Page 114 of Every Good Thing
“Dr. Hunter discovers that the man of the house, Mr. Bonner, has become obsessed with local history. His jaded curiosity incites the evil coven,” Jaye explains. “Some history is better forgotten.”
Remembering the nightmares I used to have in this room, I agree.
They haven’t changed Mom’s room much; just added creepy elements and mood lighting and used different bedding than my hotel-style linens. It’s a beautiful bedroom with a fireplace, plenty of windows, and sliding glass doors leading to the wraparound porch.
But being here today fills me with sadness, remembering those last few weeks with Mom. Her frequent bouts of dementia. Not being able to wake her. Waiting for ambulances and trying to calm us both when they arrived. Living here then was one trial after another—I felt so scared and alone.
Ben’s left and those feelings penetrate me as sharply as ever. I’m scared and alone and frustratingly powerless. Then. Now.
No surprise—I wake up screaming later that night. Heart racing. Body flushed with sweat. Hand reaching for the phone to call for help, like I once did over nightmares after Mom died.
I come to my senses when Ruthie appears in my open doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Mom? You okay?”
Not okay. “Sorry, baby. I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”
She climbs into bed with me and does exactly what we do with her when she has a bad dream. “Go back to sleep, sweet girl. I’ll keep you safe.”
Thirty-Five
BEN
The three-story beach house looks the same as I remember. I can’t believe I’m here. The meeting with Larry and John ended with John extending a dinner invitation. “You, me, and the grill tonight. How ‘bout it?”
When I hesitated, he said, “Bring the family. Seven o’clock. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Not only have I shown up against my better judgment, but I haven’t brought the family. I didn’t even log the event into the family calendar. I tell myself that my omission is out of respect for Lena, but it’s cowardice. Dot reports that it’s been a difficult week for Lena and that I need to “get my head out of my ass ASAP.” But our separation has given me room to breathe. To think. To consider. And kept me from continuing the torturous cycle of giving her hope only to dash it again.
It’s better this way. I think.
The Rileys are here in full force, judging by the driveway full of Land Rovers, Teslas, BMWs, and a…McLaren. Who the hell drives one of those? Then I notice the license plate, DRROB, and shake my head. I park off-shoulder by the road to ensure a quick exit. I grab the expensive cabernet I bought at Publix—a favorite of Jillian’s—and go inside.
They greet me with the same joyful enthusiasm as they did in the concert booth.
“Where’s Lena and Ruthie?” Jillian asks.
“Other plans.” I hand her the bottle.
“Oh, well.” She reads the wine’s label. “Ah, Ben. You remembered. Come help me get this open.”
She doesn’t need my help, but latches onto my arm and takes me to the kitchen anyway.
The interior decor has changed over the years—stark-lined sofas and chairs have replaced the cushy sectional I remember. New artwork and knickknacks have been added, but the bright, casual atmosphere remains unchanged.
I assist Jillian with the wine, make small talk, and joke with Rob. It feels normal. No pressure. It’s always been that way with them.
Lauren and I once studied at the same rustic table in the dining room. She sits there now, reviewing a file. Her smile when she looks up at me makes my heart quicken with pleasant memories.
She closes the file and holds it up. “Ben, I have the paperwork for your health insurance options and deduction options for the Lauren Project. I know you like taking your time with paperwork, so I thought I’d give it to you early. That way, when you’re ready to say yes to Riley Trust, you’ll already have it done.”
“That’s considerate. Thank you.”
“Take your time with it,” she says, rising to meet me. “I’ll set it by the door to grab on your way out.”
“Thanks.”
I follow to see where she puts it on the entryway table. She wears a soft sundress today, and I see the ties of her bikini top at the base of her neck. Lauren lived in a swimsuit as a teenager. “Always ready for a swim,” she’d say. I joined her on multiple occasions. There was something beautifully freeing about stripping down on a whim and diving into a wave.
I never do that anymore.
