Page 139 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ivy
I blink my eyes open and slowly take in the unfamiliar room. The clock on the wall reads five after nine, and Tony’s not in the bed or in the adjoining bathroom. Where did he go?
“Tony?” I call out.
Bobbi sticks her head into the room. “He’s out. Why don’t you grab a quick shower? I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Did he say where he went?” I ask, unsure what could’ve taken him away. It isn’t like we need groceries.
“He went to see his brother.”
“Edgar or Harry?”
“Edgar.”
“He should’ve woken me up.”
“He wanted you to get some extra sleep before leaving town.”
I nod, glad Tony isn’t planning on lingering in Tempérane. But I wish I could see Edgar in person too, to thank him for having us at his place. Maybe Tony’s taking care of that. Or maybe he’s trying to see how Edgar and Harry are holding up after last night. I should call Harry after a shower and coffee, check up on him. He looked awful when he walked out of the dining room. The way he flinched away from his mother…
I’m not your darling Harry. My name is Harcourt Blackwood.
Knowing what I know about the story behind his nickname, my heart breaks for him. It’s as though Margot doesn’t care who she hurts in her obsession to make Tony feel the pain she felt when Katherine died. I don’t understand it. Katherine is never coming back. Shouldn’t Margot worry more about making sure the rest of her children are happy and healthy?
But her obsession is psychotic. Last night made that very clear. I wondered about her reason for helping Sam hide who I really am. I’m sure concerns about her image were a factor, but a small one. What really made the decision for her is who I am to Tony. It wasn’t even personal, because she didn’t hate me per se.
And for me, that makes her even more despicable. She wasted and ruined almost two decades of her life and others’ to satisfy a weird vendetta against her own son.
Don’t dwell on it, I tell myself. Margot tried to ruin my life, but she didn’t. I found Tony again, and this time nothing’s going to rip us apart.
We’ll look forward, not backward. See the beautiful possibilities ahead of us.
After the shower, I let my hair stay damp, not wanting to fuss with it. I pull on a pair of denim shorts and a hot-pink tank top, then drag a tube of pink lip gloss over my mouth.
When I come out, I see a woman about my age in the parlor, sitting on a sofa with a thermos. Her face is narrow, her eyes large and carefully lined with dark kohl. Her golden hair is meticulously styled into a fancy knot at the base of her skull. It’s overdue for a salon appointment to touch up the dark roots, but it’s a good dye job. The dress she’s wearing is formfitting and tight, her shoes fashionable. A single strand of pearls circles her slim throat. She beams at me, her gaze bright and friendly.
Something about it reminds me of a politician’s smile on a campaign trail. Practiced, but not from the heart.
“Hi,” I say cautiously. Since Bobbi let her in, I guess she isn’t a killer.
“Ivy! And here I thought people were lying when they said you were alive and in town!” she says, Louisiana in her lilting drawl. “It’s Sue Ellen, your best friend since forever. Do you remember me?” She smooths her hand over her hair. “I know I’ve changed a bit, but not too much, I hope?”
The name Sue Ellen means nothing to me. Embarrassment warms my cheeks, but my mind whispers that she could be a fake friend, one of those people who claimed to be close for ulterior reasons. Since I don’t know which, I give her a carefully calibrated smile of my own. “Hi.”
She jumps to her feet and hugs me. “I’m so glad you aren’t still mad at me. I was scared you’d turn me away.”
I pat her back halfheartedly. “Why would I do that?”
“Our fight. You were so angry.” She pulls back and looks at me. Then slowly she leads me to a sofa, where we both sit down. “Don’t treat me like a stranger. You used to tell me everything, even after you left Tempérane for that exclusive music school of yours. And I lived vicariously through you because I wanted to go too, ’cept I wasn’t as good as you.”
She takes a moment to pause from that longwinded monologue. Maybe she’s trying to catch her breath. Or maybe it’s to give me some time to process what she told me. Something about her is slightly off-putting, but I can’t put my finger on it. Do I subconsciously remember the fight she’s talking about? Is that why I instinctively feel wary?
“It seems so silly to think back on that, about how jealous I was even though I tried so hard to act like I wasn’t, you know? I was so steamed up when you told me about that cellist you dated. Which was dumb, because you also said he hit on anything female, even when you were right there. I should’ve been more mature and a better friend. You needed my support, not some jealous girl giving you grief.”
Oh. She knows about that, too? I relax a little bit. So she isn’t one of the fake friends, like the ones who tried to barge in on my life after I woke up from the coma. She genuinely knew me.
