Page 33 of These Summer Storms

“There are three guest rooms, not to mention the staff cottages. And there’s a bed in the boathouse.”

He gave a little shrug, like it was all perfectly reasonable. Which itwasn’t. “I think your dad thought I’d enjoy the view from up here,” he said, his gaze sliding over her again, like a memory. His voice was deeper when he added, “You don’t have paint in your hair anymore.”

She resisted the instinct to run her hand through her hair. Resisted the way she drew tight at his notice. “I wondered how you knew it was paint.”

“Your father was very proud of your work.”

It was laughably untrue, considering the past, and Alice hated him for saying it. Hated him, too, for the knowledge that her family had so easily reassigned her bedroom. It shouldn’t matter. She was thirty-three for God’s sake. It was just a room.

But it did matter. It burned. “Why—” she started, then shook her head. “No. You know what? I don’t care. This ismyroom, and I amhere. Get out.”

“I’m—” It was his turn to rethink. “I didn’t know you were up here, Alice.”

“You didn’t notice my stuff was—” She stopped. Took in the room: the open closet, minus the empty suitcase she’d stashed inside and the black dress she’d hung within; the unadorned corner where she’d kicked off her white sneakers; the small vanity on the far end of the room, where her makeup bag had once been, and was no longer.

She pushed past him, opening the top drawer of the dresser, behind him. Empty. The second and third, barren matches to the first.

“Where’s my stuff?” She turned in a slow circle, confirming what they both saw. Realization dawning. “Fucking Sam.”

Surprise edged into Jack’s tone. “Sam?”

“He took it.”

“Your things?”

She nodded. “And my clothes and towel in the bathroom.”

A pause. Then, “Why?”

She looked to him. “Do you have siblings?”

“No.”

“Lucky.”

“Is this…normal behavior? For…adults?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call Sam an adult.” She went to the closet, flipping through the remaining clothes hanging there—part of the time capsule of the rest of the room. A handful of sundresses from her teenage years, a bridesmaid dress from Sam and Sila’s wedding, a wet suit.

“He’s aparent,” Jack said, as though it meant something.

“Cute how you think having children makes you a grown-up,” she said, flicking past a dress from her senior prom. “Didn’t you work for my father?”

“I did,” he said. “And he was a grown-up, Alice. And a decent one, in the end.”

In the end.The qualification held years of weight. Of accusation. She hadn’t been there to see him at the end, had she?

And whose fault was that?

Alice looked over her shoulder, past the overstuffed comforter at her shoulder, to meet his resolute gaze. “Well, he was a billionaire who thought it would be fun to make his grieving family play an inheritance game in the days immediately following his death by glorified toy, so the jury is still out on both his maturity and his decency. As it is on yours.”

“My maturity?”

“Your decency.”

After a hesitation, during which he clearly considered sayingsomething and decided against it, Jack lifted his chin in the direction of the clothes in the closet. “I’m not sure any of those are going to make for comfortable sleepwear. Do you want me to go talk to Sam?”

Her brows rose. “What are you going to do, rough him up until he returns my pajamas?”

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