More Than Water (16 page)

Fire in water. Fire with water. Together.

“It’s my favorite,” I say quietly over his shoulder. “The way the fire overpowers the water, but at the same time, allows it to have its own way. It’s like they aren’t fighting. They’re dancing.”

“Dancing,” he repeats, tilting the frame closer.

“Yeah, like a waltz. There’s harmony in their battle.”

“It’s…it’s really wonderful, Evelyn.”

“You like it?”

“I do.” He sets it down next to the other. “Thank you again.”

“No, thank you. Without your help, these images never would have been possible.” My fingers trace the shapes of the image, and my arm brushes his. “Because of that, I figure, in some ways, they’re yours as much as mine.”

“That’s giving me more credit than I deserve,” he states, his voice in a low tone.

“I don’t care.”

A small silence enters the room with neither of us saying anything more about the images or our time together that brought about the art before us.

I withdraw my hand back into my own space. “Well, I guess I should get going,” I announce, adjusting my coat zipper. “I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“Right.”

Stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets, I walk back toward the entrance with Foster on my heels. He grabs the brass knob attached to the wooden entry to open the door a quarter of the way.

“Have a safe trip to New York,” he says.

“Actually, we’re going down south to see family friends. We get together every year. It’s kind of a pain in the ass, but it should be nice to get out of the cold for a little bit.”

“Oh, well then, enjoy the sunshine. Get a tan for me.”

“I will.” I play with the ends of my hair. “You have a merry Christmas, Foster.”

“Thanks.” He tightens his mouth and then slides an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in for an unexpected hug. “Merry Christmas,” he says next to my ear, squeezing me a little tighter.

Unsure of what else to do, I slip my hands around his waist, embracing him as well, and nod my head.

He releases me from his arms. I take a step back.

Foster widens the door. I exit into the hallway.

I turn, facing the awkward moment created between us.

Was a line just crossed in our arrangement? A hug?

“See you later,” I say nonchalantly, hoping the moment passes quickly.

“Sounds good.”

I descend the steps.

Halfway down, just before the first landing, Foster calls, “Hey, EJ?”

Gravity halts in my stomach.

I pivot on my heel, peering up at the man whose body I’ve gotten to know intimately over the past few weeks. “Yeah?”

He clomps down the steps, meeting me where I stand. His hand balls into a fist, resting in the space between us. “You forgot something.”

I smile.

I shake my head.

I bump my fist with his.

“See you later, Fozzie.”

“Okay, Evelyn.”

Four peaceful days at sea in the Caribbean aboard my family’s boat have been more pleasant than I expected. Unlike years in the past, my sister has not joined us for this voyage. Being newly married, she’s spending the holiday skiing with her husband at his parents’ vacation home in Vermont. Her lacking presence has taken the constant pressure off of me since my parents are enjoying their time alone. I’m more like a tag along on this excursion, which is fine by me. I’ve been spending most of my days enjoying the sun from the seacraft’s deck while only meeting up with my mother and father for evening meals.

However, our time floating over the crystal turquoise waters is coming to an end. It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve pulled into port where a small island houses a private hotel owned by longtime friends. Here, we will meet up with the Beauchamps, like we do every year for the holidays, at one of their most exclusive properties.

The Beauchamps and my parents have been close friends since their days at college, meeting while attending Yale for graduate studies. My father was a business major, as was my mother, and the Beauchamps—Guy and Sophia—were all in the same program. It was a college romance as well as a partnership made for a lifetime. They were married within two months of each other, stood for each other at the other’s wedding, and have been tied together by friendship and business for years.

The Beauchamps have a lucrative, large global hotel business. My parents’ advertising company, The Boyce Agency—founded by my grandfather on my mother’s side—has handled their advertising and marketing account for almost three decades.

The importance of this family to mine has been ingrained into my being since birth. Their only son, Gerard, is three years my senior, and it’s no secret that it has always been the hope of both of our parents that we wed one day, joining our families as one in a more permanent fashion. If there’s such a thing as being betrothed in this modern society, Gerard and I are it.

The boat has been docked for the past hour, and I’m dressing for the impending festivities with our lifelong family friends.

There’s a light rap at my door.

“Evelyn,” my mother’s voice calls.

“Come in,” I answer, attaching the emerald earring to my left lobe, completing the set. Along with the matching necklace around my neck, they were gifts from my grandmother on my sixteenth birthday.

My mother, dressed smartly in an ethereal cream ensemble, enters my quarters. “I thought you were going to wear the green dress,” she states, observing my festive red outfit.

“I thought this would be more seasonal.”

“They’re both nice,” she offers innocently, “but the green has a little more flair. There’s still time to change.”

“Would you like me to change?” I ask her reflection in the vanity mirror.

“I think the green one is more suited for the occasion, and it would match your earrings.”

I cringe internally.

The blonde matriarch hasn’t asked much of me this entire trip, and an outfit change isn’t a great deal to argue over, but I hate that she is always trying to micromanage me in these situations. It’s annoying.

However, to make the evening run smoother and without any added tension, I acquiesce by saying, “You’re right. I’ll change.”

“Good. It shows off your beautiful figure better, too.” She reaches for the door handle to give me some privacy. “Gerard’s favorite color is green.”

She exits my room, and I grunt, feeling tricked into being her lap dog once again. Her ability to control me is so seductive and cunning. When it comes to me, she only has one thing in mind—finding the perfect husband. Scratch that. Making about ten-thousand babies with Gerard, so she can finally call the Beauchamps family is at the top of her list.

