“Sometime after lunch,” I say, nodding. “Mom and Frank
are going to an art gallery in the afternoon, so I’ll have some
alone time.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Lawrence says. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter 7
Lawrence
T wo a.m. finds me at my desk. I haven’t even tried to lie down. I know I won’t sleep. Not tonight. Not after what I’ve seen. My hand grips the pen, trembles against the page, and words flow. They pour from me like a rushing tide, breaking against the paper in waves of unquenchable fervor. I don’t think, don’t try to construct a perfectly formed phrase reflective of my thoughts. I just write. And this feeling, to finally have the freedom of words I’ve craved all summer, is nearly as exciting as my discovery on the beach.
When I’ve filled the last of the paper in my desk drawer, sweat beads on my upper lip and temples. My pulse pounds all the way to my fingertips. I set the pen down and sit back. I leaf through a few of the pages, and the impulsive wish to share my writing with someone burns through me. Cassandra’s face appears in my mind. I push through the sheer linen curtains hanging in the doorway to the balcony and go out to grip the stone rail. The salty tang of the ocean glides on the evening breeze, and I can hear the faint crash of surf, but the blackness of night covers the sight of it. Closing my eyes, I picture the ocean, the beach. Cassandra vanishing in a shimmering glint of color. Thinking about it makes me shiver all over.
I feel as though I’m on the precipice of something incredible, something beyond rare. I have to capture everything about this moment. If I can crystalize it with words, then perhaps, when I’m shipped off to Harvard and a life of carefully planned obedience, I’ll have at least one moment of amazement to hold on to. I tighten my grip on the pages. There’s more. More I need to say. I’ll write all night if I have to.
There’s fresh paper in Ned’s study. I move quietly down the hall and main stairs, hoping not to wake anyone. As I pass the foyer, however, a flash of lights catches my eye.
Headlights.
At this hour?
Frowning, I step up to one of the thin, glass windows alongside the door. There’s an automobile outside, but it’s not in the driveway. It’s parked on the lawn, off to the side, partially hidden by bushes. If there had been a party tonight, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But there was no party. And no guests.
So what is that jalopy doing out there in the middle of the night?
A door slams. The engine roars to a start. I strain to get a look at the driver, but he turns a hard left and peels out of the driveway.
I watch until the lights vanish behind a row of trees in the distance. It’s not that I don’t trust our watchman, Porter, but I can’t help feeling uneasy. True, a house like this has a constant flow of people coming and going. Caterers, maintenance workers, and servants. But still…I make a note to talk to Porter about the car in the morning.
Thinking of notes, excitement resurges in my chest. I head for the fresh ream of paper in the study and forget about the strange automobile.
h
The sultry murmur of a woman’s voice pulls me from heavy
layers of sleep. A softness of flesh brushes against my cheek.
Exhaustion fights back hard, but I pull myself into the dewy
sunshine of consciousness.
She speaks my name. “Lawrence.”
A glimmer of long, golden hair comes to me. Her face. Her
probing blue eyes. Cassandra. In the overbrightness of light
streaming in through those linen curtains, I can see her standing over me. She’s come back.
I sit up, inhaling sharply.
Fay is perched on my bed beside me. Her slender eyebrow
rises.
“Morning, Lonnie.”
I strain my eyes, and Cassandra’s face vanishes as she did last
night on the beach. For a sharp, fleeting moment, the terrifying
thought that it was all a dream cuts into my lungs. But I catch
a glimpse of the frantic writings stacked on my desk and my