Tangled Thoughts (21 page)

“Should
we
tell him?” I asked, because even though I hadn't yet and didn't want to, it was the next logical thing to say.

Uncle Jeff shook his head at the same time Aunt Mel said “No!”

“You made the right choice, keeping it to yourself,” Uncle Jeff finished. “Considering the source. Harlan Waites wants something too. It might be a good guess, but it's still a guess. No need to raise an alarm. Dan has plenty on his plate right now.”

I nodded, feeling immeasurably relieved but trying not to show it. “That was my read. So, what
is
next?”

“I'll see what I can find.”

“Me too,” Aunt Mel said as she moved from her chair to stand behind me, hugging me tighter than necessary. I didn't mind, even when her elbows poked into me. Somehow her arms stayed chicken-thin despite all the books she'd hoisted in her lifetime. “So
now
do you want some pie?”

How could I refuse? “Some of both,” I said. It felt good to see her real smile.

Lainey

H
ow did one give thanks when forced to break bread with her mortal enemy? I was about to find out. Thanksgiving at my aunt's apartment was shaping up to be lavish, possibly our most extravagant ever. No,
definitely
. Three caterers rushed around mincing and stuffing and plating, since Aunt Tessa's greatest skills in the kitchen were ordering take out and making coffee, while she and I put the finishing touches on the decor. It looked like an expensive holiday catalog had exploded, showering all the flat surfaces in artfully arranged gourds, candles, and shiny fine silver.

But it did look beautiful, and smelled
heavenly
, the combined scents of savory roasting turkey, tart cranberry, exotic nutmeg and cardamom floated through the air, cutting a relaxing path through Aunt Tessa's manic energy and my unease. We had a table set for ten squeezed into the dining room, and enough hors d'oeuvres for approximately the entire Senate in the living room, though I could count only seven
coming for dinner. In the center gleamed a metal cornucopia sculpture Aunt Tessa had created just for today.

“I think we're ready,” Aunt Tessa said, rushing past me to deposit a variety of breads—muffins, rolls, sticks—in the belly of her horn-o-plenty. Sometimes it was strange to picture my aunt, decadent as she was today in a burnt-orange velvet dress and magenta heels, with her long waves tumbling and her burgeoning belly on full display, in a welding helmet, holding a blow torch and swinging a hammer while she worked.

I grabbed her in a hug as she tried to flit past again. “We're ready,” I assured her, squeezing her tiny shoulders. Her little baby bump pressed into my hip and I shifted, half horrified and half guilty for feeling that way. Plus, I didn't want to dent the baby's head or something. “Relax. Sit down, take some yoga breaths. I feel like I'm talking to myself.” I laughed, and she did too.

“You're right.” Though she did settle onto one of the too many chairs, her back was still straight like she might jump up and adjust something at any moment. “It's all going to be fine. Why am I so nervous? God, I wish I had a glass of wine right now.”

“I'll get you one—Oh.” I blushed. “I guess you can't have that.”

She sighed, absently petting her belly. “I'd probably just throw it up anyway.”

Ew
. But I nodded like I understood. “Maybe the turkey will make you feel better. That's supposed to be calming, right?”

“Let's hope so.” She eyed me then with a familiar look, the one that meant whatever she was going to say was certain to embarrass me. “You're still using birth control, right?”

“Auntie!” I hissed, ducking my eyes as one of the eager-to-please caterers deposited a glass of club soda and lime at my aunt's elbow.

“What? You are, aren't you?! Thank you,” she added, taking a tiny sip and setting the glass back down.

I stood, knocking the chair back a little further than I meant to, and went to the bar set up on the side of the room. I poured
myself
a glass of wine because I could. “There's
nothing
to worry about,” I muttered. “Trust me.” Before she could embarrass me anymore, I said, “There are too many chairs, you realize, right? Shouldn't we put some away?”

“What?!” She appraised the table, lips moving as she counted. “No, that's right.”

“Then who are the extra for? Did you invite friends?”

“No, it's not that. Actually, it's a surprise for you.”

