CALLIE (The Naughty Ones Book 1) (66 page)

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Frank said nothing, seeming not to know what to do or why he was there. He took a step backward, then stood firm, and cleared his throat.

“Is Lydia — that is, to say, your mother — here?” he asked. For all his billions of dollars, he didn’t seem very sure of himself. Maybe that was one of those things money couldn’t buy.

“She is here,” I said carefully, “but I’m not sure that she is available to see any visitors.”

I watched Frank’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed hard. He was nervous. What could he be doing here? I wouldn’t allow him to see my mother if he was only going to make her more upset. Neither of us needed that.

I turned as I heard a noise behind me and saw my mother stop in her way across the foyer to the kitchen, probably going to get some napkins and drinks for the pizza that should’ve been here by now. The pizza that should’ve been here instead of her former fiancé.

“Lydia…” Her name left his mouth choked, as if the sound of her couldn’t quite make it past that bobbing Adam’s apple.

My mother had been shocked into stillness. She gaped at Frank standing in the open door for so long I worried that she’d lost her power of speech entirely.

“Excuse me? Did someone order pizza?”

Unnoticed by the three of us, a delivery person stepped around Frank bearing a couple of boxes of the thing we’d expected. The pizza jolted us all into movement: Frank stepped aside, my mother continued to the kitchen, and I settled up with the delivery person and stood holding the cardboard boxes whose contents were supposed to lick our wounds for us.

Frank was utterly unexpected. I heard my mother rattling around in the kitchen, and Frank and I both watched the delivery person drive away.

He turned back toward me. “Is it good pizza?”

I shrugged. “It’s pizza.”

“That’s all pizza’s meant to be, really. I don’t like the restaurants that have started reimagining pizza with the vegetable of the moment. Pizza’s meant to be chewy dough with tomato sauce, cheese, and pepperonis. Nothing more, nothing less. None of this cauliflower and kale buggery.”

I smiled and jumped as my mother cleared her throat at my shoulder. “Frank, would you like to join us for lunch?”

“Are you only just now having lunch?” he asked, checking his watch. “Lydia, it’s nearly six o’clock.”

“We’ve had a busy day,” she said. “Are you saying you don’t want to have pizza with us?”

“Have you ever known me to turn down a meal?” he asked, beaming as he slapped his ample stomach. “Pizza it is — as long as it’s got the right toppings.”

“Pepperoni only, apparently,” I informed my mother as she raised her eyebrows in question.

We all busied ourselves with ordinary tasks designed to bring normalcy to an abnormal situation. Frank set plates out while my mother poured drinks. I got some napkins and forks, in case anyone was going to try to be fancy about their pizza. It was funny. My mother and I would’ve just found another television show to watch and eaten the pizza straight from the boxes in the other room.

Curiosity simmered just under the surface as we dug in to the steaming pies. What was Frank doing here? Why had my mother let him in the house in the first place? What was going to happen?

“You know, I think the two of you have some things to talk about,” I said, standing up abruptly and taking my plate.

“Gemma,” my mother hissed. She raised her eyebrows at me meaningfully, like she was trying to convey some message to me telepathically. It was probably something along the lines of “don’t you dare leave me alone with him and this pizza.”

I grabbed another slice and beat a retreat. “I think I’ll eat this upstairs.”

It was a strange and sad realization I had just moments later, on the landing right in front of my room, when I understood that this was exactly what I would do to her when I was a child. I would leave her to deal with my father, to absorb his punches, while I escaped elsewhere. I paused and sat down at the top of the stairs, munching on my pizza, ready to intervene if things got ugly and, let’s be honest, playing the voyeur, because I could hardly stand the suspense of Frank’s visit.

Why had he decided to come all the way out here? If he had something he wanted to add to the breakup, couldn’t he have more easily called my mother? Maybe she’d turned her phone off, just like I had, to avoid any unwanted contact.

