Surviving Ice (Burying Water 4)

“Thank you, dear.”

I can’t say the last time anyone has ever called me “dear.”

From behind me, I hear George say something about a cigar on the back veranda. The two of them step through the sliding door, shutting it behind them.

Leaving me alone with his mother.

“If I had known that Sebastian would be surprising us like this, I would have had things ready beforehand,” she rambles on, fussing with the spacing of the knife and fork. “I’ll just have to throw some more potatoes and carrots in . . .”

“I’ll help you. And . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll strangle him later for you.”

She chuckles, glancing out the window at her son, at his profile. “He looks so much older.” Shaking her head, she murmurs more to herself, “I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise after five years, but still . . .”

The butter knife slips from my hand and clatters against the china.

THIRTY-EIGHT

SEBASTIAN

Not until the first ring of smoke sails out of his mouth and into the cool late November breeze does he speak. “So? . . . How are things?”

I look at the cigar in my hand and smile, thinking about the ones Ivy bought and tucked into her top. We never did smoke those. “Fine.”

“Work?” He peers out over the chestnut tree, a few prickly shells still hanging from limbs. The ones that littered the grass have long since been picked up and disposed of.

Dad knows what I do. Well, not exactly what I do, but he’s smart enough to put two and two together and not ask questions. He despises Alliance and companies like Alliance that profit from war, taking money that should be put toward funding the troops. That means he despises men like Bentley, living in their Napa vineyards, reaping the rewards.

He was watching from the window the day that Bentley pulled up in his car and took me for a long, enlightening drive. He was watching when Bentley dropped me off and shook hands with me, and handed me an envelope full of cash and my first false ID.

And when he asked me what it was all about, and I told him that I couldn’t give him details but that I’d be doing good work, he warned me not to go down this path. He warned me that I’d get burned. Then he turned his back on me.

He would have come around, eventually, I think.

But I was a fucking mess back then. Lost, angry, and unable to handle that perpetual disapproving gaze of his. So I packed my bags and left the next day, and haven’t been back since.

I figured that was best for everyone.

“Did Mom get the birthday card?” I ask, leaving his question unanswered. Her birthday was six weeks ago. I always send one, just to let her know I’m thinking of her, and that I’m okay. It never eases the guilt.

“She did.” His cheeks lift in a tight smile. “She’s always happy when those arrive.”

Silence hangs over the backyard as we both puff away at our cigars. I used to love sitting on the porch floor and watching him smoke them with one navy buddy or another while they went off about the government and what they should be doing, and what they weren’t doing.

I check inside the house to see Ivy and my mom in the kitchen, their backs to me. Ivy’s peeling something, from the looks of it. I probably shouldn’t have left the two of them in there alone, but there’s not much my mother can tell her that Ivy doesn’t already know, and there’s no way my dad told my mom anything about Bentley.

It’s always been that way between the two of them. My mom, happy and oblivious in her world of gardening and catering to my father’s every need. They’re straight out of the 1950s as far as their marriage goes, and both are content with that.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“Here. In San Francisco.”

He nods, his mouth opening to say something, but hesitating. Captain George Riker forms opinions of people quickly. I’m sure he’s already formed an opinion of Ivy, and that’s without seeing all her tattoos.

A feature he would definitely not appreciate as I do.

“She seems nice,” is all he says. “How long have you been in town?”

“Not long.” I can’t bring myself to admit to having been here for a couple of weeks already.

His jaw tenses, like he’s figured that out already. “Staying?”

“I wasn’t planning on it but . . .” I glance back at Ivy again. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I am.”

Astute eyes settle on me. “Does she know?”

I shake my head.

He takes another long puff of his cigar. “You gonna tell her?”

“I’m not sure I’ll have a choice but to.”

His eyes narrow. “How so?”

I hesitate. “She’s tied to an assignment that I shouldn’t have been brought in for. I don’t think I can keep it from her forever.” The guilt will eat me up more than it already has.

“He’s got you doing something wrong, doesn’t he?”

“Something to cover his ass, yeah.”

My dad nods, like he expected this all along. And he did. This is exactly the kind of thing he warned me about.

He’s always loved being right. But right now, I see only worry. “You’re going to do the right thing. Right?”

I puff quietly on my cigar, not sure how to answer that.

If only it were that easy.

“It was so nice to meet you, Ivy.” My mom’s eyes light up as she shakes Ivy’s hand, and I know she approves. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she would. Ivy’s nothing like the girls Mona Riker always tried to steer me toward growing up. She’s the opposite of Sharon in every single way, and Mom was heartbroken when Sharon called off the wedding.

Maybe she’s just so happy that I’m here, that she doesn’t care who I bring home. Either way, I’m happy that tonight ended peacefully.

“So . . .” My mom’s gaze shifts to me and I see her fighting off tears.

“We’ll be back to visit very soon,” Ivy says for me, in a voice that tells me she means it, and a sharp look that tells me I’m going to get an earful from her later.

“Okay.” After a moment of hesitation, my mom ropes her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight. “I hope so,” she whispers, making my chest tighten with guilt and regret.

My dad gives me a single nod, his arms settled over my mom’s shoulders.

I feel their eyes on our backs the entire way to the car. Ivy must as well. “Your mother is incredibly nice,” she murmurs, slipping her fingers through mine affectionately.

I smile. “She is.”

“My own mother isn’t even that nice to me.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. Just you wait . . .”

I open the door for her to climb into the passenger seat, and then I come around to the driver’s side.

A sharp pinch on my triceps has me wincing in pain.

“Five years? You live in the same city and you haven’t visited that poor sweet woman in five years?” Ivy barks. “When you said you weren’t close, I thought you meant you did the occasional drive-by, half-assed attempts at calling. But they haven’t seen or heard from you in five years!”

I knew that was going to come out somehow.