—easy. But I haven’t spoken to him since. What if I never do?”

Good Lord, apparently I did need to talk.

“You will. You both just need time, Ev. You were engaged—to be married,” she stressed with an impish grin. “It’s going to take a little bit of an adjustment period to go from almost being husband and wife to just being friends.”

“You’re right. As always. It’s just—God, when did my life turn into such a soap opera?” I moaned, burying my head in my hands as we both began to giggle.

“Right around the time your ex-boyfriend woke up from a coma. Oh my gosh, you are living a soap opera! Watch out for kidnappers on this vacation!” she joked.

“Hey, you’re in my life, too. You could be roped into this crazy circus at any time, too,” I warned.

“Oh, hell no. I’m keeping my distance.”

“I know, I know. You and your mystery man.”

Her smile resembled that of a cat who’d licked an entire bowl of cream completely clean—full and contented. “Yes. Me and my man will stay far away from you and your drama, thank you.”

“Well, that’s probably a good place to be,” I commented with a frown, as memories from my bachelorette party began to resurface.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“What?” I said, looking up at her with a curious gaze.

“The way you just said that—you did something stupid, didn’t you?” she prodded, poking me in the ribs.

“Ow! I always do stupid things—isn’t that why we’re on my honeymoon—without a groom?” I feigned innocence.

“No, this is different. And you’re turning red. You always turn red when you’re lying.”

“I’m pale. I turn red all the time,” I defended myself, knowing it was no use. She’d just keep poking and pinching and doing whatever else she could until I confessed.

“Spill it,” she demanded.

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh. Out with it.”

“Fine,” I finally caved. Wringing my hands in my lap, unable to look at her, I whispered softly, as if the people around me would care, “I may have called August the night of my bachelorette party.”

“You didn’t. Everly Adams, how dumb are you?”

“Apparently really dumb,” I answered, finally meeting her gaze.

“What did you say?”

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t quite remember. There were a lot of shots in between my two glasses of wine. But I seem to remember yelling at him, so that’s good, right?”

“You shouldn’t have called him at all. What does that even mean?” she questioned, looking at me for answers.

Good luck with that.

“I have no clue!” I replied. “I’m out supposedly celebrating one of my last nights on earth as a single woman, and what do I do? I called the one person I shouldn’t.”

“Do you still love him?” she asked, which resulted in me giving her the death stare. “Okay, wrong question. Do you want him back?”

“No,” I quickly answered. “I mean, hell—I don’t know. I know a part of me will always want him. How big that part is? That’s the question of the century.”

“So, what are you going to do now?”

I took a deep breath, letting my eyes briefly close.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to go to Paris with my best friend, and eat pastries and macaroons until my pants don’t fit, and then when I get home, I’m going to finally learn what it’s like to be a grown-up. All by myself.”

I’d been dependent on others, especially men, for far too long.

I was taking back my life.

But as we settled down into our separate activities for the duration of the flight—Sarah becoming lost in selection of movies and me finally able to read my book— I knew part of me was retreating back to my old ways.

Because as much as I wanted to find myself—break free from the dependency I’d developed over the years—I knew it was just a front to cover up the real truth.

I was running. Again.

“Whoa,” Sarah nearly whistled as our tiny taxi pulled up to the hotel Ryan had booked for our Parisian honeymoon.

Besides agreeing to the location, my involvement in the planning process of our honeymoon could be compared to Ryan’s involvement in our entire wedding. Or lack thereof.

When had we stepped on that plane? Early that day…or evening…or yesterday? I was so turned around and jet-lagged, all I knew was that when we left the States, we were to give an address to a suited gentleman who held up my name on a large sign at the airport. From there out, I had no clue where this adventure would take us.

And it would be an adventure, because from the looks of the very thick envelope Ryan had given me, he’d planned quite a number of activities for us.

Right now, all I wanted to do was sleep.

And then when we woke up, I wanted to take a shower, and possibly nap again, because wow—whoever could possibly sleep on an airplane deserved a standing ovation, in my opinion. Tiny seats, no leg room and the constant noise. No thank you. I needed a bed—that reclined and had fluffy pillows and blankets that didn’t feel like burlap.

I’d had enough of that crap in my life.

“Whoa is right,” I agreed as I attempted to pay the taxi driver with my brand new stack of euros. It looked like monopoly money to me, and I had to keep reminding myself that it really was cash and not just printed pieces of pretty paper.

When he handed me change, which included about a dozen different coins, I definitely had my first American moment but tried to play it cool as I shuffled through them and handed a couple back, making a tip of a few euros. I didn’t even know if it was standard to tip in France, but he seemed pleased so I decided it was okay.

I probably should have spent less time shopping for clothes and more time researching cultural differences and how to count euros. Learning a few words in French would have been useful as well.

Oh well. This was an adventure. I was just adding to the mystery of it all.

Yeah, that sounded convincing.

Officially passing my first test with European currency, we hoped out of the taxi as the hotel doorman helped with the baggage. I’d stayed at several fancy hotels with August during our years together, and they all came with the typical doormen. Sharply dressed, always accommodating and happy to assist with whatever you may need. Most doormen were a dime a dozen.

These French doormen, though? They looked like they’d just stepped off the runway for
GQ
. Were all French men built this way? I gave Sarah a sideways glance as her eyes began to pop out of her head from all the man candy around us.

And the most amazing thing happened. They spoke.
Good God almighty.

It was like hearing angels from heaven. Their accents were cultured, sophisticated, and made my insides feel like butter on a hot sticky day. That huge manila envelope Ryan had given me, filled with every detail of our trip, was instantly turned into a makeshift fan as we followed two men into the lavish hotel.

We were sorely disappointed to be greeted by a gorgeous young woman at the registration counter as the men bid us
au revoir
. I almost cried to see them walked away, understanding their evil plot completely now.

The tall, dark, and handsome men lured you in, trapping you in their beautiful hotel until you coughed up all your money for a room just in hopes of seeing them again.

“Visa or MasterCard?” the woman at the desk happily asked.

Works for me
, I said to myself as I handed over my credit card for incidentals. As she went over the summary of our bill, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head at the amount Ryan had paid for the room. We had originally agreed to each pay for half, but in all the drama of breaking up and getting back together, he’d never asked for my share, and I’d completely forgotten about it.

More than likely that had been his plan all along.

A twinge of guilt settled in my stomach as the earlier feeling of glee fled like a cold breeze in autumn.

It’s better this way.

We’ll both be happier
,
I reminded myself.

And we would. In time.

“Your room is ready,” the happy French woman announced after everything was signed and settled. “May I offer someone to assist you with your luggage?” she asked.

We both looked at each other eagerly as a mutual smile grew between us.

That’s the great thing about a best friend.

The mutual mind meld.

We could look at each other and know what the other was thinking without words, and right now, I knew Sarah was wondering whether the bellhops were as hot as the doormen.

“Yes, that would be quite helpful,” Sarah answered. I covered my mouth, trying not to giggle.

That ride up to the fifth floor was worth every single euro we handed over.

Turned out the bellhops weren’t just as hot.

They were hotter.

“It’s official,” I announced, holding my wine glass in the air. “I’m never leaving!”

We’d just spent our first day in Paris, having narrowly avoided the infamous jet-lag curse. We’d successfully dropped off our luggage in the hotel room without laying down or even attempting to take any sort of nap.

When I’d first asked Sarah about this ridiculous practice, she’d told me it was a traveler’s tried and true method.

“You’re insane,” I’d said.

“No, I’m serious. When you arrive in the morning after flying overseas from the States, you’re supposed to stay up all day. No naps of any kind. It helps you adjust to the time difference.”