There was nothing more to say, no more horrible barbs he could throw at her. At least, she thought there was nothing more to say when he slammed his way out of the room, leaving her behind with a shattered snooker cue and an empty soul.
“Happy fucking birthday, by the way.”
When he was gone, Samantha collapsed into the nearest chair. Her entire body, which only a moment ago hummed with anger and the harsh sting of conflict, now sank into the material with lifeless heft.
“Whatever,” she sniffed. “It’s not even until tomorrow, asshole.”
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, Samantha rose to a quiet house. Usually, a still house wouldn’t have worried her. Ashbrooke was a quiet place populated by quiet people; silence reigned only to be interrupted by occasional parties or Thomas’s piano playing.
The problem was that last year on her birthday, Thomas woke her up at six thirty a.m. by bringing a full orchestra in her room to play the birthday song fromThe Simpsons. He’d brought a cake and bags of gifts and even her father came in to give her a firm handshake and an envelope of cash, which (according to Thomas) was the warmest birthday present he’d ever bestowed on someone.
This birthday? Silence.
A pit opened in the bottom of Samantha’s stomach as she wandered the too-quiet halls of Ashbrooke. She jumped at every groan and creak of the house, spinning around in the hopes this wasn’t some prank. They were going to jump out at any second and wish her happy birthday. They were going to celebrate her day. Or at least acknowledge it. But after several passes through the halls, she found herself listening at her father’s office door for any sign of life inside. Under normal circumstances, she would have gone straight to Thomas’s room and asked himwhat gives, but after their fight… Her father would have to do. Gathering her courage, she knocked at his door.
“Father?”
Calling himDadfelt wrong,no matter how much she wanted to.
“Come in,” he directed, and she obeyed.
“Good morning,” Sam said, warmer than she felt.
“Morning.”
Hovering behind one of the chairs—she hadn’t been invited to sit, after all—she waited for her father to say something. More than wait, though, she hoped. Hoped he would prove her wrong. Maybe he was waiting for the right moment to tell her happy birthday.
He was herfather. Distant as he was, he had to remember her birthday… Right?
“I’m sorry.” After a moment of silence, he continued flipping through paperwork on his desk. “Did you want something?”
Shit.Sam tried another tactic, one a lot less subtle.
“I was wondering if there’s anything going on today.”
The paperwork on his desk must have been so damn interesting because never once did he bother to give his daughter more than the minimally required attention to maintain a conversation. His vague blinks and anxious finger-tapping dug through her skin like the needles of a voodoo doll.
“I’m not sure. Thomas keeps the schedule. You know he does.”
“Right. I’ll…” Sam swallowed hard.Keep smiling. He’ll never like you if he thinks you’re weepy and unnecessary.“Go ask him, then.”
“Shut the door on your way out, will you?”
Samantha did as she always did. She did what she was told. They hadn’t forgotten her birthday. Thomas hadn’t, at least. He just wasn’t going to celebrate it. Punishment for her sins. She slumped against the doorframe, her knees weakening as she fought to beat her thundering heart into submission.
Her brother was the only person she had. And now, she’d lost him, too.
There was nothing for it. Samantha shook her head. She had plenty she could do to distract herself with. Shopping, for one thing. She needed a dress for the ball. Or she could study. Her dissertation was not going to research or write itself, no matter how much she wished it would. Besides, a birthday cake wouldn’t have made her feel better.
No matter. She pushed herself off the wall, shaking all remnants of this morning’s disappointments from her head. Or trying to. Because no matter how many times she blinked or swallowed, her heart didn’t quiet or still. She was halfway to her room when a knock on the front door shook her from the war waged somewhere between her skull and her rib cage.
“Mrs. Long?” Sam called for the housekeeper.
There was no answer, but there was more knocking. Sam followed the sound, stepping down the stairs with confusion. They weren’t exactly a bustling house… Could she have been wrong? Maybe this was the surprise Thomas had been planning. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to punish her after all. Maybe he had forgiven her and put it all behind them. She threw open the door.
It wasn’t Thomas. It wasn’t an orchestra. But it was a surprise.