“Lydia…” Frank spoke in that same choked voice, the one he’d used while he’d still been standing on our front porch, looking for all the world like a dog with its tail between its legs. I could barely hear him. I had to stop chewing to hear his next entreaty. “Please…”

I blinked. What was he asking her for? Was he begging? I strained to listen.

“Help me to understand,” he said.

“If you had wanted to understand, you would’ve asked me,” she said, her voice quiet but calm. There was a long pause in which I imagined them to be chewing their pizza. I might’ve been able to see into the kitchen if I’d scooted a couple of steps down, but that would’ve put me at risk of being caught spying on them. I just had to be patient, I supposed, chewing resolutely on my pizza.

“You’re right,” Frank said. “I should’ve asked you. And I tried to, but only after…”

“Only after you thought you already knew everything,” my mother finished for him. I wasn’t sure that he was going to say that, but he didn’t contest the point.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hang up immediately. I’m sorry that I didn’t think about how much that would hurt you.”

“Is that what you came here to do? To apologize?”

“Yes, I mean… I don’t know. I had to see you, Lydia. I…I missed you terribly. I still do. Miss you.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“Us, I mean. I miss us.”

“We’re both here.”

“You know what I mean.”

There was another long silence. My pizza was getting cold. I was having trouble eating it, too entranced by what Frank and my mother were saying, what was still remaining unsaid. I wasn’t sure what was at play yet, or why he’d come out to the house to see her. Missing her just wasn’t a good enough excuse. If he’d said that at the door, I doubted she would’ve let him in.

“What am I supposed to say, Frank?” my mother asked. “That I forgive you? That I’m over you? That the way everything turned out is for the best?”

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to say. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I just… I was in the city, and something told me to go to you. That’s all there was to it. I couldn’t resist the impulse.”

They lapsed into silence again. What was there to say when everything was over? Or maybe there was just too much to say, too much left unsaid.

“I love you.”

I blinked and leaned forward, trying to discern who’d whispered those three words. I didn’t have to wait very long.

“Then why did you end things?” my mother asked. “Why did you trust the words of some stranger over the woman you were ready to marry?”

“Because it’s happened before,” Frank said. “I’ve been blinded by beauty and youth and what looked like love, and it was only through Peter’s intervention that I was saved, at the last moment, from certain ruin. He’s concerned about me. He always has been, calling me a hopeless old romantic. That’s why he sent the private investigator.”

“You are a hopeless romantic, and I’m neither beautiful nor young.”

“Stop. You’re the woman I want to be with. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it. Do you want every cent of mine? Take it. If that’s the price I have to pay to be with you, it’s a bargain.”

“No.” My mother said nothing else for a long stretch. I was in just as much agony as I imagined Frank was downstairs. “If you truly want to be with me, you will listen.”

“I’ll listen to anything. Anything you want. Forever.”

“I want you to listen to me now.”

“I am listening.”

And my mother told him, from start to finish, the long saga of her first marriage. Of taking the beatings to protect me, to protect the idea of a perfect life she wanted me to have. Then, taking the beatings because she couldn’t escape. Nothing in this house was hers; it was all his. She was beholden to him, and he exacted payment from her blow by blow.

“So when we started dating, and you asked me to start spending money, I invested it in a savings account instead,” she said.

“I know about the savings account.”

“I know. But you don’t understand. I was still looking to protect myself after all of these years, after my marriage has been over for years. I couldn’t leave him because it would’ve made Gemma and me homeless, penniless, without a single friend in the world. I saved with the idea that you were going to do something bad to me. That you were going to raise your hand to me because I’d never be good enough for you.”

“Lydia, I adore you. I love you so much. You are more precious to me than anything else in this entire universe.”

“I am… You’re going to have to be patient with me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to cast doubt on our relationship. It’s just… I’ve been through a lot. And you didn’t know that before you got in to this relationship with me, and maybe it wasn’t fair to you.”

Frank inhaled deeply. “I loved you before I knew anything about your past, and I love you more than ever now that I know it, know how strong you had to be to get through it, and how wonderful you are now to be on the other side of it.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m on the other side of it, though,” my mother said softly. “That’s the problem. That’s why I was making that savings account. So that I would have a way out if I needed it. I never meant to steal from you.”

