Page 40 of Devil's Due: Sarge

I have Sarge’s number programmed into my cheap phone. The problem is, I don’t know if I should call him or not.So long as he’s survived—that thought sends a shock straight through my heart—a world without Sarge isn’t a world worth living in. My eyes become wet with tears.Dammit…I hate that. But hearing his voice on his voicemail will only break my heart further.

No. It’s better that I don’t call. Calling will hurt him, too, make him feel like he failed me by not being at my side when the man literally saved my life against those nasty bikers. But I know Sarge and nothing I say to the contrary, no matter how hard I plead the case, will make him think otherwise.

After kicking off my shoes, I walk over to the window and stare out at the gorgeous view of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a boat. If this is my life, maybe I can—no, thisisn’tmy life. I can’t give up now. But I don't have the first idea as to how to change it. Disheartened, I skulk over to the big, fluffy bed and climb up. There’s a pretty, pastel pink, cashmere throw folded over the end of the comforter that I pull over me before resting my head on the pillow.

Hours pass. The shadows casting along the floor through the giant window shift and lessen. I lie there, but I don’t sleep. One of the housekeepers brings up a tray of food for me. Drew hasn’t told my mother I’m here, that’s certain. She’d have insisted I join them for dinner if she knew.

The food is delicious, as always. Tonight, they’ve served a filet cooked rare, with a mustard sauce, sautéed asparagus, and pommes dauphine, which is basically a form of potato croquette mixed with choux pastry before being formed into cylinders and deep fried. Classically French and classier than french fries, orpommes frites, if you want to stay with the uppity French terms. It’s only not uppity when you’re actually French. Here, in a mansion outside Miami that happens to be the home of people without a lick of French ancestry, it’s uppity.

For dessert, they’ve presented key lime pie made with the freshest key limes. Okay, so it’s one of my all-time favorite desserts—not that I think they made it especially for me. Drew would never go out of his way to make me feel at home. And to drink, lemon ginger iced tea.

Well, I can’t complain about the accommodations. Five-star Yelp review. When the housekeeper shows to take my tray about an hour later, it’s become abundantly clear that Drew’s not going to see me tonight. With nothing else to do, I walk into my attached bathroom to shower, and I dress for bed.

I’d found a lightweight, gauzy linen nightgown with an almost-but-not-quite-risqué scooped neckline edged in pink satin and has five delicate pearl buttons down the front, thick straps instead of sleeves, and a ruffle hemline that falls to my knees hanging in the closet. Again, with the romance. Considering my mother has always loved romance, all her gifts to me reflected that.

It’s not my style, but it’s what’s here. My tablet rests inside the bedside table, exactly where I’d left it the day I had to run. I plug it in to charge and turn it on, finding my favorite painting restoration videos on YouTube. Despite art being the reason behind me getting into this mess in the first place, I still love it.

There’s nothing more calming than watching an expert painstakingly bring new life back to a piece of history. Eventually, I drift off to sleep.

The light rapping on my door wakes me up and I fuzzily turn my head between looking at the door to the clock to the window and back to the door, realizing that it’s now the morning. Pushing up from the bed, I slowly wander over to open the door. It’s another housekeeper, Mitzi, this time. She’s younger, pretty, with soft, brown hair and hazel eyes, rounded cheeks with a Miami figure. At one time we were quasi-friends. But as Drew pays her bills, her allegiance lies with him, not me, no matter what history we might have.

“You’re requested to join the family for breakfast.”

“Sure.” I nod. “Good to see you, Mitzi.”

Her professional demeanor softens briefly and I actually get a smile. “Good to see you, too.” But that’s as much as she offers and I can’t blame her. She leaves and I close the door to dress.

I pull on a happy, breezy sundress. That seems acceptable. It’s the color of lemon chiffon. My mother loves that color. Points to me for picking a color Mom loves. Maybe Drew will be kinder because of it.

A pair of pretty, strappy sandals and my hair thrown together in a messy braid later, I head downstairs. Drew and my mom are already seated. I clear my throat. He looks up and nods. My mom’s eyes widen with her surprise. She stands from her seat, shoving the chair back with the force of her standing and throwing her outstretched arms toward me, fingers spread wide, waiting for a hug. I walk over allowing her to wrap me in her tight embrace.

“Mom,” I whisper. God only knows why I’m getting emotional. I love my mom, but it’s not like we’ve been all that close.

“Greer, sweetheart… When did you get here? You’ve been away too long.”

“It’s good to be—” I stop myself before lying. It’s not good to be back. “Be able to see you again,” I end up correcting my faux pas. When she lets me go, Drew is standing, gesturing to the seat across the expensive Brazilian teakwood breakfast table, across from my mom, the seat given to me when I lived here before.

“I wanted to surprise you, dear,” he says to my mom, bending in to kiss her cheek.

“Yeah… I got in late last night.” That sounds plausible. I look to Drew; he gives me the slightest of nods to let me know I said the right thing. Again, I’m not stupid. She doesn’t need to know that he held me prisoner for most of the day yesterday and that I’m still his prisoner today.

It’s an ostentatious breakfast of lobster eggs benedict with perfect poached eggs, thick lobster tail meat and a smooth, buttery hollandaise. Perfect. It’s all perfect. Everything exactly as my mother loves. Of course, it’s all a lie.

“I’d love to take you shopping and then lunch at the club,” my mom says, startling me from the contemplation of the meal set before me.

Before answering, I glance over to Drew, who gives another imperceptible nod. Then I turn to her, plaster a fake smile on my face, and say, “I’d love that. Shopping and lunch at the club sounds—” Thinking on this house and the day, I finish, “Perfect.”

Drew calls the car around for us. I should probably be concerned about the FBI, but Drew and his sons are still running free, so I’m guessing they aren’t hanging around. And if they are… well, Drew has control of the artwork, I don’t. They’ve got nothing on me.

By the time we leave, the sun is shining high in the sky, warming me to my bones. It’s bright and there’s the permanent smell of sea blowing in on the slight breeze.

My mother wears a large, floppy hat and huge sunglasses. The first store we stop at is a hat store, where she moves to find me a hat similar to hers. One that will match my sundress. I’m not really a hat wearer, but considering the point of this outing is to make her happy, and her buying me a hat will accomplish that, I try on hats. Then we find sunglasses, which, okay, I’m not complaining about. You need them in Florida.

She leaves with two new hats for herself as well. Next we head next door to a stylish boutique, where she buys us each a new sundress. This new one is—wait for it—pink.

After way too expensive sandals and new bathing suits, it’s finally time to lunch. Not toeatlunch, though we’ll be doing that, buttolunch. As in visiting with her friends at the club as they complain about non-problems and laugh about how good it is to be them. It’s an afternoon of fake cheek kisses, the ones that stop about an inch or better from actually hitting cheek, and laughs that make them all sound like Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble.

The club is open and airy. They seat us outside under a mammoth pergola with a solid roof in case of sudden inclement weather. It’s right on the water with a gorgeous view of the marina to the left and the open ocean to the right.

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