OVERPROTECTED (21 page)

“Ashlyn?” Mother’s voice was groggy.

“I’m here.”

She nodded. “I know. Darling, you didn’t have to stay with me.

Hand me a tissue, will you?”

I plucked a white sheet from a box sitting on the table next to her bedside and handed it to her. With her free hand, she dabbed at her eyes. “I must look dreadful.”

“Mother, you just got back from the hospital.”

“Help me sit up, please.”

I slid off the bed and rounded the foot of the mattress. Once at Mother’s side, I propped four feathery pillows behind her back and neck and helped her sit erect.

`“Much better.” She adjusted the blankets and sheets around her waist, wincing from movement that compromised her arm.

I crossed to her bathroom, wet a washcloth until it steamed and brought it to her.

A weary smile quivered on her lips. “Thank you. That’s just what I need.” She took the cloth with her free hand and gently padded it over her face. Then she held it out to me and I took it back to the bathroom sink.

“Want some water or anything?” I asked, noticing the crystal goblet she kept permanently in the bathroom. A tiny drop of red wine sat at the bottom, like blood.

“I’d take a Rockstar,” she said.

I grinned and crossed back to the bed. Her smile was a little stronger and genuine then: with tears glistening in her eyes. Not the synthetic smile I’d become accustomed to, the one she put on in the morning along with her Christian Dior makeup.

“Be back in a second,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

She blinked, swallowed, like she couldn’t speak. She shook her head. Then she dabbed the tissue to her eyes, and waved me away.

I left with a smile. Years ago, Mother’s emotions had been juggled along with cotillion, mommy love, play group, and visits to the park.

As time had passed and her friends and social life had stepped out from behind the curtain and closer to center stage, displays of emotion had slowly turned into drama for the sake of performance rather than emotion drawn to the surface by love.

I, for one, was pleased to see this quality hadn’t died completely in Mother. Maybe it would come back.

Raised voices drew my attention to Dad’s office. The doors were ajar, and I recognized the smooth cadence of Colin’s voice twisting with the sharp bite of Dad’s.

“Is this a value judgment I’m hearing?” Dad asked. “You work for me. You do as I say. That’s the end of your responsibility.”

“I was speaking as a friend, Charles.”

“I don’t need a twenty-one year old telling me how to raise my daughter. You’re excused,” Dad said.

A bomb of silence deafened the area. I continued to the kitchen, grabbed a Rockstar for Mother and hurried toward the stairs.

I passed Dad’s office on my way in, and the door swung open and Colin, eyes feral, body jumpy, stepped out into the hall. He came to a halt when he saw me.

Injustice smoldered inside of me. “He doesn’t have the right.

Don’t let him—”

“It’s fine.” He shut the door at his back. “How is she?” His frustrated expression softened. He took my elbow in his fingers and led me to the kitchen.

“She wants a Rockstar, so she must be feeling better, right?” I forced a smile on my lips. “But seriously, don’t take his courtroom crap.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I can take care of myself.”

A faint smile tried to form on his mouth, barely creasing his dimples.

I grabbed the Rockstar. “Let me get this to Mother and then… I need to get out of here. Want to?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Upstairs, I slipped into Mother’s dark bedroom. Her weeping sliced the black, chilly air. Mother hated overhead lighting, so I felt my way to the nearest lamp which was on a bureau and I flicked it on. Pinkish, gold light spilled over the floor, the surface of furnishings.

Mother’s crying stopped.

“I’m here,” I said, crawling up next to her on the bed. I held out the can but she kept her face half buried in the mountain of pillows supporting her. “Mother?” She didn’t respond for a few long minutes.

She didn’t even move. Finally, she extended her good hand for the drink. I carefully placed the Rockstar in her grip.

The can shook.

I took it back.

She wept again.

Setting the drink on the round table next to the bed, I gently wrapped my arms around her shoulders. Her body was cold, so I got off the bed and endeavored to pull sheets and blankets up higher so she’d be warm, but she shook her head.

“I need to bathe,” she choked out. “Look at me. I’m a mess.”

“Let me help.” I pulled back the covers and helped her stand.

“I can do this,” she muttered. “I’m not crippled. It’s just my arm.”

