Then he sticks his head through the window and kisses me. Firmly. In front of both my mom and his … our relationship now boldly out in the open. He kisses me like it might be the last time. Like he wants to trust me, but he’s filled with doubt, because how do you do that when you’ve got scars and a history of being left behind?
And the worst thing is, I’m not sure I blame him for worrying.
MARBLECLIFF RESORT: Snootiest and oldest resort in Beauty. Rude people at desk. Walls paper-thin. Best breakfast in town, though, I’ll give them that.(Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 22
I didn’t think I’d sleep that night. Not with the gilded antique furniture, mounted butterfly collection, a nineteenth century portrait with eyes that seemed to watch me in the darkness, and a fireplace big enough to burn all four of us at once.
But just add that to the ever-growing list of Josie Was Wrong about These Things.
Take, for instance, time bombs. I wassocertain of an explosion when Grandma Diedre entered town, but I was wrong. Granted, something crouches in the back of my head, still waiting for my grandmother’s presence to blow my life to smithereens; maybe she’s one of those buried bombs from WWII that you suddenly walk across in a field and it detonates after years of being lost. Or your ship runs into one at sea, andkablam! The worst of the bombs.
Or maybe the ticking time bomb of Grandma doesn’t matter anymore because the real bombs were the other things I waswrong about all along. Like my mom. And my father … Because I’m still struggling to reconcile the image I have of him from all the interviews I’ve read online—from the few times I’ve met him. Our scattered phone conversations. His cool life. His perfect family. His house in Malibu.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
God, that stupid magazine internship that I fretted over—that got me so angry at Levi Summers for rejecting me … All of it goes back to wanting my father’s approval.
And it was all for nothing.
It’s hard to accept something’s wrong when you once feltdeep in your soulit was right.
I once felt deep in my soul that Los Angeles was my way forward.
That my father was my ticket out.
That my grandmother was going to tear my family apart.
That my mother didn’t want me.
But I was so wrong about all of it.
What else am I wrong about?
What else … ?
But I try not to think of it now, here in our suite at the Marblecliff, where not only did I sleep like the dead last night, I did it with Mom curled up next to me in the same bed, because there was only the one room with two queens available when we arrived, bedraggled, at midnight. Evie and Franny took one bed, Mom and I took the other.
One fractured and very strange family.
And I don’t know. Maybe Marblecliff’s mattresses are stuffed with drugs as well as feathers, or maybe it was the sound of the harbor waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below that lulled us to sleep. Or maybe it was that my entire life was turned upside down in one day, and my body just said,Forget it, I’ve had enough. Regardless, after we deplete all the hot water and luxury hair products in the newly remodeled bathroom, we gather in the suite’s cozy sitting area in front of the enormous fireplace, lounging in crested bathrobes.
“I feel like I’ve just returned from a really bad weekend in Las Vegas,” Mom says, looking out over a stunning view of the blue harbor, where the mid-morning sun is glinting across boats dotting the Beauty Yacht Club’s waters.
Franny laughs darkly, lookingveryjet-lagged. “Try living in the worst pollution you can imagine with no toilets, electricity, or showers. The people were wonderful, and once you got out of the smog of the city, it was beautiful. But I was trying to juggle grief and Mom, and an entirely different culture, and now …” She shakes her head. “Now I think I need a dewormer, because our cheapskate mother forced me to eat some bargain biscuits from the Beauty Supersaver Market that she’d been hoarding in her luggage, and they smelled a little off—and now my stomach hasn’t been right for months.”
“Wow,” Mom says. “We’ll take you to a vet today.”
“Thanks,” Aunt Franny says, smiling for the first time sincelast night. “I’m okay right now. I’ve always loved this resort. Softest beds in town. I could live here.…”
“You know who owns it now, right?” Evie says, glancing at me. “Bunny Perera’s father.”
“Seriously?” I say. “This town is small.”
“And that family knows their way around some fine, luxury linen,” Aunt Franny purrs, pulling her robe around her.
“Hey, Mom?” Evie asks. “Hate to spoil your hotel fantasy vibes, but I’m just wondering.… Where are we going to live?”
