And now Life. Living. The greatest, final battle I will ever fight.
Another arctic draft blows through. I adjust my scarf, shove fists deeper into my coat pockets, avoiding the occasional tide pool, studying houses boarded for winter, empty hotel parking lots, the smooth, virgin sand as I follow shoreline.
And, as I make the solitary tracks on the beach this afternoon, I picture Seth, imagine what he would say if he were here. I listen for his voice—the music that scores my dreams, clear as the nights are cold and endless. Some days he's right beside me, whispering into my ear. Some days he's nowhere at all.
A tiny snowflake drifts past. I watch it flicker to sand, landing at my feet. Another falls. And another. And another. And I hold out my gloved palm to catch them. They fall harder, faster, and I laugh. I laugh and stretch my arms and tip my face toward heaven, and I spin around and around and around.
Because I feel him, and I know he's here.
* * *
I walk the distance back to the condo surrounded by snow—huge, wet flakes clouding the sky, rendering it impossible to see. They melt against my cheeks and nose, cling to eyelashes and hair, and, by the time I reach the stairs, I'm feeling my way through a watery, tear-stained world.
It's the someone waiting just outside my door that rouses me, drags me back to surface.
"You again," I mutter, swiping my runny nose across a leather glove, voice wavering and unsteady.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Fleming."
I feel inside my pocket, searching for keys. "How long did you spend knocking this time?" I ask. "Because no one is inside."
"A few minutes," Mr. Hardee, Attorney at Law, confesses. "I know your threshold caps at fifteen. I felt I should take my chances."
A smile pulls at my lips. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"First, I'd like to say that we're all deeply sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," I reply. "Me too."
"I also wanted to drop this by," he says, handing me a white envelope. It's thick. Heavy. "Should you have any questions. . . ." He removes a business card from his coat pocket.
"Thank you."
I toss the envelope to the kitchen island on my way to the living room, turn on the fireplace, grasp the tips of leather gloves between teeth, pulling, removing them finger by finger. The package remains untouched as I blow into my hands, warming them, wipe away the last of the tears, prepare a cup of coffee. But finally, when I can't ignore it another second. . . .
It's addressed to me.
Confidential.
I rip open the flap, fingers moving clumsily, gripping the stack of papers.
I flip the cover page.
Carter Nicholas Harrison Fleming.
A smile. Two middle names—destined for something amazing, even from birth.
If the Flemings only knew.
I continue scanning.
His birthdate.
Genesis Fleming.
The date we were married.
Holy Shit.
The papers tremble in my hand, knees shaky, unstable, head a swirling fog.
I flip to the next page.
"No," I mutter, anger coursing through my veins. "No. No. No! No! Carter Fleming!" I yell. "I swear to Jesus you'd better show your face!"
I flip to another page. And another. And another. Deeds. Titles. Statements.
"Carter!"
But he doesn't appear. He's gone. He's with Mara, taking his rightful place in an unseen world.
I cram the papers back into the envelope, turn off the fireplace, grab my gloves and keys. The SUV is barely in park before I'm jumping out, mounting frozen front steps, snowflakes tumbling around me.
"Mrs. Fleming!" I call, pounding on the door. "Mrs. Fleming, it's Genesis. Please!"
The housekeeper answers, but Kitty Fleming isn't far behind. I squeeze my way inside, lungs burning.
"One of your attorneys just came by," I explain, breathless. "He brought this."
"Okay," she says, not understanding.
"It's Carter's will."
She takes the envelope, motions for me to follow. I sit across from her at the breakfast table, the room overlooking the backyard pool—covered for winter, covered in snow. She skims pages, reviewing them.
"He left everything to me," I say.
A smile. "You seem surprised."
"I—I can’t. I can't take any of this. It's not mine. The car. The condo. These bank accounts!"
"Instead of giving him the money upfront, Jack decided it should be released in installments. The first came when he turned eighteen."
"This is only one installment?" I ask, eyes widening with disbelief.
"No," she says, pulling the statement and passing it to me. "This is the money we set aside for Carter's education. We gave him full access when the two of you were married, since we didn't know what your plans were. And this was a savings account we started for him," she goes on, producing another. "Jack also invested some of the money. We have a firm that manages our stocks. Those certificates are right here. They'll send you a monthly update with Carter's share. This is the first installment," she passes me an account summary.
My head runs light. "What?"
"The other two would have released when he turned twenty-one, and then twenty-five. By that time Jack hoped they would be working together."
I study the string of numbers, trying to make sense of them. "I can't," I say, handing it back to her. "This isn't mine."
"It was Carter's," she replies. "And he left it to you. So it is yours."
"You don't understand," I say, choking on the words. "I can't take this. I didn't—I didn't do anything for this. I don't deserve it."
"I trust my son. And Carter loved you. If this is what he wanted, then I support him one hundred percent. Jack and I both do."
I blink back tears threatening to spill. All those nights spent without power. Ramen noodles. Begging for extensions on the rent. . . .
"He must have suspected, or else he was more discerning than Jack thought," she continues, turning pages. "I can't believe he worked everything out so quickly."
A small, white envelope slips to the table.