She walked by herself—me at her elbow—to her bathroom.

I started a bath because she couldn’t shower, as the arm dressing would get wet. She kept a variety of bath scents, and I chose a pretty floral and poured a capful under the hot stream. She labored slowly out of her the stiff, blood-soaked running suit.

When she couldn’t free herself of the top, she bit back a curse.

Her emotion-bludgeoned face contorted in anger. “Dammit. Get pair of scissors, will you? In the top drawer. There!”

I snatched a pair of pearl-handled scissors and began cutting away the garment. Strips and chunks of velour dropped to the tile floor. Mother eyed the carnage, her face bunched.

They’d taken her bra off at the hospital. She slipped out of her panties and climbed into the Jacuzzi-tub.

I turned off the running water.

Resting her head back on the soft pillow, Mother immersed herself as far as she could into the white, popping bubbles, her arm up over her head. I grabbed a towel, rolled it and placed it on the edge of the tub so she could rest on it.

A long silence dripped between us. Her face was puffy and drawn, distorted from emotional havoc. She was coherent and I wanted some answers.

“Why did you do it?”

She sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“To get Dad’s attention?”

Mother’s eyes widened for a second when I used the term Dad.

The corner of her lip lifted. “I said, I don’t want to talk about this.”

But her usual strength wasn’t in the command.

“Too bad. You and Dad need to talk about what happened.

Maybe go to therapy.”

A weak laugh hissed out. “Your father wouldn’t be caught dead in therapy. Thank you for your concern, darling, but I’m done talk—”

“Well I’m not.” I stepped closer to the tub. She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Were you trying to grab a gun? Were you going to kill yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why did you do it?” The frustration and anger in my voice accelerated. “I want to know. I want the truth.”

“Ashlyn.” Dad’s voice severed the conversation. He stood in the bedroom, just outside of the bathroom door, in the darkness. How long had he been there?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dad stepped into the light. Mother tossed him an irritated glance and lowered herself under the blanket of bubbles.

He moved into the bathroom. “Your mother doesn’t want to talk about this now.”

“It’s about time you showed up,” I snapped. “You’re coming to her defense? Why, so you can prep the witness?”

Dad’s shoulders stiffened.

“What?” I egged. “Going to hit me again?”

Mother gasped. Her eyes widened with horror and flicked from Dad to me. “You hit her?”

“Yes,” Dad spoke with the confidence of justification. “Her behavior warranted severe action.”

“My behavior?” I spat. “I told you the truth. That Mother cut herself to get your attention.”

“I did not cut myself.” Mother reached for a towel and labored to stand, but her balance was off and she teetered. Dad and I both lunged for her, but I stopped. How far would he go to help her?

Dad steadied Mother with one hand and ripped the towel off the bar with the other, slinging it around her. He wrapped his arms around her soapy wet form. Mother froze. Looked up into his eyes.

He looked into hers. Awkwardness thickened the muggy air.

All I could think was this moment could have been unifying.

Instead, their discomfited embrace was like strangers bumping into each other on a street corner. Disgusted, I shifted.

“Don’t go beyond what’s absolutely necessary, Dad. I can take over from here.” I stepped forward, excusing his pathetic attempt at being a husband.

“Ashlyn,” Mother whispered.

Dad glared at me for a few seconds, then his calm and practiced demeanor returned. He eased back, keeping the towel wrapped around mother. “Ashlyn’s right,” he said. The words shocked me, but I braced for a continued performance. “I apologize for shirking my responsibility.” Dad’s persuasive gaze held Mother’s. Was she buying his apology?

The sting of his betrayal fresh on my cheek, I doubted his sincerity so soon. I stepped close, looking at his eyes the way he’d looked at mine so many times: like I held a knife, and I was ready to dig as deep as I had to for truth.

Dad blinked. The brightness of being unnerved that I saw in his eyes empowered me. He never allowed any weakness to linger, and any intimidation I witnessed vanished with his next blink.

I leveled him with an I’m-not-buying-this glare, then turned to Mother. “What do you want, Mother?”

Mother paled, but on her lips, and in her eyes, a smile flickered.

“Your father can help me, darling. Thank you.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dad demanded.

