Page 76 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anthony
The Peacher & Son reception is a textbook example of too much money and too little taste. But then, taste is one of those things money can’t buy. Sam does, however, know how to Google, so he’s made sure to have the most expensive wine and liquors and the finest hors d’oeuvres.
I wouldn’t have bothered to attend this orgy of excess if Wei hadn’t told me the pianist from the video was Iris Smith, distantly related to Sam Peacher. Wei added he heard she’d be at the party, although he wasn’t sure in what capacity. He gets all the gossip because he looks sweetly unassuming and is great at making people think he’s tight-lipped. Which he is…except when he thinks it’s something I should know.
Sipping a flute of Dom, I look around the glittering ballroom. It’s filled with people dressed to impress in silk and jewels. I don’t understand how Sam managed to get Mother to invest in his first major real estate deal. It wasn’t a bad plan, but she never liked him well enough to give him a penny all those years. She’d rather have torched the money. Edgar and Harry told me with disbelief about the series of loans she’s made to Sam because they couldn’t figure out why she changed her mind so abruptly. It’s obvious she despises the Peachers even now.
I can feel myself squinting a bit, trying to make Iris appear. Where are you?
I’m only here to check if I’m hallucinating, like Edgar said. I have to be certain, regardless of whatever this woman is calling herself now.
For all I know, she might not have come back to Tempérane because Mother sent her away. Maybe she didn’t reach out to me all these years because she didn’t know how much I truly love her. Because I left town instead of staying and fixing what I messed up.
Ivy, if you only knew. I would’ve crawled naked over the Himalayas to have you back in my life.
The famous melody from Debussy starts up from a corner, and I slowly turn around. Ivy is at the glossy black Steinway baby grand, so breathlessly beautiful. I stand there, drinking her in. She’s exactly like before—only more mature now. She glows like a dark ruby in a wine-colored cocktail dress. Every cell in my body is vibrating with deep longing. How can she not be Ivy?
You thought Lauren was just like Ivy too, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Edgar reminds me.
Once she’s done with “Claire de lune,” she goes into Mozart. It’s as though she’s doing her best to avoid pieces that can show off her technical mastery. Mozart, however, isn’t the best choice. It only serves to highlight her musicality.
“Tony! I didn’t realize you were coming,” Sam says, clapping my shoulder as though we’re long-lost friends. His eyes are shrewd and calculating, even as he’s smiling in my direction. He’s aged well the last few years, with a comfortably round stomach, florid complexion and a few gold rings he didn’t used to have.
I step away slightly, neatly shrugging his hand off my shoulder. “Anthony, if you don’t mind.”
Sam’s expression sours for a second before smoothing. “Right. I forgot how particular you are about your name.”
Obviously money has affected his memory, since I’ve never allowed him to address me as Tony. “I don’t like people being overfamiliar.” I look down at his left hand, which he used to clasp my shoulder just moments ago.
He pastes the smile back on. “I see you have a drink. Very good,” he says, his voice annoyingly jovial.
I tilt my flute in Ivy’s direction. “She’s not bad.” What will he say? I don’t like it one bit that they’re supposedly related. Nor do I believe it’s true. It can’t be. “Where did you find her?”
Sam’s graying eyebrows pinch together with vague dismay. “A distant relative.”
“Oh?”
“Not on the same branch as your mother, obviously.” Sam shifts his weight. “I’ve been caring for her since her parents’ accident. Nice folks. Truly unfortunate.”
“Generous of you.” Ivy was taken in by my parents after a car crash killed hers. Isn’t it always good to mix lots of truth with your lie so it looks convincing? “When did it happen?”
“Nine years ago.”
I almost snap the stem of my flute. Motherfucker. How stupid does he think I am?
“She was in the car with them. It put her in coma for a year or so.” His voice is theatrically heavy. “Simply wasn’t the same after she woke up.”
I bet she wasn’t.It’s all I can do to not beat the truth out of him.
He plucks a glass of white wine from a waiter passing by. I wait until he has a mouthful.
“She looks remarkably like Ivy.”
The muscles around his eyes twitch, but he swallows without choking or sputtering. “Ivy? Oh, you mean… Yes. What a loss. What a shame.” He takes another drink of wine. “But other than the fact that they share similar coloring…” He shrugs. “I don’t really see a resemblance.”
That’s what Edgar said too—strawberry-blond hair and gray eyes and that’s it. So what if they share a similar physical build?
