The Chosen One (13 page)

I nodded, understanding. “Now some want to erect a wall along the Mexican border.” I thought of Maya and of how desperately I wanted to walk along the family beach with her at my side. I doubted that would ever happen. I glanced at Mei; maybe it could, though.

Ham shifted his weight in the sand. “Mom doesn’t look good.”

“She’s too thin,” I agreed.

“Stress. Things are changing in politics. Having money and family connections aren’t always assets anymore. The political landscape is shifting so fast. I have a feeling Mom and Owen won’t be in office much longer.”

I whipped my head around, sure I cracked a vertebra.

Ham paid no heed. “People are sick of the old political dynasties,” he continued. “They want outsiders who promise the world, even if the promises are false. They want politicians who’ll do their best to turn back the clock to the good ol’ days when a gas station attendant could support a family of four. Sadly, those days are long gone. And Grandmother…” Ham shrugged, not completing the thought.

I remembered the quote the homeless woman shoved into my hand and recited it. “‘The winds and waves are always on the side‌—‌’”

Ham finished the quote, “‘of the ablest navigators.’” He paused. “How do you know that quote?”

“Oh, some crazy lady in Harvard Square was handing out leaflets with the quote. Not sure how I remembered it.” I avoided his eyes.

“It’s from an eighteenth century historian. I keep receiving weird emails with quotes by the same historian, such as ‘History is little more‌—‌’”

I cut him off. “How weird. I’ve been getting texts from an unknown number. One had that quote. Another was about revenge. I figured Susie was behind it.”

“But not now?”

I remembered Fee’s insistence that the quotes seemed too intellectual. Susie could quote her hero, Ann Coulter, off the cuff, but a historian who’d been dead for centuries? It was highly unlikely. Even Fiona, a student of history, hadn’t recognized the words.

I answered Ham’s question with one of my own. “Why would she email you?”

“I know. She’s never targeted me, and it seems out of her league. So why are we both receiving them?” He scanned the horizon, shielding his brow with a hand. “This coincidence makes me uneasy.” He stood abruptly. “I need to make a call.”

“Okay.”

Ham stood off to the side and barked, “Tess, I’m going to forward some emails to you. I need you to look into them.” He tottered farther into the brush, ruining my chance to eavesdrop on the rest of his commands.

Moments later, he sat down next to me, smiling. It didn’t put me at ease.

“Who’s Tess?”

Ham cocked his head, studying my face as if he was determining whether he could trust me. “Tess and her partner, Rita, are the types you don’t want to meet. Not in person. When you do, it means the shit has seriously hit the fan.”

“Partners?”

“Business.”

“What business?” My voice cracked, showing my frustration. To my knowledge, only Grandmother had fixers on the payroll, but I was fairly certain Tess and Rita didn’t work for her, considering I’d never heard so much as a whisper of their names.

“Trust me, please. I’m not sure the quotes mean anything, but I’m on it just in case. It’s probably some crackpot trying to ruffle our feathers. I’ll keep you in the loop if you need to be. I promise. And if you receive any more, let me know right away.”

“And you’ll let me know if you get more?”

His nod lacked any trace of assurance.

Before I had a chance to push, Grover waddled over and collapsed in front of us, panting. His tongue lolled to one side as he rolled around on his back to cool off. Fiona and Pat joined us, breathing just as heavily.

Ham raised a palm, indicating the end of the conversation for now, and I bit my lower lip.

Pat pulled a flask out of his lilac plaid Vineyard Vines shorts, which he’d paired with a mint-green gingham button-up. One of his sleeves was rolled up; the other must have tumbled down with the exertion of keeping up with Fiona’s dancing. His outfit would have looked ridiculous on most men, but it suited happy-go-lucky Pat. He took a sip from the flask and handed it to Fiona, who took a lustful slug before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“There you are,” Mei said. She sat in front of Ham and leaned back into his waiting arms. When the flask reached her, Mei took a generous swig. Grover made his way over and exposed his belly to her, and Mei enthusiastically rubbed his freckled stomach, all the while calling him handsome.

