Page 89 of For Her Own Good

I said this morning after he finally managed to pry me out of bed that I wanted French toast.

“Rhoda used to make me French toast every Sunday. When I got old enough, she showed me how but I haven’t made it in, eh, ten years? Not sure I’d remember how.”

“It’s like riding a bike.”

“Which is only helpful if you know how to ride a bike,” I mutter and instantly regret because Lowry’s head is cocked as though he can’t believe what he just heard.

“Do you…do you not know how to ride a bike?”

Argh, fuck my life. This is one of my great embarrassments. I’m a grown goddamn woman. I’m obscenely wealthy. I can have essentially anything I want at any time. I’ve had the best education money can buy. I can speak at length about art history. I understand complex business arrangements, and I can help people figure out systems to help themselves succeed. What I cannot do is ride a goddamn bicycle.

“I do not.”

My nose is in the air and my tone is prissy and dismissive as I fold my arms across my chest. This is not something I like to talk about. I had a rarified childhood which sometimes meant I was going skiing in the Swiss Alps or summering on a yacht in the Mediterranean when I ought to have been doing more normal kid stuff, like learning how to ride a freaking bike.

Which has always been one of Lowry’s criticisms of my father. Not that he ever said as much out loud to me, but I could see the way his mouth tightened through his scruff that he thought I ought to be spending more time being a normal girl and less time being molded and shaped and hand-formed into what I was supposed to be like.

And when that all came crashing down because I could barely function enough to get through school, never mind be a jet-setting socialite or pull off attending a Swiss boarding school or some nonsense, that was an added layer of disappointment and inadequacy to the shit sandwich my father must’ve felt like he’d been forced to eat.

I mean, he loved me, but while I was growing up I never did feel as though he was happy with me or proud of me. Not for what I could actually do. Another layer to add to the pressure I felt weighing me down. When I felt anything at all, anyhow. It was better for a time. My father actually seemed pleased with me, like I wasn’t an embarrassment or a thing he had to make excuses for but a daughter he could actually be proud of. My craving for that approval ran—runs, I suppose—deep and I would’ve done anything in my power to have more of it. But now he’s gone.

The crease between Lowry’s brows deepens, and I don’t know whether I should ask what he’s thinking or if I don’t want to know.

“We’ve got the whole day today. It’s a little cool, but fundamentally nice weather. Would you like to learn?”

When people find out I can’t ride a bike—it doesn’t come up often, thankfully—they’re always aghast, always want to know why not, always shake their heads in wonder that of all people,Idon’t know how to ride a bicycle. But never have any of them offered to teach me.

This has the potential to be completely mortifying. Falling, scraped knees, and screaming because you’re flying down the pavement with only a couple of wheels and some metal sticks to support you seems perfectly reasonable when you’re a child, less so when you’re a thirty-three-year-old woman.

On the other hand…it’s so sweet of him to offer. And in a way that’s kind instead of horrified, making me feel as though he’s giving this to me willingly and it’s not a huge deal. It’s something he has and I don’t, so why shouldn’t he help me get it? Generous. That’s what Lowry is, and has always been, with me.

“Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m not the easiest student.”

“Perhaps I’m a very strict teacher.”

He raises a ginger brow and all of a sudden, I am far more interested in learning how to ride a bike than I’ve ever been. It’s going to be that kind of lesson, is it? That I could be down for.

“There’s only one obstacle I can think of. I’d imagine you don’t want this to be a public exercise, and since we both live in the city, it’s not as though we’ve got a winding private driveway for you to learn on. Even if we could find a parking lot to use, odds are there’d be a lot of passersby.”

Yeah, no one wants that, especially not me. Double especially if Lowry’s planning to go all strict schoolmaster on me. Which would be a delight, but also not a role-play I’d ever want to do in a public space. But…

“I may have an idea. Let me make a call.”

* * *

Lowry

The drive is in fact winding and private. Lined with trees, surrounded with lush grass that’s been meticulously maintained. I can’t help but feel it’s a bit of a waste, given that Starla hasn’t set foot on the property for months. At least as far as I know, and I’d think she’d tell me if she were coming here. Or that I’d be able to tell that she’d been. Unless I’m inflating the importance of her father’s estate in my mind. Possible, but not terribly likely.

Indeed, she’s sitting in the passenger seat with her fingers knitted together in her lap and looking uneasy. Of course, I wouldn’t be feeling at ease if I were to head home either, but it’s not the same.

I rest my hand on her bare thigh, and she starts before covering my hand with her own.

“You okay, Star? We don’t have to do this if you’ve changed your mind. It’s a beautiful day. There are a million things we could do. Take a walk, head down to Newport and drive around to see the cottages, pick up some food and have a picnic on the Common. Anything you’d like.”

I give her a squeeze and she smiles, shakes her head. She looks absolutely darling, and I feel so fortunate that she’s willing to trust me with this part of herself. She’s got on a jumper with suspenders—it looks like a skirt, but I’ve been assured it’s shorts. Right after she grinned and stuck her hands in between folds of fabric and announced, “It has pockets!”

Between that and her Peter Pan–collared sweater and knee socks, I am about to die. It’s been torturous to have to sit out here and pay attention to the Boston traffic instead of taking her over my knee.

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