“Enough.” There was a very long silence, and the sounds I heard made my face go hot. That definitely couldn’t have been them taking a break to eat their pizza. I hemmed and hawed over disappearing into my room to give them their privacy or remaining so I could listen to the conclusion of what they would decide after wading through their feelings, which had somehow prevailed through all the doubt and upset. It made me ache oddly for Peter even though I didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Our relationship hadn’t been torn apart by outside forces. It had ripped itself up from the inside out.

“Lydia, will you marry me?”

I covered the gasp that leaked out from my mouth as quickly as I could, hoping neither of them had heard me. Of everything that had happened, everything that they had shared with each other over those two boxes of pizza on the kitchen table, I hadn’t expected this. Not at all.

“I’ve already said yes once, Frank.”

“But will you say it again? Will you agree to take me, warts and all, and spend the rest of our lives together?”

“I would love nothing more,” my mother said, and then they were quiet for a long time, and I slipped back up the stairs and into my room, happy and sad all at once, wondering where that left me with Peter.

I awoke suddenly, and it was still dark. The nights were so black out here that it was difficult even to see your hand in front of your face until your eyes adjusted. New York City was different, of course. There was always an orange cast to darkness from all the lights the buildings and streets and cars and people gave off. I liked the orange. It felt comfortable.

“Gemma, are you awake?” I blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs from my head. It was my mother. I could only just barely make out her form in the dark, perched at the edge of my bed.

“I’m awake,” I said, my own voice sounding thick and foreign to my ears. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“Do you love Peter?”

“What?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to decide whether or not I was dreaming, but my mother was still there.

“I said, do you love Peter?” she asked. “Is there even a part of you that still loves him?”

“I don’t understand why you’re asking that.” That wasn’t something I wanted to think about. It physically hurt me to turn my mind to Peter, to the things we’d said to each other. I wasn’t convinced that there would be any chance of reconciliation. The way we’d parted had been contentious, furious. Did that mean I didn’t still love him? The answer to that question was very complicated. Very painful.

“I’m asking you that because if there’s a chance — even a tiny, tiny chance — that there is still love there, you should seize it,” my mother said. “Don’t let that relationship go because of one bad fight, or one misunderstanding. If the love is there, make it work. Do anything you can think of.”

I didn’t know what to say. Was the love still there? There were parts of me that still loved Peter — helplessly, and hopelessly. Wasn’t that the case for everyone who went through a breakup? Didn’t everyone still retain some kind of love for the way things used to be? Wasn’t I supposed to get over that? It was useless to pine over the way things used to be, because things couldn’t be like that anymore. It wasn’t realistic. I had to move forward, because there was no going back.

“Frank and I are getting married,” my mother said, breathless with excitement.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Congratulations. I’m glad that the two of you were able to work things out.”

“It’s going to be the same date that we originally had,” she continued. “Frank contacted everyone, and we’ll still be able to do it.”

“I’m very happy for you two.”

“The thing is, Frank still wants Peter as the best man.” My mother hesitated. “And I want you for my maid of honor.”

Ah. That was why she was asking about Peter and me. She wanted to know if there was any miraculous chance of reconciliation ahead of the big day.

“The wedding will turn out perfectly,” I assured her. “Peter and I are both adults. We don’t have to be in a relationship to behave.”

“We can reshape the way the ceremony is,” my mother said. “You won’t have to walk in together.”

“Don’t change a single thing. This is going to be fine. It’s going to be great. I promise.”

She hugged me tightly and released me. “I want to emphasize, Gemma, how important it is that you give love a chance — if it’s still there.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Love is the most important thing in the world. Not money, not fame, not a single thing else. It’s love. I know that you and Peter were very much in love, and somehow, Frank and I came between that.”

“I think Peter and I came between you two first,” I said drily.

“Well, now that Frank and I are back together, and that the wedding is back on, there’s no reason you and Peter can’t be back together, right?”

I sighed. “I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.”

