Scarlett is sitting up in bed, still naked. I toss a pair of sweatpants onto the bed. 揚ut those on.?It takes a minute, but she does. I pick her silk nightgown up off the ground and pull it over her head. Her down coat is draped over a chair. I help her into it rather than rely on her doing it herself.
揑t抯 probably a false alarm,?she tells me.
揧ou think that抯 a risk I would take with you??
She doesn抰 reply, just steps into the snow boots I set out for her. I grab Teddy抯 leash and collar and open his crate. He bounds out, thrilled by this development. Must be nice to be a dog梬oefully oblivious to what might go wrong. Eternally optimistic.
I usher Scarlett toward the door. When I open it, I half-expect for there to be smoke and flames. The hallway appears empty and untouched. But the scent of smoke does hang in the air. My grip on Scarlett抯 hand and Teddy抯 leash remain tight as we walk down the hall and the stairs. The smoke is thicker downstairs. I can actually see it swirling in the air, rather than just smell it.
The front door is wide open. I herd my little family outside. Oliver, my father, and Candace are all huddled out on the front porch.
揥hat抯 going on??I basically bark, looking at the exterior of the chalet. It appears untouched, the stone fa鏰de and soaring windows showing no signs of fire or charred damage.
揅andace was trying to make cookies.?My father抯 voice is dry. Unimpressed.
揙h.?
揑抦 so sorry,?Candace says. 揑 don抰 know what happened.?She eyes our mismatched outfits. 揧ou all were already in bed??
I nod.
Scarlett is falling asleep against me by the time the alarm is shut off and the house has been aired out. She stumbles her way up the stairs, resisting my attempts to carry her. Stubborn, as always.
We reach our room and she pulls off her clothes, leaving them as a trail across the carpet. I put Teddy in his crate and get undressed again, sliding back into bed beside her.
揘ot exactly an uneventful trip, huh??Scarlett teases, as she rolls over and rests her head on my chest.
I chuckle. 揘ot exactly.?
I抦 nearly asleep when I hear a buzzing sound. Scarlett stirs. I quickly grab my phone, intent on silencing it. But the screen is black.
More buzzing. Scarlett scoots back to her side of the bed and grabs her phone. Twin lines appear between her eyes as she squints at the screen.
揑t抯 my mom.?She answers. 揗om??
Even before she speaks again, I know something is wrong. Her shoulders tense and her lips press together.
揙kay. I抣l be there as soon as I can.?She ends the call. Drops her phone on the bed. Stares blankly ahead. 揗y dad had a heart attack. He抯 in surgery.?
I throw the covers back. 揕et抯 go.?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SCARLETT
Less than twenty-four hours after leaving and days before I was supposed to return, I end up back in New York. I抦 sleep-deprived and stressed, to the point the watercolor print I抦 staring at has turned into a meaningless blur of pastel. I wonder who decorates hospital waiting rooms. Who gets to choose the framed artwork you抣l stare at and the color of the chairs you抣l sit in during the worst hours of your life?
The trip back to New York was a blur. I watched it unfold like a movie, not as a participant. And I was able to because Crew handled everything. Our luggage, his family, chartering the flight back, the car waiting at the airport to bring us to New York General in record time. I found out my father was in surgery while I was thousands of miles away. Now I抦 in the same building, and he抯 still cut open on an operating table.
I抦 exhausted, but this plastic chair is too uncomfortable to fall asleep in. My mother is sitting next to me, pale and silent. The only reaction I抳e gotten out of her since I arrived was when she saw Crew came back with me. She was surprised. My parents?marriage doesn抰 show up during the best of times. Seeing mine do so in the worst of them was clearly a shock.
It didn抰 even occur to me to fight Crew on coming back with me, but her stunned expression made me think I should have. Made me realize how much I rely upon him now. If he hadn抰 been next to me when my mother called, he would have been the first person I told about my father抯 heart attack.
My relationship with my father is complicated. It always has been. He wanted a son, not a daughter. A dutiful child, not the rebel I turned into. I love him, but it抯 mostly an obligatory sort of affection. I resent him for how he treats my mother梙ow he treats me. For being embarrassed by my ambition instead of encouraging it. If I抎 refused to marry a Kensington, I抦 not sure we抎 still have any sort of relationship.
He might die. I抦 no doctor, but the fact the surgery is taking so long doesn抰 seem like a good sign. And if he dies, he抣l never meet my child. My motivations for not telling my parents about the pregnancy are mostly petty. I wanted my father to see this baby as a grandchild, not an heir. He would have been thrilled to hear his bloodline is continuing. Now he may never know.