Stepping behind me, he draws me near, back against his strong chest, so that we watch them together from this hidden sanctuary. We’re voyeurs, lost in the shadows; their theater is ours to see.
“I used to think so,” he answers cryptically, his body tensing against mine. “Is that why you were watching her? Because she’s beautiful?”
I consider making excuses, but confess, “I think I’m nervous, Michael. It was easier to stand here and watch.”
“Why nervous?”
“She’s your family. Really,” I explain, voice catching, “and so that makes me feel a little weird, I guess. And she doesn’t know about me—you said so earlier on the phone—and that makes me feel weird too.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“But she is your family. Don’t you care what impression this will make?”
He yields a derisive grunt. “She’s not my family anymore, I can assure you of that.”
“What’s the problem between you two?” I’m surprised that his usual gentleness has given way to something almost savage, and it unsettles me despite his earlier warnings on the phone. He’s off-balance with her here; he’s hoping I’ll be able to right that. “I just wonder if you shouldn’t prepare her,” I continue. “For the fact that you’ve got someone new in your life.” I’m the interloper, the one trying to step into Alex’s shoes, and I’ve never felt more inadequate to the task than standing here, tucked safely into the dark quiet of Michael’s house. I feel dwarfed by his height—too fragile to meet Laurel; too delicate next to him; too feminine. The litany of inadequacies seems endless.
“Let’s go outside,” he answers, brusque, stepping toward the sliding-glass doors.
“Michael?” I try, but he cuts his eyes at me. There’s this simmering anger there that I don’t expect.
“Rebecca,” he snaps, “no time like the present for Laurel Richardson to get the facts.”
I follow Michael onto the deck and Laurel’s eyes meet mine, mild surprise registering in their translucent depths. “Rebecca!” Andrea cries, waving at me with far more liveliness than usual. “Michael didn’t say you were coming over.”
“Well, sweetie,” I pause, wondering if Michael’s going to answer for me, but he’s busy closing the door. “I guess it was kind of a last-minute plan.” My mouth pulls, tight and trembling, as I work at smiling. I hope the strange, twisted expression on my face doesn’t seem unfriendly.
Laurel doesn’t appear to notice, standing and extending one delicate ivory hand. “Hello,” she says, and the first thing I observe is how all that regal beauty echoes in her voice. Then, before I can say more, Andrea bounces in her seat, blurting, “Rebecca is Michael’s new girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Laurel answers, her black eyebrows hitching upward. Surprise, confusion, concern—I’m not really sure how to interpret her expression, but I clasp her hand boldly. “Nice to meet you,” I say, and she gives an ethereal smile. There’s a jangling sound, her layered bracelets tinkle and chime with the motion of her wrist. Looking down, I notice a silver cross, larger than the other charms on her bracelet, weighing the rest down like a leaden anchor.
Michael steps beside me, gesturing between us sternly. “Laurel, Rebecca O’Neill.” She nods as we shake hands, then there’s this unmistakable awkwardness. She must be sizing me up, must be noticing my scars and my peculiar face. I drop my head, allowing my hair to fall across my cheek like a carefully concealing curtain.
Laurel takes her seat again, and with slow precision she sets down several crayons, two red ones in varying shades, as Andrea excitedly narrates Laurel’s arrival today. “Then we went to the Farmer’s Market,” she tells me, all jittery with enthusiasm, “and drove right by the Chinese Theater because I wanted Aunt Laurel to see it. I mean, she’s seen it before, but still.”
Michael smiles at his daughter. “Never can get too much Mann’s Chinese.”
“Did you get out and walk around?” I ask, keeping my head positioned so the scars are concealed from her aunt.
Michael answers brusquely. “Too hot to get out today.” He brushes past me and down the steps to the yard. There’s something cocky to his gait, a kind of irritated swagger I’ve never seen before. “I’ve gotta check the burgers,” he explains without so much as a glance at Laurel. “Be right back.” Talk about body language.
And talk about me feeling vulnerable as he moves down into the yard, leaving me alone on the deck with Laurel and Andrea.
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt exposed around him, when I’ve felt anything other than safe. For a moment, I stand hugging myself, wishing I hadn’t worn my vintage Lily Pulitzer capri pants. Hot pink with butterflies seemed like a hip idea an hour ago. Now, compared to Laurel’s fey, flower-child chic, I seem garish—cartoonish even, with my ugly scars and ridiculous clothes.