“Wherever I damn well please,” I tossed over my shoulder.

“You’re not leaving this house without—”

“Colin,” I bit out, interrupting him. “I know, I know.” I couldn’t look at him, the very sight of his arrogance grating me.

I’m not taking this anymore, Dad.

I grabbed a coat, hat, and gloves and took the stairs two-at-a time up to Colin’s room. I pounded on the door. His surprised expression vanished when he opened the door and realized it was me knocking. He glanced both ways down the hall. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” My body jittered. “Let’s go.”

He nodded, reached for his coat and shut the bedroom door at his back.

I was ready to explode. Leading the way, I skipped down the stairs. The events of the last twenty-four hours pushed me toward the front door.

“Ashlyn!” Dad’s voice cannon-balled from the second floor balcony. I waited until my feet hit the cold marble floor in the entry before I forced myself to turn around. Colin, still on the stairs, slowed, volleying his attention between me and Dad.

“Come here,” Dad commanded.

I should have known he wouldn’t put up with any attitude. I locked my knees. “I’m going out.”

Dad’s hands wrapped around the black wrought iron railing, his knuckles glaring white.

“Yes, you’ve made that clear. Before you go out, I intend to talk to you.”

I ground my teeth. He wanted to talk? “Fine.” I didn’t move.

The corner of Dad’s jaw squared. His fingers loosened from the railing and he glided down the curved stairs as if he was on his way to greet the President of the United States, not lecture his daughter.

Colin joined me, standing close enough that our shoulders brushed. I glanced at him, but his locked gazed remained on Dad.

Dad crossed to us, so cool and arrogant that the anger swirling through my system flared hotter.

“Colin, wait outside.” Dad’s smooth tone sent my heart into a frightened pound.

Colin didn’t move. Dad’s head pivoted toward Colin. Outrage pinched his brows and lips. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Colin’s tone was firm.

“Then what part of my instruction did you not understand?”

“I’m here to protect Ashlyn, Charles.”

My heart leapt to my throat. Dad’s glare sent a shiver of fear through me.

“He’s doing what you hired him to do,” I said.
I need protection
from you.

The faintest slit in Dad’s eyes was the only clue that I was ruffling his perfectly groomed feathers. I felt stripped bare beneath his gaze, and silently lashed with each second his eyes bore into mine.

I forced fear out of my bloodstream and focused on the blue rim around his irises, a trick he’d taught me, telling me I could stare anyone down if I picked one color fleck within the eyes to concentrate on.

Dad leaned close. I jerked back. Colin stepped between us. Dad stood chest-to-chest with Colin, palpable fight bouncing between them.

“I’m going to kiss my daughter goodbye,” he hissed.

Colin held his position for two, four, seven seconds. Heart stammering, I put my hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” I said.

Colin stepped aside but his warning gaze never left Dad’s.

Once my hand fell left Colin’s arm and fell to my side, Dad’s eyes moved to mine. He kissed my cheek. “Have a good walk, Princess.”

Not even the frigid air could cool my skin. The temperature had plunged, turning the rain into swirling snowflakes. Twenty feet down the street from the townhouse, Colin hailed a cab.

We got in, and a blast of heat melted the snow covering us both from head to toe. Colin rubbed his bare hands back and forth. I felt bad that I hadn’t given him time to grab a pair of gloves.

“Where to?” the dark-skinned, turban-head-dressed driver queried us through the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

Colin looked at me.

“Just drive,” I said. Being spontaneous wasn’t something I’d been allowed to do. Dad insisted he know my whereabouts 24/7.

Colin pulled his ringing cell phone out of his pocket. The name on the screen: Charles. Colin clicked on the phone. “Yes, Charles...

we’re in a cab, heading west. I’m not sure. Yes. Yes. Of course. I’ll let you know. Yes, sir.” He shut the phone and his leg started tapping.

“He wants to know where we’re going.” Colin’s gaze skimmed the street, buildings and what few people we passed as we drove.

My skin prickled. “Let him wonder.”

His dark eyes met mine across the den of the back seat. “You’re justified in feeling angry right now. But I have to keep him abreast of where we go, that’s my job.”

His delivery was kind, the tone softened me. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, so I gazed out the window.