Then I hear the slow thump and drag of Mrs. Ellington descending the stairs and hurry to reach her, but before I can, she appears in the doorway, smiling at her friends. “Shall we move on, girls, before the tide turns? Come, Gwen!”
After the beach, the ladies scatter, Mrs. E. lunches and naps.
Then asks me to read her a book, and hands me—I swear to God—something called The Shameless Sultan.
Yup. Whatever else it may be, calm, quiet, well-ordered, lucrative . . . apparently the Ellington house is not going to be a refuge from the overdeveloped muscles and half-naked torsos that decorate most of the books at home.
But at least I don’t have to read aloud to Mom.
“‘Then he took her, as a man can only take a woman he yearns for, pines for, throbs to possess,’” I read softly.
“Speak up, dear girl. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
Oh God. I’m nearly shouting the words now—over the sound of the lawn mower rumbling from the front lawn. At any moment Cass could come around the corner to find me pining and throbbing.
I read the next sentence in a slightly louder voice, then halt again as the mower cuts off.
Mrs. Ellington waves her hand at me impatiently. “Gracious!
Don’t stop now!”
That sounds frighteningly like a line from the book. I dog-gedly continue. “‘With every movement of his skilled hands, he took her higher, hotter, harder—’”
“Just with his hands?” Mrs. E. muses. “I was under the impression more was involved. Do continue.”
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Was that the sound of the carport side door opening and closing? No, I’m getting paranoid.
“‘Waves of rapture such as Arabella had never dreamed existed swept through her ravished body as the Sultan moved, ever more skillfully, laving her supple curves with his tal-ented—’”
Someone clears their throat loudly.
Mrs. E. looks over at the porch door with her expectant smile, which widens even further at the sight of the figure standing there. “My dear boy! I didn’t know you were coming.”
“No,” a male voice says, “apparently not.”
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Chapter Thirteen
I’ve closed my eyes, waiting/hoping to literally die of embarrassment. But the deep, rumbling voice does not belong to Cass.
Instead it’s a middle-aged man wearing a pale blue V-neck cashmere sweater, creased khaki pants. He walks farther onto the porch with an air of ease and authority. Do I have to explain what I was reading, or do I just pretend it’s all good, la-la-la?
I have no idea who this even is until he looks me over with Mrs. Ellington’s piercing brown eyes.
Henry Ellington. Whom I barely remember and who just caught me reading virtual porn to his elderly mom.
He reaches down to hug Mrs. E. “I had a meeting in Hart-ford this morning. I’ve only got a few minutes before heading back to the city for another one, but I wanted to check on you.”
“Poor boy—you work too hard.” She pats his cheek. “Even when you’re on vacation here. I cannot imagine how anyone can think of numbers and balance sheets and the stock market with the ocean only a few feet away.”
“That may be why I hardly ever vacation.”
I stand up, slide The Shameless Sultan discreetly, cover side down, onto the table next to the glider, and edge toward the 128
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screen door. “Mrs. Ellington—I’ll give you two some time to . . . um . . . catch up. I’ll just go—”
Henry immediately straightens up and holds out a hand.
“Guinevere?”
“It’s just Gwen.”
“Gwen, then.” He sweeps his arm to one of the wicker chairs.
“Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. You look like your mother—I’m sure you hear that all the time. A fine woman.”
I smooth my hands on my shorts, which suddenly seem really short, especially when I see him glance quickly at my legs, then away.
“Mother,” he says suddenly. “Would you be so kind as to give me a private moment with Gwen?”
I blink, but Mrs. Ellington doesn’t seem remotely surprised.
“Certainly, dear heart,” she says, reaching for her cane. “I’ll be in the parlor.”
Listening to the slow scrape and thump of her receding, I sense I’m losing an ally. Henry looks at me somberly from under lowered brows.
“Um . . . the book . . . Your mom picked it out. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. I don’t read that kind of thing. Well, not a lot, anyway. I mean, sometimes you just need . . . that is . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of book, I mean, they’re actually really empowering to women and—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand and the ghost of a smile.
“I’m well aware of Mother’s taste in literature, believe me. You don’t need to worry about that.”
His tone’s flat. I try to interpret his last sentence. What do I need to worry about?
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