“Oh,” I said, dubious. I hadn't done a very good job with the
last
surprise she'd sprung on me. I took a big gulp of the wine, something white the caterers had opened that was fruity and sweet. I liked it. “Wait!” An idea came to me. “Is Uncle Tommy bringing a
date
?”

She shook her head. “Though don't you and I and my mother wish it. But I think you'll love it. I—” Right on cue, the doorbell rang, and she smiled. “And maybe they're here.”

They were not. My grandparents and dateless Uncle Tommy spilled in, Abuela ready to fuss and still a little peeved Aunt Tessa hadn't let her cook. Uncle Tommy immediately started teasing his sister, and Abuelo put his arm around me and kissed my head. They filled all the lonely spaces in the house with love and an occasional smattering of Spanish, and everything seemed warmer and brighter just by their being there. For a few minutes anyway, Thanksgiving was perfect.

When the doorbell rang again, Aunt Tessa's already glowing face brightened more. She didn't even notice how the conversation fell to a hush. “Why don't you get it, Lainey?” she said, excitement wrapped around every word.

Behind the door, once again, was a set of shoulders barely contained by a dark suit. Manny was holding three white boxes tied with string in one hand and when he saw me, he smiled. He still was not wearing sunglasses.

“Miss Young, Happy Thanksgiving. These are for you.” He handed me the boxes and I took them automatically. They were heavier than they looked when he'd been holding them.

“Thank you. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Manuel.” Strangely, I wanted to hug him, but I didn't think that was appropriate. He flowed into the apartment not like the bull you'd expect, but with grace counterintuitive to his size. Also, like someone who'd been here before, and with a start I realized of course he had.

Behind him towered Daniel Astor, looking casual and relaxed and just like my father, as always. “Lainey,” he said, nodding. He, too, carried tied up boxes in both hands, and when he bent to kiss my cheek, I was too stunned to stop him. Also I had eyes only for the woman behind him, still tall and elegant despite her age, and also, undoubtedly the source of the boxes.

“Evelyn!” I rushed forward to hug her. Now I understood why the caterers had brought no dessert. Evelyn Revell was the kind of woman one was lucky to know, even luckier to call family, and not just because she made the best pies in the entire world. I'd been sure I'd never get to see her again. “I didn't know you were coming!”

“Surprise,” she said in her Long Island lilt, and it was a great surprise, my aunt had actually been right. “It's so good to see you, dear. And I brought a pecan just for you,” she added in a hushed tone, like it was a secret. I laughed and hugged her fiercely, before leading her toward the crowd.

My aunt said, “Lainey,” at the same time an unfamiliar voice delicately cleared her throat. I turned back to the door, confused. I hadn't even realized there were more people here, and I definitely didn't recognize the woman.

“Hello, I'm Angela,” she said, and held out her hand. I took it automatically, trying to figure out if she was the senator's secretary or something, and trying to remember where I'd heard that name before.
She was pretty and petite like my aunt, but with fair skin that made me think of peaches and strawberry blond hair. She had a smile like a beauty queen, or, possibly, a Southern Belle, but with enough character lines around her wide, blue eyes that—

I dropped Angela's hand and mine involuntarily flew to my throat.

There was a tiny blond girl with matching blue eyes standing solemnly behind her.

It was
Jill
.

“Oh my God,” I said, the words choked and barely audible. I couldn't breathe.

I stumbled backwards and caught my hip on a table, hard enough to leave a bruise. My knees were wobbly beneath me and if not for one hand desperately gripping the table, I would have slid to the ground right then. The other hand still scraped at my throat while black and white spots floated in front of my eyes. I. Could not. Breathe.

“Hello, Lainey,” Jillian Christensen said, stepping through the door into the full light of the apartment. “It's good to see you.” She smiled then, the one so like her father's, like the unsheathing of a knife. And that was it for me. The blackness filled my vision and I fell.

I
AWOKE IN
my room, my head throbbing in a way it hadn't almost since the day Jill had tried to kill me. My hand went to my throat again, but though it felt raw inside, it wasn't bruised. I could breathe. I closed my eyes and repeated that to myself like a mantra, taking Auntie's yoga breaths while I did it. I. Could. Breathe. I could breathe I could-
breathe I could breathe I could breathe
.

