“Maybe she moved up in the world,” I say.
“I don’t know. This seems strange. I’m going to see what I can find out. In the meantime, you ran away from Chase once. Now it’s time to run to him.”
I consider calling Rhiannon, my short-lived dating coach, but she’s also Chase’s sister. A long-held breath escapes as I grapple with what to do.
Can I show up at the beach house when Mr. Collins doesn’t want anything to do with me? I honor my parents and Chase does too, but it’s not up to them who we marry. Chase said he chose me.
Me?
Me!
I’m not sure what the future looks like, but I won’t let him fail the Blancbourg program and lose his career.
I shoulder my bag as a car pulls up to the curb. The driver gets out and gazes overhead as if concerned about incoming clouds. Then he says, “Miss Thompson, Mr. Collins sent for you. He’s at the beach house in Chatham.” The older gentleman refers to the same town Freddie did.
Biting my lip, I waver between whether to stay or go. But with renewed hope, I follow the driver to the car.
Perhaps everything will work out. Yet, as the car turns onto the main road from the maple tree-lined street and hits the highway, a pit of foreboding carves out my stomach.
35
PIPPA
As clouds chase us southeast, my body goes numb from nerves. It’s slow going in the rain, but a couple of hours later, I arrive at a classic Cape Cod beach home with clapboard shingles and a gambrel roof.
The rain lets up just in time for the sunset to appear over the bay. The driver helps me with my belongings.
I follow him up the walk and he leaves my bag by the door. I press the bell when a torrent of water gushes from overhead.
The driver hurries back, asking if I’m alright.
Wiping my eyes, I look up to see a shadow cross behind an open window.
“Miss, my apologies, I thought it had stopped raining,” the driver says.
“I’m okay. It’s not your fault.” I glance up again, but no one stands in the window.
“Perhaps a gutter busted loose?” he suggests, following my gaze.
“Or someone pulled a prank, dumping water over my head,” I mutter, probably Marlow at it again.
Mrs. Collins answers and fusses over me. “I’m so glad you came. Chase has been in quite the mood and his father is worse. They’re at loggerheads. Come along, dear.”
I thank the driver and then follow Mrs. Collins inside.
Chase is nowhere to be seen. Red-faced, Rhett sits in a chair with his arms crossed. Marlow lounges on the couch, browsing on her phone. The room is silent except for the squelching sound of my shoes from the rush of water that came down on me.
“Oh, dear. You’re soaked. I thought it had stopped raining,” Mrs. Collins says.
“Me too.” I narrow my eyes in Marlow’s direction.
She sniffs the air. “Smells like wet dog.”
“That would be me, Poo-pa,” I say, beating her to the punch before she can tease me.
“Well, let’s get you out of that wet sweater, for starters.” Mrs. Collins tries to help me out of the cashmere sweater, but it catches on my necklace and a cool breeze pebbles my skin.
Afraid I’m exposing myself, I start to turn, but my shoe catches under the edge of the sofa and I lose my balance and fall forward into the room.