I recognize Carter's quick scrawl immediately.
Genesis.
She slides it toward me.
"You were important to him, Genesis, so you're important to us. We're thankful for you—that you were part of Carter's life. And Jack and I want you to know that if you ever need anything. . . . We think of you as part of our family."
"I—I don't know what to say." I wipe beneath lashes, suffocating, trying to recover from this news—this new development.
"Oh, sweetie," she replies, reaching for my hand, taking it in hers, squeezing. "It's been a tough year for you."
I laugh, head nodding.
You have no idea.
* * *
Genesis,
If you're reading this, something happened.
The windshield is shrouded in snow. The engine hums, warming the cab as I wait in the Fleming's driveway, fingers numb with cold.
I don't know what, or when, or where, but I guess the details don't matter. Please don't go all postal on me: no, this isn't a mistake. It's all yours. I don't need it, and the truth is, it never felt like mine, anyway. You deserve it more than I ever did.
Don't roll your eyes. It's true and you know it.
I hope you understand why I did what I did. I hope everything makes sense now. And I hope, more than anything else, you know what I mean when I say this.
I don't regret the path I chose, or where it led me, and I don't regret a single moment I spent with you. I just feel incredibly lucky to have found you. I never doubted you for a second, Gee, and I meant what I said: You're my Rock, my Best Friend, and I want you to know that, wherever I am—whatever I'm doing—I’m always looking out for you.
But then, you know that better than any of us.
Love always,
Carter
/> THIRTY-SEVEN
"Find anything?" Kitty asks.
A groan. "I'm still looking. Carter was so much better at this than me." I twist the ring on my right ring finger over and over and over again, examining tables full of brightly-colored spa baskets, photographs of exotic places—trips for two and four, artwork. Oil paintings. Sculptures. Watercolors. "It reminds me, though—when I stayed in the pool house last summer, I hung the set of photographs—the black and white ones—Carter won last year. I was wondering if I could get those from you. For the condo."
"Sure. I can bring them by the restaurant this week."
"That would be great. Thanks."
She smiles. "I have to make rounds. I'll find you in a little while."
A year ago I stood in this ballroom, in this very spot with Carter, recovering from a broken wrist—an accident that altered the course of our lives forever. I study the crowd, half expecting to see him laughing—to find him reveling in the middle of it all. Half expecting to uncover Seth hidden among tuxedos and satin, ready to sweep me away, to chase our own happily ever after.
And even now I feel so completely and wholly alone that it's enough to steal air from my lungs. Enough to filch light from my smile. Enough to suck the spirit straight out of me. And I have to remind myself to breathe. Remind myself that I'm still here. That I'm alive. Living this moment. And somehow, it will get better, because I don't know how it could get any worse.
My eyes drift across the room to where he's standing with a group of men—Jack Fleming and Selena's father among them. He's striking, handsome as ever, even from a distance. And then, as if my thoughts were spoken aloud, he glances my way. Our eyes connect. Those piercing green eyes. He lifts his drink to his lips, watching, and my cheeks burn with heat at having been caught staring.
Luke Castellani.
I tear my eyes from him, focusing instead on the task at hand: finding something suitable to bid on—something that would make Carter proud.
* * *
It's late in the evening—nearing midnight—when I spot Luke weaving through the assembly. He slips out of ballroom doors, and, in a moment, I'm following him, pushing past the crowd. He's nearing the end of the hall by the time I reach it. I follow him anyway, pulling my shawl tighter, stepping into the cool spring breeze. Pavement rocks crunch beneath red stilettos, shattering. He slows, approaching a shiny black SUV, hands crammed deep in his pockets. I close the distance between us.
"I'm very pleased to see you, Ms. Fleming," he says. "You look lovely."
"Thank you." A thick, awkward silence descends. It's been a while. I finally clear my throat and ask: "Where are you headed?"
"Asia. My plane leaves in the morning."
"Sounds like fun."
"All business. No pleasure. I don't suppose I can entice you with a first class ticket to join me?" he teases, devious smirk brightening everything except his eyes.
A gentle smile. "No."
"I didn't think so." He exhales, as if he, too, feels the pressing ache of those lost, lonely months. "It appears you've found your place after all," he continues, changing the subject, glancing toward the clubhouse.
I follow his gaze, taking in the massive building—the porch, the columns—standing like a stately Southern mansion. "Not really. This is temporary. I'm just waiting on Mara." A tiny shrug, shoulder lifting. "She promised."
"You chose the good guys, then."
"No. I don't really believe in good and bad. That's too easy. Everyone is capable of evil. But they're capable of good, too. I just—I don't want this anymore. I can't be here. I can't pretend that this is the world I want, that this is what I want to do with the rest of my life—not when there are bigger things out there."
"You say that, though you've seen considerable success in the months since we last spoke."
What? How would he even. . . .
My eyes narrow, accusing.
"I might have asked your former father-in-law about you," he confesses. "In passing, of course."