“Why can’t it be that simple? Why can’t you make it that simple?”

What could I tell my mother? I’d accused Peter of being out of touch. He’d accused us of being gold diggers. He had been rubbing my nose in the fact that he had insisted on paying for things for me. I’d decided that he wasn’t worth the truth about my family.

And there was the small matter of him using sex as a way of punishing me while he was upset over the whole thing. That was a can of worms I wanted to avoid opening, if at all possible.

“There were a lot of things going on in our relationship,” I said finally. “You and Frank, that situation, it was almost the straw breaking the camel’s back.” That situation had dropped on our relationship like an anvil. It had been the push behind everything that followed, but that was a truth my mother didn’t need to know. Maybe I was back to protecting her with my lies. But there were some things about my life, about the relationship I’d had with Peter, that she just didn’t need to know.

“I’m worried about you,” my mother said. “It’s been nice to have you here at home with me, but I’m afraid if you stay too long, you’ll lose your potential. You’ll stagnate. You’ll get depressed.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll bounce back. I think I’ll take the train into the city and stay for a little while. See if I can find a new job by the time you and Frank get married.”

I could barely discern my mother shaking her head in the darkness of my room. “Lost a boyfriend and a job in one fell swoop. It’s awful.”

“It probably speaks a lot to the truth that you shouldn’t mix work and play,” I mused. “Well, at least I learned that lesson.”

“As long as you learned. Gemma, you can stay here as long as you want. I just know how unhappy you can be when you’re not doing what you want to be doing.”

For a long time, what I’d wanted to be doing hinged on working in an office in an iconic skyscraper in New York City. I hadn’t necessarily cared which building, or which office, or what I specifically did, but maybe it was time to nail that down. Maybe that was what had been holding me back. My interests were too broad.

The next day, on the train ride into the city, I made notes in the journal that had held all of my lies for me. I referenced those lies, too, in trying to pinpoint my own truths. I knew they were folded in there. I was a highly capable woman. I knew that I could find a job if I really set my mind to it, if I focused my strengths.

And I had to be honest with myself, as the train slowed to a crawl on its approach to the station. If I couldn’t make it here, in the Big Apple, I would make it elsewhere. This city had been hard on me, and I’d learned some tough lessons. But I’d also learned that I didn’t have to be in New York City if it was too hard. There was no reason to suffer if success could be found somewhere else.

As I walked the streets, though, I realized how much I’d missed the energy of this place. Almost everyone was here because they wanted to be here. They loved the city as much as I did. Even though I was only here as a visitor this time, I knew, in my bones, that I’d be a New Yorker once again. I’d ply these streets as a resident, commuting to my place of work from my apartment, developing friends, actually enjoying this amazing place.

For now, though, I needed a temporary place to rest my head. The penthouse was out of the question, of course. I was sure that Peter had it scrubbed clean, all traces of my brief residency there erased, everything thrown away in the hotel’s dumpsters. The homeless picking through the garbage bags must have had a field day with my fine business wear.

I knew I should be frugal, but I wanted to make this first night, at least, a celebration. I was getting back out there. I was going to move on from Peter. I was going to find a job that utilized my skills and my degree and paid me well enough so that I could afford a decent apartment. Therefore, I wanted a nice hotel, one where I could feel pampered, and maybe imbibe a little from the minibar, putting it all on a credit card I’d gotten in my name as a faithful investment that in the very near future, I would be able to afford living like this.

I entered the first such hotel I came across to check in, to get the party started, giving the receptionist my name as she searched the availability.

“I have only the penthouse available,” the woman said, looking up at me, uncertainty and something else I couldn’t identify in her eyes.

“Well, that’s not an option,” I said, laughing. As fitting as it would be to ring in my new-new life in New York City by spending the night in a penthouse, I wasn’t about to do that to my credit card. One night up there would probably exceed my limits. “That’s all right. I’ll try somewhere else.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “There’s a note, from the owner. It popped up when I entered your name. It said that if a Gemma Ryan — that’s you — tried to stay here, she would only be allowed to stay in the penthouse. And it would be complementary, no matter how long she chose to stay.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

She shook her head, befuddled. “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life. We — we have other vacancies available.”

