Page 19 of Crossing the Line
They drove home in silence. And Waverly was grateful for the break. She felt oddly guilty about brushing him off and didn’t know why. He wanted “in.” And there was no way in hell she was letting that happen. He would just run right back to her parents with his report.
Neighborhood security had swept out any lingering photographers, she noted when they pulled through the tall, ornate gates at the foot of the driveway.
The Tahoe’s headlights illuminated the cobblestone drive as they came up the hill to the house. The beams caught Sylvia in an ivory nightgown standing in the middle of the driveway, broken glass at her bare feet.
“Shit,” Waverly said, under her breath, yanking her seatbelt off.
Xavier put the Tahoe in park and made a move to get out.
She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging in with urgency. “Please don’t,” Waverly said.
“I can help.”
“I know, X. I know you can. But if she wakes up and remembers this tomorrow, she’ll be humiliated.”Please don’t do this to us, she begged with her eyes.
Xavier studied her face and then looked through the glass at Sylvia.
“Go check her first. Make sure she’s not hurt. If she’s okay, I’ll go.”
Waverly exhaled her relief. “Thank you. Really.”
She leaned over the console reaching into the backseat to grab her bags.
“Leave them. I’ll take them to the pool house,” he told her.
“You don’t have to do that. I can take care of—”
“Angel, I’ve got them. Go help your mother.”
Still, she paused. “Listen, please don’t—”
“I won’t say anything to anyone,” Xavier promised, shaking his head. She believed him.
Surprising them both, Waverly brought her hand to his chest. She leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek long enough to take a fortifying breath, drawing in his scent, his warmth, his strength. And then she was sliding out the door.
“Hi, Mama,” Waverly said softly, picking her way around the glass to get to Sylvia.
“I can’t find your father,” Sylvia said dreamily, swaying in the moonlight in her own cloud of vodka.
Waverly tucked an arm around her mother’s waist and guided her away from the shards of glass. Sylvia felt so fragile and thin. It was such a shock to her that Waverly wondered when she had last hugged her mother.
“Dad’s not here, remember? He left today to shoot in Vancouver for a few weeks. He’ll be home for a few days on Wednesday.”
Sylvia stumbled and recovered, clinging to Waverly’s free arm. “He is? I must have forgotten.” She frowned, limping her way toward the house.
Waverly glanced over her shoulder at Xavier in the Tahoe. She nodded to him to let him know everything was fine.
Everything was far from fine, but it was normal.
It took her an hour to get her mother settled. She brought her some warm broth and water, trying to flush out some of the alcohol from her system. While her mother sipped, she tidied up the bedroom. Sylvia’s suite was nothing shy of spectacular with its Austrian crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling over the bed. As in her sitting room, everything here was shades of white from the tufted ottoman to the wingback chairs flanking the white marble fireplace that, to Waverly’s knowledge, had never been used.
The rug that covered an acre of floor was thick and plush. The bathroom was fit for a goddess and trimmed in rose quartz and stocked with luxurious towels and the best beauty secrets money could buy. And the dressing room, well it was larger than the attached sitting room. Once Sylvia’s pride and joy, Mari now ruthlessly managed the room and its contents. Waverly ducked her head into the dressing room and did a fast check for liquor bottles. She found one in the accessory island in the center of the room and another tucked into the calfskin boot on display.
She carted them out and emptied them in the bathroom sink. It did no good. She wasn’t even sure why she bothered other than the fact that it would force Sylvia to order more, temporarily inconveniencing her problem.
When Sylvia finished her broth, Waverly curled up on the bed with her and turned onRelentless Love, the movie that Sylvia met Robert while filming. As precarious and damaged as her parents’ relationship was, Sylvia always took comfort from the movie.
“Oh, how young I was,” Sylvia sighed, her eyelids heavy under the weight of exhaustion and make-up. “And just look how handsome your father was,” she sighed, pointing to the screen.