"Of course," I reply. A tiny laugh. "I guess. I don't know. I'm just trying to . . . fill the void. Make the days go faster." I stare into the distance, at the blue lights of the fountain, the sparkling mist carried away with the wind. "It's like, I've lost an entire year. But then, that year is everything to me, so it's hard to regret it, you know?" His eyes catch mine, solemn. "Anyway, I wanted to ask you something before you left. I'm still marked. I thought that maybe they would disappear after. . . ." I trail off, shrugging. He takes my hand in his and pushes my shawl aside, runs his fingers over vines and colors. He flips my hand over and examines my wrist—the pair of angel wings.
I turn, let the wrap drop to my waist, exposing shoulders and back. He traces the dark pathways, fingers cool against my skin.
"They won't," he says.
"So I'm stuck with them? Forever?"
"Be proud of them, Genesis. They spared you. You're the only person ever to walk the earth to have secured the favor of both sides. Nothing can harm you now."
"The Diabols?" I ask, facing him.
"Know not to touch you or interfere in any way. And you're heavily guarded," he adds, searching the area surrounding. "It seems the Guardians were pleased with your last-minute decision to overthrow their Council."
"They've elected new members. Mara's in charge now."
"Yet . . . there's sadness in your eyes."
"Just like yours," I point out.
"Conquering the unseen world wasn't enough for you?"
"Was it enough for you?" He laughs at this, and the sound triggers an unexpected smile, chills across my skin. Even after all that's happened, the time passed, he still has an effect on me. "It's good to see you again, Luke."
"Likewise." He touches my shoulder, fingers drifting up my neck to my chin. He studies my face as if to memorize it, a flicker of regret staining his eyes. "Take care of yourself."
"Like I have a choice," I reply, easing away from him.
He offers a quiet smile, climbs into the SUV and shuts the door, disappearing behind tinted glass.
THIRTY-EIGHT
"This doesn't make any sense at all." I reach for my calculator and start adding expenses, eyes blurring halfway down the list, stinging from the glare of the laptop. I wipe sleep from them, check the time on my cell phone, groan.
If I leave now, I might get five hours of sleep.
"Genesis, honey, you've added those numbers a half a dozen times already. They're not changing."
My jaw tightens with frustration, teeth grinding together. "Ryan, if you call me 'honey' one more time I'm going to fire you."
He laughs, unfazed by what he knows is an idle threat. "How many times have you fired me this week?"
A heavy sigh. "One day I'll mean it."
Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed kitchen manager is more trouble than he's worth. But he knows what he's doing. And I need someone who knows what they're doing to balance the fact that I'm one hundred and ten percent clueless.
"It's late. Go home," he insists.
"Maybe I should take it to my spreadsheets professor," I continue, ignoring him. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong."
"It's not hard. You add the money you made this month, and subtract expenses."
"I did that. But the number I get tells me we're actually making a profit."
"Isn't that the idea?" he asks.
"Come on, Ryan! Most restaurants spend years in the red."
"This place isn't like most restaurants. Face it, Genesis. You're a hit. Now go home. I'll lock up." Ryan slides out of the booth, heads toward the kitchen.
"Genesis? I didn't get the napkins ready for dinner service tomorrow." Taylor, one of my waitresses, hovers nearby.
"God, don't even worry about it. We'll take care of it tomorrow." I stand, gather my receipts. Invoices. Notes scribbled on napkins.
"I just know how Fridays are and . . ."
"Seriously. It's late, and tonight was. . . ." I wrack my brain, sear
ching for the perfect word to describe the chaos that is this business. "Insane."
"Yeah," she replies, all flushed cheeks and tired smile. "I just cashed out my tips."
"A waitress after my own heart." I close the laptop's cover, scoop it off the table. "What did you hear about the special? The manicotti and Chianti?"
"People seemed to like it. Lots of empty plates at the end of the night. No complaints."
"Good. And forget the napkins. Really. We'll take care of it tomorrow. Don't leave by yourself, though," I call over my shoulder. "Have one of the guys walk you to your car. If they say no, tell them I'm in the mood to fire someone."
The restaurant is spotless. Tables clean, chairs stacked on top. Old candles replaced with new. Hardwood floors swept. The dishwashers work in the back, cleaning the last of the plates and silverware and wine glasses. And tomorrow—well, later today, actually—it starts all over again.
We're making a profit.
I dump everything on the desk in my office. "You said you'll lock up?" I ask Ryan, pulling the door shut.
"Anything for you, Boss."
I'm too exhausted to force my eyes not to roll. "Stop kissing my ass."
He laughs, teasing. "Go home, Gee."
The name stops me mid-tracks.
When was the last time anyone called me Gee?
I open my mouth to respond, eyeing him curiously. But what would I even say?
How do you know that name? Where did you hear it? Who told you?
The words bunch together, so I choose to ignore it—writing it off as coincidence. "Good night," I manage, turning, heading for the exit.
Outside I breathe the balmy, summer air, letting ocean breeze rush my lungs, reviving me. My heels click against boardwalk, down weathered steps. I unhook the straps, kick them sideways, and let my bare feet sink in the cool, dry sand. I pull my cardigan tighter, step into the water, skin burning where there are blisters. I close my eyes, feel the calm wash over me—the fog lifting—peace returning.