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I wake to a suite absent of coffee aroma. I frown and glance at my watch. It’s late enough that Amelia should be up, that coffee should already be made. I stretch and sigh heavily, worry that she might be angry and avoiding me invades my chest.
I rise from the bed and the dogs stare at me lazily. “C’mon girls, breakfast time.”
As soon as I mention food they are up and running after me down the hallway. Their paws scrabble on the wood, filling my home with the sound of life and happiness. I find the kitchen absent of it though. There’s no signs of coffee, no breakfast, no anything, none of Amelia’s usual morning routine.
I frown and feed the girls, unable to ignore their wide begging eyes, before I make my way down to Amelia’s room. The door is open, and I peek inside only to see the wardrobe open, clothes missing, and a single piece of paper on her bed.
My scowl deepens and I walk further into the room, picking up the note left by my fake fiancée.
“She’s gone to France,” I say with a small smile, as if the dogs can understand me. I’m proud of her but also the timing is shit. Fuck, there’s so much to talk about, I don’t even know if she still wants to do this.
Amelia’s note says she’s flying out of LaGuardia first thing in the morning and expects to be back in a week but isn’t certain. I bite my lip, painfully aware that I need to give her space as she deals with her family. I’m not actually in a relationship with her, I have no right to butt in right now. I crinkle the note in my hand as I feel frustration and—is it anxiety? —that ripple through me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this confused.
The anxiety is what takes control, riding a wave of paranoia. What if she didn’t actually go back to her homeland for her family? What if she’s just desperate to get away from me? I literally ran out on her. I frown, shaking my head trying to get rid of the negativity swirling in my mind, but it doesn’t work. Instead it sinks its poisonous nails into my brain, and I quickly dress for going out.
Within minutes I’m out of the suite, in my Mustang, and peeling out toward LaGuardia airport. Maybe I can catch her, maybe she isn’t on her plane yet. I don’t know when her flight is, but I want to catch her. I need to make sure.
I dial her phone number through my Bluetooth, but it immediately goes to voicemail and my heart sinks. I’m aware my chances aren’t good now. I press my foot harder on the gas and weave through Upper East Side traffic like a madman.
I’m lucky someone doesn’t contact the police or that highway patrol doesn’t see me when I finally make it into Queens. By some stroke of good luck, I arrive at LaGuardia just fine and park in the loading zone. It’s something I hate when others do and leave their car. I don’t care right now, even if I get a ticket. A measly couple thousand dollars won’t deter me from talking to Amelia.
I rush through the front of the lobby, finding the large LED screen that tells me where certain planes are going and where they depart. My chest is thumping, and my blood is rushing in my ears as my eyes skip over to the international flights.
My heart sinks.
“Fucking damn,” I hiss, gritting my teeth and tugging at my hair. “One fucking hour.”
If I had just woken up at my usual time, I would have caught her before she boarded. I could have talked to her. It feels as if my stomach is plummeting, and an uncomfortable swirling sensation makes me feel like I might throw up. I have no choice but to turn around and go home.
On the much slower ride back I dial Amelia again, leaving her a voicemail to call me.
CHAPTER 18
AMELIA
I’ve been in France for nearly two days now and have finally worked up the courage to go see my parents. I stand in front of the estate, the house I grew up in that I could never quite call home. It’s always just been ‘the house’ or ‘the estate;’ something soulless that fits its sprawling walls and endless land.
The help recognize me and they all nod, at least the older ones do. I’ve seen some new faces who obviously regard me with some suspicion. Yet, no one stops me. Maman and Papa need to get better security.
“How long are you going to stand there, Amelia?” a familiar voice asks in French, and my heart leaps painfully in my chest.
I spin and see my mother standing off to the side, a basket of freshly picked flowers in her hands. My tongue curls uselessly against the roof of my mouth as I swallow and shake my head. She sighs, a disappointed sound that leaks into every crevice of my being.
“Come inside,” she says and walks past me.
As I get a closer look at her face, I see how pale and tired she looks. She has dark circles under her eyes that she has tried in vain to cover with makeup. I follow quietly behind her as she winds up the unnecessarily long steps leading to the front doors.
They open to let us in, held so by two butlers on either side. My mother sighs again as she removes her hat and her gardening gloves. I notice more gray in her dark hair than the polished look I was so used to as a child. I watch as she drops everything off along with the basket of flowers on the entryway table and leaves it for a maid to come by to collect.
“I see your lilies are doing well,” I nod to the flowers.
“Yes, this year has been a particularly good year for them,” she says. “At least it brought about one good thing.”
She seems to collapse in upon herself as she exhales heavily and motions for me to follow her. I trail behind her through to the dining room and then the kitchen, feeling like the little girl I used to be, wanting to constantly be by her side. My mother pauses and touches a maid, nodding silently at the tea tray waiting for her. Clearly her early afternoon tea delights haven’t changed. She still has her macarons and her rose petal tea with cream.
“Come, let’s have tea in the conservatory,” she sweeps out of the kitchen, and I have to nearly power walk to keep up with her quick and relentless strides.
I can hear the maid follow behind us by the gentle tinkle of the tea set.