With reluctance, I change out of my red dress and into the green one, and then I meet my parents on deck where they are watching the sun set over the pristine waters, glimmering where the light meets the quiet waves lapping at the surface.

“There she is,” my father states with a smile, bringing youth to his face. “You look wonderful. Absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you,” I respond, grasping the matching designer clutch tighter with both hands.

My mother gives me an approving look as her keen blue eyes trace my form up and down, clearly satisfied with my entire ensemble.

I’m a fucking prop.
I wonder if she actually sees strings sewn to my limbs like a marionette.

“We should get going,” she says to my father, rubbing her delicate fingers along the shoulder of his suit.

“Of course.”

My mother leads the way across the bow of the ship, and a staff member assists my family onto the dock. My parents walk arm in arm down the wooden planks toward the parking area where a car is waiting for us. We shuffle into the vehicle and travel twenty minutes up the hill to the secluded hotel.

When the luxury vehicle comes to a halt, I straighten my posture in preparation for an evening of smiles and formalities. The Beauchamps are wonderful people, but being under their watchful gaze, as well as my parents’, always has me feeling like a guppy in a fish bowl.

We exit the cocoon of leather seats into the warm night air. A humid breeze skates across my shoulders, so I adjust my shawl to keep off any chill from the nearby ocean. A finger, my mother’s, lightly grazes my hairline to place a small flyaway strand of light-brown hair back into place. She smiles at me, warm and approving, before my father offers her an arm to enter the lavish building. Our driver begins to unload our luggage for the evening’s stay as we head up the steps to meet our family friends.

Within view, visible before I’ve even reached the top, stand Guy, Sophia, and their son, Gerard, waiting for us. This moment is such a foregone conclusion, like I’m walking into some strange dating game. With my sister out of the picture, it’s obvious who I will be expected to spend most of my conversation time with while here—Gerard.

“Thomas,” Guy greets my father, opening his arms when we reach the summit of the staircase, “Nora, welcome. So good to see you again.”

“You, too.” My father grasps the hand of his longtime friend and kindly pats him on the shoulder. “We wouldn’t have missed it.”

“Nora.” Guy leans in and kisses my mother on both cheeks while my father makes his salutations with Sophia. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Neither have you,” she replies with delight in her voice. “But we just saw you a month ago, so I should hope not.”

They all laugh, polite and clearly happy to be in each other’s presence.

“Evelyn,” Sophia greets me, placing her manicured hands on my shoulders, “you are more beautiful every time we see you. And I just adore this color on you.”

I steal a glance at my mother, who appears more than gratified by the compliment.

Sophia kisses me on both cheeks and then asks, “Gerard, doesn’t Evelyn look stunning?”

“Like a goddess in the moonlight,” he states, stepping toward me, his hazel eyes more alive than I remember. “Merry Christmas, Evelyn.” He kisses me on my cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” I respond, polite. Then, I kiss his newly shaven face.

“Shall we head in?” Sophia states as more of a suggestion than a question, opening her stance toward the entrance. “Drinks are waiting on the veranda.”

“Absolutely,” my father responds for the group.

“May I escort you?” Guy asks my mother, offering her an arm.

She takes his gesture, looping her elbow with his, and my father follows suit, asking for Sophia’s arm in his. With Guy and my mother leading the way, my father and Sophia walk toward the grand entrance, shrouded in golden light.

“May I?” Gerard asks me, holding out his arm.

“Of course.”

I circle my arm through his, and we enter the hotel, about fifteen feet behind our parents. We’ve been coming here for the past five years since Gerard’s family bought the place. The hallway is grand, accented in greens and yellows with opulence at every turn. Fine woods line the walls displaying local art, luxurious white-and-cream marble stone make up the floors, plush furnishings fill the space, and sculptures of glass hang from the ceiling, bringing a mystical twinkle to the overall ambiance. This place is almost like a dream.

We turn a corner toward the back of the building, showcasing my favorite view of all—the ocean. The sun has set, and framed by the white-trimmed doors, the ebony waters cascade splinters of silver under the oyster-colored moon.

My feet slow, and I stand in awe at the stunning view before us.

“You always were a sucker for the ocean at night,” Gerard murmurs into my ear. “Like a goddess in the moonlight.”

I laugh. “I still can’t believe you said that.” I elbow him. “You likely gave both of our mothers an orgasm with those words.”

“They might have quivered with pleasure.”

“How could you tell through all the Botox?”

“I have a keen sense about women.”

“Ew. That’s just gross. These are the women who gave birth to us.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

The relationship between Gerard and me is definitely a friendly one.

When we were kids, I hated everything about him—what he stood for and the fact that he was my parents’ choice for me. The concrete detail, that he was a part of the overbearing control of my family’s plans, irked me to no end.

Then, when I was about fifteen, all of that changed.

We were out at sea together, and our parents docked for the evening, going to dinner and leaving the children aboard the boat to fend for themselves. It was my fault that we had been told to stay on board.

Earlier in the day, I’d had an argument with my mother about my recent studies, and she’d found one of my art pads full of sketches. She’d then found four more. While most parents would have likely been proud of their child’s creativity, my mother always saw mine as a distraction, and she’d tossed the booklet along with all my drawing supplies overboard. I had been completely distraught, crying and throwing a tantrum like a four-year-old. Surely, the teenage hormones hadn’t helped with my irrational and ill-tempered disposition, but my mother hadn’t tolerated outbursts of any kind. Crying was not an option in our family because it showed weakness. She’d told me that I was not a proper lady and couldn’t be seen in public.