“I can’t figure you out,” Morgan says before she can say anything. “Why go back to a job that clearly doesn’t make you happy?”
The choice between her old career in the city and RayburnOyster has been settled for quite some time in Cece’s mind, but she bristles at Morgan’s exasperation. Even if she has no intention of returning to Manhattan’s grind and tumult, even if she’s done with risk models and painting by the numbers, that’s her call…What makes Morgan think he knows what brings her happiness? And why does he feel like he can voice his displeasure with so much knowing? The sensible thing to do, the mature thing to do, Cece thinks, Cece knows, would be to tell him the truth: She’s out of the actuary game for good, committed to Richie’s business ventures, big and small. This, however, would require wisdom and dispassion, two things Cece is short on at the moment.
“Some parts of it made me happy,” Cece quips. “The money was good.”
Morgan seems intent not to press the subject, eyes on the road and his mirrors, on anything but Cece. “The money,” he says. “Can’t argue with that.”
They pass the Whaler. Drinks are off, apparently, which feels petty and small. Cece can feel it building, the urge to win the argument, to prove she’s right, even if she’s not entirely certain what it is she’s after. But then Morgan’s slowing down, and Cece realizes they’re already back at his house. She considers coming clean about the actuary job, but he’s already out of the truck, the door shutting with a resoundingclang.
She hurries after him. “Thanks again.”
“No problem,” he says and hurries toward the house. “Happy to help.”
“Hey,” Cece says. “Are we okay?”
Morgan stops and turns. “All good,” he says. “I just thoughtyou cared about this place, about Richie’s business. I thought all of this was more than just a distraction, but I was wrong, and that’s okay.”
Before Cece can respond, Morgan is giving her a firm wave—neither unfriendly nor friendly—and bounding up his front stairs. She stands outside, arms crossed, the clipboards digging into her stomach. She looks at the puny number of names she’s managed to collect and compares them to Morgan’s prodigious list. How had the day gone south so quickly? Why hadn’t she just told him she wasn’t considering the actuary position any longer?
Better get moving, she thinks. The last thing she needs is Lorraine spotting her in enemy territory. She’s tempted to march back to the house and declare her pro-Rayburn activities, but the truth is, she still needs a place to live, at least fornow.
August
14
Cece awakes to the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the pool house. Even with the air conditioner on, the room feels subtropical, the air wet and sticky. The downpour intensifies outside, except it isn’t just rain, Cece realizes. Someone’s knocking on her door. Bernard is fast asleep, further proving his uselessness to potential home intruders. She reaches for her phone, but it’s dead, nothing but a black screen.
“Who is it?” she croaks.
“Morgan and Lacy.”
Only after Cece mumbles something about needing a minute and stumbles to the bathroom does Bernard rise from his slumber. Cece quickly gives up on looking presentable and gargles some mouthwash before opening the door.
“Hey,” Morgan says, holding a black umbrella aloft, mostly over Lacy. His navy-blue T-shirt is soaked through to the skin. Lacy crosses one foot in front of the other, her painted toenailscheerful and pink in their flip-flops. Behind them, power lines quiver and the rain bends sideways. Cece would invite them in if she had the room, if the place were a place at all, but all she can do is pull the door snugly behind her and say something about Bernard trying to escape.
The kitchen light is on in Lorraine’s house, and Cece thinks she sees the curtains move in front of the big sliding door, but she can’t be certain. This won’t end well.
“Sorry about this. I tried calling but it kept going straight to voicemail. I…” Morgan trails off and kneads his temple. He looks tired, eyes bloodshot, his beard more unkempt than usual. “Something’s come up. I know this is last-minute, but could you watch Lacy? Just for today. My lawyer called, and I need to drive up to Providence.”
“Sure,” Cece says, surprised at how quickly the words come. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll come by the house.”
“Thanks,” Morgan says, his voice strained. “Really, you’re saving me here. I would have asked someone else, but—”
“Really, it’s no problem. I’d love to hang out with Lacy. We can do fun girl stuff, isn’t that right?”
Lacy moves slightly behind Morgan. She has no interest in partaking in Cece’s mock enthusiasm.
“I owe you,” he says, and hustles Lacy back down the path and out the gate.
Cece waits outside her door, rain spattering her cheeks, and watches them disappear down the street. There’s no movement from inside Lorraine’s house, and Cece hopes she’s avoided certain eviction.
“What’re you listeningto?” Cece ventures. Her morning coffee hasn’t kicked in, and she’s groggy, sitting cross-legged on Morgan’s living room floor, the sun freshly risen, the early dawn rainstorm forgotten like a dream. The house feels different in the morning, cozier.
Ensconced in the sofa, Lacy yanks her headphones down around her neck. “You wouldn’t know them.”
Cece doesn’t press her luck. She’s more than a little out of touch with the trends of the youth. If this conversation is going to go anywhere, it needs to be played on her turf. “Any updates from Newport Beach? What’s going on with Seth and Summer?”
“Ugh,” Lacy says, interest flickering across her face. “They’re dating other people.”
