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“Thank you,” I whisper.
“And please tell me you’ve practiced changing a flat since we first met. ”
My laugh is more like a sob. “I did. Arturo went over it with me. ”
“Good. ” He pauses. “I should let you go so you can concentrate. But if you need to call me at any moment, then call. ”
“I will. ”
The line goes dead. This time I don’t mind the lack of a good-bye, because I know I’ll find Jonah again at the end of the road.
How did this man with the power to terrify me also become the one person who truly makes me feel safe?
• • •
Our home is in the Garden District of New Orleans. It was built by a distant ancestor back in the 1890s. Since then it’s been remodeled for the basic modern comforts of AC, cable, and indoor plumbing, but we retain the cast-iron scrollwork on our gallery, the thick, ten-foot-high doors, and even the “carriage stone” out on the sidewalk—an old, white step that once made it easier for people to step into and out of horse-drawn carriages.
This neighborhood has always been one of the most desirable in the city. A few movie stars have houses here, though they tend to appear only around Mardi Gras and Jazzfest. Our home is on one of the less fashionable streets, inhabited by the merely well-off rather than the mega-rich.
Neither term has applied to my family in a couple of generations now. My parents keep up appearances, but at the cost of their savings. For years now I’ve wondered what they’re going to retire on, if anything. They could sell the house for millions, but that will never happen. For my mother, giving up this desirable address would mean admitting defeat.
I cross the Lake Pontchartrain Bridge around four in the morning. The only other vehicles on the road are semis driven by truckers who are probably sky-high on speed. As soon as I exit the highway for local streets, the endless bumps and potholes in the road tell me I’m home for real.
When I reach my parents’ house, I click the plastic box clipped to my sun visor. Slowly the metal gate in front of the driveway begins to slide open. I take the moment to check my phone. Jonah replied to my text of my parents’ address: FLIGHT ARRIVES 10:45 WILL CATCH TAXI.
For a moment it seems like there’s still a way this could all turn out okay. If Dad makes it through, and Jonah’s here—I can bear this. I can.
I walk to the front door. At first I think no one has waited up for me, but at the last moment before I go for the bell, the door opens. “There you are,” Chloe says. She’s wearing designer jeans, a form-fitting cashmere sweater, and gold-knot earrings—glamorous even at a moment like this. “You made good time. ”
“Any change?” When Chloe shakes her head, I breathe out in relief. The only change that could’ve happened overnight would’ve been bad.
As soon as I walk into the hallway, I see Mom coming down the winding oak stairs in a thick white robe, the pocket monogrammed in red. “Vivienne, darling. ” She hugs me too tightly, as if we were being watched by someone she wanted to impress. “It’s all so terrible. I still can’t believe it’s real. ”
“Me either,” I say. Maybe the hug is genuine. Even my mother is vulnerable at a moment like this.
Our house was built for a grander age. Twenty-foot ceilings on the first floor, French windows that stretch almost as high as the walls. In every downstairs room but the living room, my mother has decorated for that era instead of our own. Our dining room could seat twenty-four. If you don’t look too closely, you won’t notice that the long velvet drapes have become a bit shabby, or that dust has collected in the crystals of the chandelier.
The long, low sofas are overly grand as well, but right now they look perfect, because one of them has been draped with a quilt to cover a sleeping little girl.
“Libby,” I whisper. I want to brush my hand over her golden curls, her chubby cheeks. But of course I don’t want to wake her. “Why is she sleeping on the sofa?”
“Dozed off down here, and we thought we might as well not move her. ” The answer doesn’t come from Mom or Chloe. It comes from Libby’s father.
I straighten and take a deep breath before I turn around. “Hello, Anthony. ”
Twenty-nine
Sitting beside Anthony at the breakfast table makes my skin crawl.
I tell myself what I always do: It’s not as bad as being a bridesmaid at their wedding, is it?
No, it isn’t. But this still sucks.
I took a quick nap around dawn, but now I’m here, drinking café au lait with my family as we pretend my father isn’t being wheeled into surgery this very moment.