Enemy Dearest

“Mama?” Sheridan’s angelic voice trails from behind them as she steps out, barefoot, cheeks flushed and hair wild like she just got up from a nap. Fucking adorable, as always. “August … what’s going on?”

“It’s cold out here,” Mary Beth says. “Why don’t we all go inside and talk a little more?”

Sheridan’s big blue gaze widens, as if she didn’t expect the gesture.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a few minutes alone with Sheridan,” I say.

Her father hesitates, studying me before offering a single nod. “All right.”

I follow her to her room, shutting the door behind us.

“August, what’s going on? These last two weeks—” she says, until I quiet her mouth with mine.

And then I tell her everything.

Every last damned detail.

I tell her about my father’s obsession with her mother, the steps he took to frame her father for Cynthia’s murder. I tell her about my mother’s “accident,” and every life he’s ruined, destroyed, and annihilated since.

“He would’ve used you as a pawn,” I say. “When he told me he’d forgiven your father, he was lying. There was nothing to forgive because your father was innocent. He was just hellbent on getting back at him from all those years ago.”

“Do you think he would’ve … hurt me?”

“He would’ve done something. Hard to say exactly what that would’ve been. But I wasn’t going to chance it. That’s why I had to keep you away. I told him I dumped you. I didn’t want to risk us being seen together. It was the only way.”

I kiss her forehead.

“It’s over for him,” I say when I’m done. Pulling her against me, I add, “He’ll never be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

Pressing her cheek against my chest, she closes her eyes and breathes me in.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” I say.

Gazing up, her shiny eyes smile. “I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known, that’s what I’m thinking.”

“I want to take you out tonight. On a real date.” I wrap my arms around her waist.

“I love you,” she says with an exhausted hum in her tone.

“I love you the most, Rose girl.”

Epilogue

Sheridan

* * *

Five Years Later

* * *

There’s a cool breeze in Charleston today, which is a blessing because at eight months pregnant, the whole world feels like a sauna some days.

I fix a glass of iced blackberry tea and head for the front porch, getting comfortable on the wooden swing August built for us. Any minute now, my husband will be pulling up with my parents, who flew in to stay with us for a few weeks to help situate the nursery.

We just moved into this house a month ago. Found it on a whim. We’d been living in a charming two-bedroom historic townhouse downtown when we happened to take a drive one Sunday afternoon in the suburbs and spotted a realtor hammering a sign into the yard.

We pulled over and asked if we could take a quick tour. The place was empty—the owners having just moved for a job. But as soon as we set foot inside, I knew.

It was home.

I pictured everything so clearly: the two of us making breakfast in the kitchen, the garden we’d plant in the back yard, where we’d put August’s favorite chair in the study. The four bedrooms upstairs were perfect too. Not too big, not to small. There was even a small nursery suite off the master.

And the outside was to die for. Brick and stucco accents with wrought iron railings. Three stories. Piazzas on every level. Slate roof. There was even an outbuilding that was once a carriage house once upon a time—the perfect place for August to set up an office.

We made an offer that day, closed a month later, and we’ve been settling in ever since.

I sip my tea, close my eyes, and let the wind toy with my hair as our baby moves in my stretched belly.

I wish I could’ve captured the look on August’s face when we found out we were having a boy. He had it in his head that he was going to have all girls. And for months he said he hoped it was a girl. I think a part of him is afraid to re-live his own childhood, a house full of boys who could never seem to get along. But I like to remind him that our family will be different. It’ll be whatever we make it to be. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be loving. Filled with memories and traditions. And maybe a few fights because that sort of thing is only natural …

I rub my tummy, gently pressing against what I assume is his little foot. Or a fist. Hard to know.

Smiling, I whisper, “I can’t wait to meet you, AJ.”

When August told me his mother used to call him AJ but that his father refused after she died, I insisted this would be the sweetest way to honor her.