Alec tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps a trip down the coast was in order just to ensure Jake knew what he was getting into. To guarantee his little brother wasn’t making a mistake, like he had. “I’ll drive down this weekend.”
Jake paused. “Really? You can make it work?”
He looked at his computer monitor. It was a dark and stormy night. “Yeah, I can make it work.”
When he hung up with Jake, Alec transferred his files to a flash drive and shut down his PC.
The weekly call to Laura’s group home went as always: polite to the point of sterile, and it took him three attempts to dial. The night manager didn’t seem concerned he was leaving town for a few months. Out of respect, Alec never visited, but he did check in to see how she was doing. Laura’s father would raise hell tomorrow when he heard Alec was gone.
His anger couldn’t be helped any more than Alec’s attempts to right things. Both futile.
Alec made arrangements for someone to come in once a week to keep an eye on the apartment and then shot off a text to his editor. He packed up his laptop and shoved some clothes into a suitcase, setting them by the front door. After checking that all the lights were off, he went to stand by the window and take in the skyline view of New York.
It was a beautiful and ugly place down below. Filled with crime, poverty, and desperation. It also held sprawling parks, generous people, and easy access to anything the heart desired. Before his first book hit the bestseller list, he had moved to this city, known as the center of the publishing world, to immerse himself in it. To keep his edge and his finger on the pulse of the industry.
He had to admit, people recognized him wherever he went. He brushed elbows with producers and screenwriters. Booksellers and editors and marketing people, all willing to bend over backward to accommodate him. Adoring fans with blogs and websites and Facebook pages. But there was no one he could call at two a.m. just because. No one to argue with over a bad call in the Yankees game or grab a beer to discuss their day.
A city full of eight million people. It was all rather lonely sometimes.
He shook his head. It was only Thursday, but he didn’t have anything else to do. He could take his time driving down to Wilmington, unwind a bit. Besides, now that he had a plan of action and an objective set forth, he wouldn’t be able to focus on much else. Why delay his departure?
He turned his back on New York, gathered his luggage, and locked the door on his way out.
* * *
“Ginny is so excited you’re coming,” Mia said. “She’s beside herself. When do you get in?”
Faith held the phone to her ear and traced a lazy pattern over her comforter with her finger, calculating the distance between Charlotte and Wilmington. “I should get there in a few hours.” Her head whipped up with a thought. “I hope that’s okay. I know it’s a day earlier than we discussed.”
Mia Galdon—no, make that Mia Covington—had contacted Faith a couple months ago, asking if she’d be interested in the opportunity to be Ginny’s private tutor. Faith had been one of the people who had worked with Mia’s sister at St. Ambrose before Mia pulled her out of the private school. Faith was the first person Mia called for the job, but Faith had had to finish out the school year and tender her resignation, thus the delay. The decision had been eating away at her ever since, until she was pretty certain she’d developed an ulcer.
Faith had missed working with Ginny when they’d moved to the coast. The teenager was a sweet, chipper girl who’d struggled with her disability in the public school system. At St. Ambrose, she’d flourished, learning to read and write and do the simple activities of daily living.
But that wasn’t the only reason Faith had agreed to take the position and move hours away from everything she knew. It was also because Mia genuinely loved Ginny, was an active part of her life, and had once given up everything she’d had for her sister. Faith could relate.
“Of course that’s okay,” Mia assured. “Like I told you, the guesthouse is ready for you.” She paused to say something to someone in the room and then came back on the line. “It’ll be nice having someone work one-on-one with her again. The Down syndrome groups and programs here just aren’t cutting it for her. You were always her favorite teacher.”
Faith, never really comfortable with compliments, didn’t say anything and knew all this, as Mia had told her more than once. Mia seemed to need the reassurance of the repetition, though.
“I’m looking forward to it. See you soon.”
They disconnected and Faith looked around her bedroom. The walls were the same white they’d been as a child. A functional desk, dresser, and bed were the only furniture pieces. There were no pictures on the wall, no little trinkets or baubles. No life, because she’d never had one.
Nerves swam in her belly at this new venture. She’d never left Charlotte before. She’d never left her parents’ house and lived on her own. At twenty-seven years old, if she didn’t do it now, she never would. The opportunity was perfect. The Covingtons were matching her old salary at St. Ambrose, and accommodations were included. She wondered what it would be like, living alone. Probably no different than home.
She sighed and stood. It was time to let go, and in doing so, maybe her parents would, too. She’d been stuck in this rut for too long, not moving forward because she feared her parents needed her presence. But that was her own wishful thinking.
Faith doubted they’d notice she was gone.
She closed her bedroom door behind her, as her parents preferred it, and stopped outside Hope’s room. Her bedroom door was always open, as if their parents expected her to one day return. But Hope was never coming back. If not for the silence and disappointment etched in her parents’ eyes, Faith would assume she was the only one who knew that.
She didn’t know why she did it, but she stepped just inside the doorway of her sister’s room. Unlike her own, splashes of color were everywhere. The walls were a fading rose, the bedspread a deep lavender, the curtains navy blue and homemade. It would seem like a mismatch to anyone who hadn’t known Hope. The wood of the dresser, shelves, and bed was painted a moss green. Pictures of Hope adorned every nook and cranny. Stuffed animals were neatly lined up on the bed.
The room hadn’t changed in years. A thin layer of dust coated the dresser to her right. For a fleeting moment, Faith considered writing her name in the dust, but shook away the impulse.
Descending the stairs, she moved past her luggage stacked by the front door and made her way into the living room. It resembled any other family room in small-town America: powder-blue walls, country-style plaid couches in cream and navy, plush beige carpet, and a white mantel with family portraits.
The pictures drew her eye. She inspected the photos in their mismatched frames, feeling like a spectator in her own house. Her parents after they brought Hope home from the hospital. Hope, cheerleading at a homecoming game. Hope, posing in her senior prom dress, her many friends gathered at her side. They’d all shaved their heads, too, to match Hope’s. The last picture was Hope and Faith sharing a hospital bed after a treatment.
That was the only photo Faith was in. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was a shrine to Hope’s memory, but the mantel had always held these reminiscences, or ones like it, since Faith was a toddler. If Faith wasn’t next to Hope in a picture, she wasn’t displayed.
She tried to draw bitterness from deep inside, allow herself to grow angry, but neither emotion would come. Because she knew her place in this family, always had. Knew why she was conceived. And it wasn’t for a photo on the mantel.
From the other room, the murmurs of her parents’ conversation rose. A quick glance at the clock told her they were sitting down to dinner. Five-thirty on the button, every evening. They’d started without her. Not the first time.