He wanted nothing more than to tell her he’d just been about to walk out the door and had to get off the line, but that would never work. She often talked about paying him a visit, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen.
His gaze fell upon the painting that had been hanging on the wall of the cellar when he’d first moved into the house. The artist had used oils. The artwork was layered, which could mean the painting dated back to the nineteenth century, at least. It was merely a fisherman on a boat, but there was something very dark about the painting. Perhaps it was the bloated grayish clouds or the tumultuous waters. No, he thought, it’s the fish. A single fish at the end of the line, its tail whipping upward in vain as it tried to escape, instinctively knowing death was near.
“Are you there?” Gillian asked, pulling him back into the real world. She’d been talking nonstop, and he had no idea what she’d said.
He forced himself to answer. “Yes, I am here.”
“Your classes are going well?”
He nodded, then remembered he was on the phone and said, “Yes,” letting the s out in a long, drawn-out hiss.
“Are you taking your medications?”
He placed a finger on a pressure point near his left temple, trying to stop an irritating twitch under his eye, because if he didn’t stop the twitching, he might completely lose it and then he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. “I am taking my medication,” he lied. “I am doing everything you’ve suggested I do, and I am feeling quite well. Thank you for asking. I no longer think it’s necessary for you to keep checking up on me—”
“Does that mean you’ve been journaling?”
“Of course,” he said. Journaling wasn’t a new idea. But, of course, Gillian believed she’d dreamed up the idea of writing down one’s thoughts as a form of therapy.
“The last time we talked, you mentioned that you had invented a new coping mechanism for when you’re feeling a high dose of anxiety. You told me you had written it all down in your journal and that you would read me a bit of it next time we talked. Do you think you could do that now?”
“No. Now is not a good time.” His attention was back on the painting, back on the fish. Something about the picture—the frantic movement of the water and the trout—made him shiver with anticipation. It was a speckled trout. The fear in its eyes was palpable. He could almost feel the sting of the hook and the bite of the barb cutting through his own soft flesh just inside his mouth.
“Well, I’m disappointed. Have you at least been trying to meet people?”
“Not really. No need.”
“What about the woman you told me about . . . Lola, wasn’t it?”
“We still talk,” he lied. Lola was merely a figment of his imagination, thought up to make Gillian happy. How stupid could she be to think that he actually knew a Lola, a name he’d come up with after listening to a song on the radio?
“Wonderful news. When can I meet her?”
“I don’t know why you try so hard to pretend we’re friends,” he announced, already at his wit’s end. “We’re not.”
“We’ve been over this. You know I’m only trying to help.”
She made him feel as if he were suffocating. Who does she think she is? He could feel his anger building, starting at the arches of his feet, ready to work its way up to his core and burst into outrage.
To make matters worse, Claire shouted something from within her small confines. Despite being bound, she also managed to make a loud thumping noise against the floor.
“What’s going on over there? Are you having work done?”
“It’s the neighbors,” he said quickly. “They’re always in the middle of one renovation or another.”
“Why is it always so difficult for you to talk to me?”
“Do you want the truth, Gillian?”
“You know I do.”
“Because I don’t like the way you make me feel.”
“How is that?”
“Small and insignificant.”
“If that’s true, then there must be others who make you feel small and insignificant.”
Endorphins rushed to his brain. Only you, Gillian. Only you. “Gillian,” he said through clenched teeth, “do I need to remind you that, thanks to my parents naming you trustee, you control my finances, my wealth, and now you’re trying to control my personal life, too? So, no, you’re not like anyone else.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have upset you.”
“I’m fine.”
Finally, after a string of awkward apologies, she allowed the conversation to end. The moment he disconnected, he was overcome with relief. He felt a tremendous desire to sag against the wall and take a moment to collect himself. Instead, he pulled the key from the hook on the wall, opened the door to the wine cellar, and headed straight for Claire, eager to set her straight on who was in control around here.
And this time when she screamed, it was a shrill sound filled with fear and anxiety. It was downright primal, instantly filling him with heavenly rapture. In that instant, he found himself wishing he could keep Claire here with him forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hayley had been surprised to hear from Kitally that Salma was still in the hospital after having a caesarean. Standing right outside Salma’s room, she waited for a young man to exit before she headed inside. Salma looked over at her and gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry about making a mess of your car.”
“No big deal.” Hayley gestured toward the exit. “Was that your boyfriend?”
“No. That was my brother. He wanted me to know that my family will not accept my baby unless I agree to never see my boyfriend again.”
“Their loss,” she said. “I saw your daughter in the nursery. She looks healthy.”
Salma’s eyes welled with tears. “I don’t know why I’m getting all emotional,” she said, clearly embarrassed, “but I want to thank you guys for everything you’ve done for me and my baby.”
“Not a problem,” Hayley said, antsy now. Too much praise and way too many emotions. Back to solid ground. “Have you chosen a name?”
“Not yet. I’m going to wait until the perfect one comes to me. I know you’re not a mom, but how old was your mom when she had you?”
“My mom?” Hayley had to think. “She was young . . . maybe seventeen.”
“What was it like for the two of you?”
Snippets of her life with her mom came flooding into her mind’s eye, but Hayley stopped the flow. “You know what?” she said. “I loved my mom more than anyone in this world, but if you’re looking for advice, all I can say is think of your kid when you make decisions. She didn’t ask to be brought into this world. It was you and your boyfriend’s doing. Don’t be selfish. Put your daughter first.”
“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure my daughter has the best life possible.”
Hayley wished her mom had vowed to do the same and hadn’t let outside forces intervene, but such was life. “I know you must be scared,” she said. “As a single mom, it’s not going to be easy for either of you, but the best thing you can do for your daughter is to be there for her when she needs you.”
“I think that’s good advice.”
Kitally came into the room just then, out of breath. “You didn’t give her the gift yet, did you?”
“Nope.”
Kitally snatched the bag from Hayley’s hand and gave it to Salma.
Salma reached inside and pulled out a pink frilly baby dress. There were other clothes in the bag, too—soft cotton bodysuits and booties. “Oh, the dress is darling. Thank you so much for everything.”
“So,” Kitally said, “are we ever going to meet the father of the baby?”
Salma blushed. “I can’t say. In my culture, women don’t really even date men, let alone men outside their religion. And they definitely don’t get pregnant by them.”