My aunt's voice snapped me out of nearly hyperventilating. Outside the slightly opened door, I could hear her babbling softly about shock and migraines and saying things like
overcome
and
saved her life
, and oh,
God
, I didn't want to open my eyes. It dawned on me that I'd had a
panic attack. I'd never done
that
before. Amy would be proud of me for trying something new.

If I never thought I'd see Evelyn again, I
really
never thought I'd see Jill. She haunted my nightmares, but I never believed I'd have to confront them in real life. A delicate cough, one I recognized, came from the corner of my room and my eyes flew open. There was Jill, watching me. My hands flew up again, one to my mouth, one to my throat, and I barely stifled a scream.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I didn't mean to frighten you.” I wanted to scramble farther away, to fly from not just the room but the whole apartment, but how in the world would I explain that? Instead I stayed frozen, observing her.

It had been nearly two years since I'd seen Jill. She still looked like the girl I knew, if a few years older and maybe prettier, but she was different. Not just older, but more sophisticated. I didn't think she was any taller, but she seemed to sit up straighter now. Maybe she was more herself than ever. Was she more sane? I couldn't tell.

When I didn't say anything, she continued talking as if we were the friends I once thought she wanted to be. “Manny carried you in here. It was really heroic. That's always your luck, isn't it? Handsome guys sweeping in to save you. Your aunt asked me to stay with you. Just so you know, it wasn't my idea. None of this was. Not Father's either. He
told
her it wasn't a good idea.” When I still said nothing, Jill glanced toward the door and then back at me. “You
don't
have to be afraid. I'm just here to talk.”

I snorted. Jill might have wanted to talk to me, and but I didn't have to endure it. She didn't hold all the power in this situation. Yet even as I tried, my legs and voice refused to march me out of the room and tell her to buzz off. Maybe a small, strange part of me wanted to talk to her too. After a long few seconds, I told her honestly, “I don't know what to say.”

“
I
do,” she said. “‘How have you been, Jillian?' is a start.”

“How have you been?” I repeated automatically.

“
Better
,” she spat, and I flinched. Stupid. Stupid stupid to play along. “I'm sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn't mean it to come out that way. I didn't.” She closed her eyes and took a breath, opening them again slowly. “It's harder to pretend when, for a few minutes, you don't have to.” She took a breath again. “I
have
been better. But I've also been worse. So. I am okay.” She didn't ask how I'd been, and I suspected she knew quite a bit more about me than I did about her. She always had.

“I thought you were in Europe,” I said, finding my voice again. It occurred to me she might be on drugs—the psychiatric kind. I hoped so.

“I was.” She shrugged, her stiff shoulders relaxing a fraction when they came back down. “Father needed me to come home. I live in Alexandria, with Mother, for now. She hates it and just wants to go back to Wyoming.”

“But you don't,” I said slowly, remembering there was always more in what Jill
didn't
say than what she did.

“No. I like it here. I liked France, but I'm
someone
here. I'm going to live in the White House.” After a pause she said, “You could, too, you know. We could be sisters. Isn't that funny?”

“Funny?” I coughed out. Ironic, maybe, but I saw no humor in the prospect of living with Daniel Astor, or any of the rest of it. “Why is it
funny
?” Jill's smile slashed again.

“Because we're already related. Aren't we, cousin?”

I sucked in a breath hard enough to make myself cough. “
What
did you say?”

She smiled, blindingly, achingly pretty, almost like the way she'd smiled when she was choking the life out of me. “You know,” she breathed. “
You
figured it out first, didn't you?”

She was right. I didn't even know why I was surprised, but I was. I thought the secret of me, of our connection, was the
one thing
Dan would honor. But that was stupid—he had no honor at all.

“I can't believe—”
he told you
, I started to say, but I heard light steps and whispers on the other side of the door. My aunt appeared with a glass of water and a prescription bottle, as if summoned by my coughing. Daniel Astor hovered behind her.