“Look at that. He doesn’t even trust me like that.” Fiona’s smile confirmed she had accepted Mei into the family fold. If Grover trusted her, Fiona would too.

Mei looked up at Fiona, her black eyes sparkling, and said, “How’d you come up with the name?”

Everyone let out a bark of laughter. Indignant, Fiona tugged the hem of her linen shirt. “He’s named after Grover Cleveland, of course.”

“Ah, the twenty-second and twenty-fourth president.” Mei continued showering Grover with love.

Fiona didn’t say anything, but I now imagined she’d walk through fire for Mei. Not many people could spout off the numbers of presidents, let alone knew Cleveland was the only one to serve two non-consecutive terms.

“How’d you two meet?” Pat asked, taking another sip from the flask.

“Work,” Ham responded. “Mei’s a lobbyist.”

Everything clicked in my head. Mei had political clout in DC. Grandmother would allow any one of us to marry a serial killer as long as that person could promise votes. Whenever she met someone, her first thought was, “How is this person helpful?”

“Corporate lobbyist or hired gun?” Fiona asked.

“Corporate. Online privacy for social media’s Goliath.”

“Can you take down Susie Q for me?” I asked.

“Me, no. But I may know someone who knows someone.” She winked.

I snapped my fingers at Pat. “Give this woman more whiskey.”

Fiona quizzed Mei about her job, but the last thing I wanted to discuss was politics. I was still reeling over discovering Ham had his own political fixers who could swoop in and save people’s asses when they got caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. My brother’s determination to treat me like a child grated more than I cared to admit. I looked away, watching the gentle waves roll over the sand. The watery fingers chased a few Carmichael youngsters, who were thrilled to be awake well past their bedtime. They squealed, running after the retreating water, doing their best to not get wet feet. Their parents stood to the side, chatting in small groups.

Rory stood alone, gazing at the moon. I wondered what thoughts roared through his mind.

On the veranda of the big house, I spied Grandmother leaning on her cane with both hands. She quietly observed the Carmichael generations. Even from this distance, though, I could sense her plotting the next move.

Chapter Eleven

The bugle blared right on the dot on Monday morning.

Twenty minutes later, I stood out on the drive, waiting for Pat and Fee and scanning my daily briefing email from the goons.

Pat’s eyes were blurry. “Bloody bugle. What family wakes up this way?”

“The Carmichaels,” Fiona and I said in unison.

“Come on. We’re burning daylight.” I unlocked the car doors. Pat’s feet seemed glued. “Chop, chop, Irish!”

Fee gave him a shove. He growled.

“I don’t know why you’re so grumpy,” I said. “I, for one, can’t wait to get out of here. If I have to spend another day with the Carmichael clan, I’ll start pulling my hair out.”

“And Ainsley loves her red Carmichael curls,” Fiona said.

It was true. I adored them, especially the way a few curls wouldn’t fit in a ponytail and bounced around my face when I walked. Sometimes I adjusted my step to optimize the effect. I’d mastered how to cock my head so one lone curl demurely covered one eye. It wasn’t solely for sex appeal. It covered a scar near my right eye, from when I’d rammed through a screen door when I was five. Unlike Ham, I’d avoided permanent damage, aside from a small fleck of a scar that most never detected, even those who knew where to look.

The scar was the only imperfection on my face, according to many. For me, it added character. Grandmother once told me we were all made up of scars, visible and invisible. How we dealt with them determined how we performed in life. Embrace and learn from all the cuts, bumps, and bruises along the way, and nothing could stop you.

***

By five minutes to eight, I was sitting in the classroom, massaging my scar and so lost in thought I didn’t notice Maya sit down next to me.

“How was your weekend?” she asked.

At first, I didn’t answer, because I didn’t think the question was directed to me. The only person I knew in class, aside from Susie, was Maya, and she hardly spoke. Eventually, it finally registered she was talking to me, and she was waiting for a response.

“Joyous family time.” I smiled from ear to ear, not meaning a word of it.

She smirked, catching my sarcastic tone.

“You?”

“Joyous work time.”

“Trade you.”

