When We Touch

“You could work on your temper.” She jerks on her waistband. “Your father never acted that way. He was as helpful as he could be before… Well, he was helpful, and your mother—”

“Before what?” I smile and blink up at her.

She looks side to side, checking for eavesdroppers, and I know I’ve got her. Betty Pepper wouldn’t be worth her weight in busybody gold if she could resist a blatant plea for gossip. “I can’t believe you don’t remember this, though I suppose you were only a child at the time.”

“I barely remember my father at all,” I say in a sad way I’m hoping she can’t resist.

Strangely, I have no memories of my father, even though I was a little older than Coco when he and my sister died.

“You’re old enough,” she says as if giving herself permission. “It’s only right you know the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Beverly Cane was your mother’s best friend… until she started sleeping with your father.” My jaw drops, and even though the attachments are long gone, I still feel shock. “Your mother insisted they break it off, but that sort-of backfired on her. They decided to leave instead.”

“My father was going to leave us?” I’m trying to decide if I’m devastated or if I blame him, especially after my last conversation with my mother.

The old woman’s brow softens, and she touches my hand. “No, love. Your father would never leave you behind. He took you and your sister, and he and Beverly drove out of town. Or, they tried to.”

Her voice moves away, becoming distant. The memory of my dream rushes in on me. Water is pouring in all around us, clear arcs coming in through the windows, black water rising up from the floor.

“It was a car wreck,” I say in a whisper.

“Your father was driving when that car went off the bridge. You were the only survivor.”

Seventeen

Jack

“I’m not going back to the firm.” Watching my father, I brace for the explosion.

It doesn’t come.

He leans back in his chair and exhales deeply. “I had a feeling you might say this. I had a feeling it was coming when you bumped into that little girl again.”

“Ember isn’t a little girl.”

“You realize you’re making a mistake.”

“The only mistake I ever made was not coming back here to verify your story.” My words

are angry, but my demeanor is calm.

I walk to the wall of windows in his penthouse office and look out over the vast stretch of ocean. Tiny sailboats are dotted throughout the expanse of blue. It’s all so serene and beautiful, such a contrast to how I feel.

“So you’re not going back to your firm.” My father ignores my jab. “What will you do instead? Paint houses?”

The chuckle in his voice fuels my defiance. “Maybe.” I continue looking out at the water, thinking about life with Ember, the life I’ve always wanted.

“Be serious, Jack.”

I study him sitting behind the large mahogany desk. The gleaming wood and sturdy brass all project an image of importance. My father in his sleek charcoal business suit, his gray hair neatly trimmed along with his close-cut white beard. He’s the picture of superiority.

I think about Brice Wagner and his façade of importance, his lies.

“I am being serious.” My voice is quiet, contemplative. “I’m not interested in competing in the same way as Wagner and Bancroft.”

“Bullshit,” my father growls. “You can compete in any arena. You’re a shark. You’re built for speed, a natural born killer.”