“Then let me pay for one of those,” I said, anger building. “Please.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “These are explicit directions from Peter Bly. It says that anyone who doesn’t follow them will be fired immediately.”

I turned around and marched out of the hotel without uttering another word, seething with anger. How dare Peter try and interfere with my life? This was my life. Mine. We weren’t together anymore, and he was still trying to sling money at me. This was unacceptable.

I walked into the next hotel, and my heart sank as the receptionist took on the same puzzled expression as the first.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There is a message in the system that I’m to give you the penthouse suite. It’s no charge to you, it appears, but there aren’t any rooms available that I can give you except for this one, the penthouse.”

“The message is from Peter Bly, isn’t it?” I asked, my rage continuing to build. “You like working for him?”

“Ma’am, I don’t even know the guy,” he said, shrugging. “That’s just what it says here on my screen.”

“Can you just enter a different name?”

“It says that if I don’t do it, I’ll get fired.” He eyed me. “Sorry. I need this job. What’s so bad with a free night or two in the penthouse, anyway? I’d take it.”

“That’s the problem,” I told him. “You don’t know Peter Bly.”

At the next hotel, I gave a fake name. Everything was going fine until they took my credit card and ran it.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, smiling nervously. “Can I see some ID? Your name and the name on this card don’t match up.”

I gulped and handed over my driver’s license. “The name I gave you earlier is one I use for traveling. You know. Like when famous people check into hotels and don’t give their real names so people don’t know they’re staying there.”

“Oh, are you famous?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “No, I just… I like my privacy when I’m traveling. That’s all.”

“Well, your privacy is closely guarded here, Ms. Ryan,” she said, typing some more. “Oh. Oh, my. It says here that you… I just don’t understand this. Let me call my manager.”

I sighed. “It’s all right. I won’t waste your time. It says that if you don’t put me in the penthouse for free, you’ll be fired. It’s a message from Peter Bly, right?”

“Yes, but how do you know?”

All I could do was throw my hands up in the air and leave. I walked along the street, wracking my brain to try and remember the hotels that Peter’s company didn’t own. There weren’t many. It was a successful company that took care of its employees and its properties. Lots of other hotels with current corporate owners wanted to be owned by the Bly Group. That’s how popular it was. Would there be a single hotel I could stay in under my own will that Peter couldn’t control?

I settled on another hotel, one or two stars, that I hadn’t tried. I couldn’t remember seeing it on any files I’d come across during my stint working for Peter, and I doubted that it even had a penthouse. It really wasn’t a place I’d come to celebrate, but being on Peter’s radar meant that I had to revise my grand plans.

“Hello,” I chirped brightly, trying to think positively. Maybe a little optimism would ensure the success of this transaction without Peter’s interference. “I’d like a room for tonight, if you have any available.”

“We do have vacancies,” the receptionist said, not quite as cheerful. I didn’t blame him. It had probably been as long a day for him as it had been for me, and I’d only just gotten into the city. “Your name, please.”

“Gemma Ryan,” I said, with confidence, sure that the Bly Group had never even so much as eyed this dingy establishment.

But my heart sank as soon as the receptionist’s eyes lit up. “Ms. Ryan,” he said, instantly more agreeable. “I have the honeymoon suite available for you. It’s a complementary night’s stay. Courtesy of a Mr. Bly.”

“I would rather not have the honeymoon suite,” I informed him, trying to keep my voice as sweet as possible. “And I do not need Mr. Bly’s charity. Would you please book me for another room? I have a credit card. I’m certain you have rooms to fill.”

“The honeymoon suite’s all right,” the receptionist said, a little defensively. “You want to see it? It gets cleaned really well after each stay. Just like all of our rooms.”

I cringed. “Look, I believe you. I’m not questioning the quality of the honeymoon suite. I just don’t want to be beholden to Mr. Bly, you know what I'm saying?”