Page 5 of Save Me

Do I love him? Shit. Shit shit shit. I really don’t want to think about that. “I’m not in love with him, but we might have got there.” I’m not in love with him. I’m not. Fuck. I am so very screwed. “Shit.”

“Seumas Fraser MacDougall, watch your language.”

I blush. “Sorry, Ma.” I cover my face with my hands and sigh before dropping them back to the table. “What am I gonna do?”

She takes my hand and holds it between hers. “It doesn’t sound like there’s much you can do, Jamie. Right?”

I nod and then sigh. I’ve done this to myself and deserve this misery. With that in mind, I push myself to my feet. “I think I’ll go see if Da needs any help with his project.” I kiss her cheek. “Thanks for always listening, Ma.”

She stands and hugs me again. “We’re always here for you, love.” I walk to the back door and slip out into the twilight, inhaling the scents of honeysuckle and damp earth, and take the time to wrap myself in the unconditional love I always find here. It would be nice if that didn’t also come with some uncomfortable truths. I step off the porch and head for the barn.

A few minutes later, I step through the partially open barn door and find my father hunched over his workbench. “Hey, Da.”

My father looks up and grins. “Perfect timing.” He waves me over and I step next to him, looking at the blueprints spread across his workbench.

“Hay bale feeders?” He’s talked about building something like it for the past few years, but other projects have had to come first. “You finally getting around to this?”

He nods excitedly and I grin. My father adores making things with his own hands. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good woodworking project as much as the next person, but to my father, no leisure time is better spent than when making something with your own hands. He’s pretty amazing at it now, because he’s been doing all kinds of DIY projects for decades. I swear, if he didn’t love his farm so much he’d have gone into contract or custom work. He nudges me and nods toward the drawings. “Want to give me a hand?”

He knows what my answer is. Once again, I think about how much I love my family. “Sure thing. I’d love to help.” We don’t chitchat while we work. Our focus is on measuring twice and cutting once, marking the boards appropriately for later assembly, and stacking things according to component parts. It’s not difficult work, but it takes enough concentration to keep me from dwelling on Ashley, and the respite is so very welcome. By the time we’re finished almost three hours have flown by, it’s past eleven p.m. and I’m bone tired.

In the dark, I walk my father back to the house, and my mother meets us on the porch. “Jamie, I’ve made up your bed.”

“I think I’m just gonna drive home, Ma. I have work tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”

While she doesn’t raise her voice or change her tone, she holds my gaze and I can tellshe means business. “Seumas, do not argue with me. You’re exhausted, and it’s too late for you to drive back to town. You can get up early and drive back tomorrow morning.”

I don’t bother with further protests. She’s used my full first name, plus I’m not in any hurry to make the forty-minute drive back to my place. It would give me far too much time to get stuck in my head again, and I’m tired enough now that I can probably sleep. Maybe even through the whole night. “Thanks, Ma.” I give her a grateful smile and follow her into the house.

Ash

“Yes, and Fauvism, in contrast, is known for vivid colors and wild brushstrokes, but similar in its abstract subject matter.” I smile politely at the couple viewing the painting. It’s by a local artist on whom I’ve had my eye this year. She’s gaining popularity and I’ve been lucky enough to show a few of her paintings. “I’ll give you some time to discuss. Have another glass of champagne, admire the art, and please let us know if we can assist you in any way.” I quietly back away and gesture to one of the attendants to bring them fresh drinks, then smile broadly at the client entering the gallery. “Madame Lemaire.” I’m genuinely pleased to see her and sweep across the room, my hands held out for hers. “So wonderful to see you this afternoon. Has the Bartlet arrived?”

Everyone in the gallery turns. Marguerite Lemaire is a very tall, graceful woman, with wavy, black, shoulder-length hair, and elegant features, but it’s her dark brown eyes and commanding presence that make everyone turn her way when she enters a room. She takes my hands in her much larger ones, and we exchange air kisses before she grips my chin and turns my head to peer more closely at the diamond stud in my right nostril. “Ashley,darling, Ilovethe new piercing. Trèschic.” She pats my cheek affectionately. “It suits you.” A gallery attendant offers her a flute of champagne and she delicately accepts. “The Bartlet was uncrated yesterday. The interior designer is working with her team to hang it properly in the great room.”

“And what brings you to my humble shop today? Another Bartlet, perhaps? A Tipton?”

She considers with a little head bob from side to side. “I’m thinking that incredible Jordan you showed me last Wednesday.Sensation électrique, wasn’t it?”

I loop her arm through mine, and we stroll across the gallery toward the painting in question, the heels of her Jimmy Choos clicking softly on the wood flooring. I stop our progress near my assistant. “Cole, would you see if the Calders need any further help with the O’Dell? They seem ready to buy.” Cole nods, his white-blond hair falling across his eyes before he brushes it away with delicate fingers. As he heads off toward the couple, I lead Marguerite through the center of the gallery, stopping a few feet back from the Jordan for full viewing impact. “The colors are exquisite. I love the energy and the sense of infinite space. Which room were you thinking of for this one?”

Marguerite’s phone pings with one of her many social media alerts, and she slips it out of her purse, looks at it briefly, and tsks dramatically before tucking it away with a sigh. “Such a shame.” She waves her hand as if to clear the air. “The entry, I think.”

I give her my full attention, as she so obviously wants. “I beg your pardon?”

“The entry. Perhaps at the top of the stairs.”

As much as she would never admit it, Marguerite lives for gossip, as long as she isn’t the target. There’s obviously some tidbit she wants to share, and who am I to deny my best customer? I give her my curious yet concerned attention. “A shame?”

“The news, my dear. That poor Laszlo boy.Sucha scandal.”

My blood freezes and my mind immediately jumps to Oliver. I have had no contact with him since I entered WITSEC over a year ago, though I’ve followed updates on him through mainstream media. Laszlo isn’t an uncommon name, but something in my gut tells me this is about him. “Scandal?” I need to stop repeating what she says.

“The son is terminally ill, the mother died a few years prior, the father is serving a life term for crimes against humanity or something like that.” She waves a hand as if that detail is unimportant. “Darling, certainly you heard about it, even way over in New York.”

I nod, my mind spiraling out of control. Somehow my voice remains calm. “Yes. I think I did.”

Marguerite squeezes my arm. “Well, here on the West Coast, it’s still acause célèbre. It seems they rushed the son to the hospital yesterday.” She shakes her head sadly, like she knows exactly what that means. “They aren’t saying anything about his condition, which usually meanssomething terrible.” She lowers her voice dramatically for the last two words, then tsks again and sighs. “How horrible would it be? To know you will die alone like that. No family with you. His mother, poor thing, passed from the same condition.” She places a hand to her chest. “It breaks my heart.”

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