Shit! Why did I say that? I pictured a newscaster saying, “Well, Phil, it seems Ainsley Carmichael can’t stop herself from putting her foot in it. Just take a look at this…”

Maya laughed. “I don’t think the owners could afford the insurance policy for you. Accident-prone people don’t last long.” She winked. Maya actually winked. At me. And she made a joke. A wink and a joke. Sinatra’s song “Fly Me to the Moon” played in my head.

“I’m not accident-prone.” I jutted out my bottom lip.

“And the Pope isn’t Catholic. How’s your hand?”

“Oh, it wasn’t bad at all. In a few days all proof of the coffee incident will be gone. You okay?”

“Yep.”

Dr. Gingas walked in, immediately bursting into lecture. I wondered whether she actually started the lecture the moment she stepped out of her office, and it was up to us to catch up.

Fifty minutes later, Dr. Gingas goose-stepped out of the classroom without any indication that she’d finished. The woman was insane.

Maya continued taking notes. Curious about her incessant scribbling, I leaned over and peeked, but I couldn’t decipher her scrawl. Was she writing in code? Shorthand? Did shorthand still exist? Knowing Maya, it was her own code that only she could understand. She smelled like gardenias, and before I could stop myself, I inhaled her heady, potent, and lustful scent.

“Can I help you?” She threw me a confounding Maya smile, the corners of her mouth tugging upward, forcing two faint dimples to appear on her left cheek.

“I love your perfume,” I said in a foolish, lovesick voice.

“I’ll get you a bottle for your birthday.” She continued writing, but I detected a hint of a smile.

Feeling bold, or drunk on her scent, I responded, “I prefer it on you.”

The scratch of the pen’s tip came to a screeching halt. I froze.

We were the only two left in the room. Within moments, students in the next class would trickle in. Again the internal newscaster said, “This just in. Ainsley Carmichael has crashed and burned in the love department.”

“What am I going to do with you?” She tapped thoughtful fingers on the table.

“What do you want to do to me?” I braced for the worst.

She laughed. “Can I buy you breakfast?”

I stared at her, unable to speak, feeling as if my mouth was full of marshmallows.

Maya finished writing and packed her bag with the efficiency I had come to admire in her. Nothing was done in a rush, yet somehow she gave the impression she was miles ahead of everyone, even if she was the last to finish.

***

Sitting at a table outside a café on a quaint side street near the university, I nibbled on a cinnamon roll as I waited for Maya. She had opted for a breakfast burrito, even though the wait was much longer. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and we were in the midst of a stunning Indian summer. The trees along the Charles River were beginning to burst with gold, crimson, and orange leaves, contrasting with a deep-azure horizon. Soon, it would be so cold no one would want to be outside unless absolutely necessary.

She appeared victoriously holding a foil-wrapped burrito above her head. God, she was adorable. Maya the Gray was finally letting down her walls, brick by brick, and with each fallen piece I was falling further and further into Maya’s rabbit hole.

“You got it!” I checked the time on my cell phone. “And in plenty of time.” I still had an hour before my next class. Sighing, I added, “Such a shame we can’t sit here all day to soak it in.” Stretching my arms above my head, I leaned back in the plastic chair, letting the sun’s rays warm my freckled skin.

The chair wobbled, and Maya was quick to put a steadying hand out to prevent me from crashing head over teakettle.

I laughed bashfully. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m getting used to it.”

I crossed my arms. “What does that mean?”

“I can’t take my eyes off you or who knows what will happen? You”‌—‌she pointed her burrito at me‌—‌“are the most accident-prone person I’ve ever known.”

“Is that the only reason you can’t take your eyes off me?”

She was about to take a bite, but her eyes locked on mine, and I sat there, transfixed by her gaze, unable to determine the meaning. Finally, she sank her teeth into the potato burrito and chewed with purpose. After washing it down with some water, she said, “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

It was a hopeful answer‌—‌playful, even.

Chapter Twelve

The bugle alarm on my phone blared at five the following morning. The night before, Fiona had texted, ordering me to meet her at the boathouse at five thirty to row on the Charles.

That wasn’t what pulled me out of bed, however. I enjoyed it, the process of more doing and less thinking. Bend the knees, reach back with the oars, dip the oars, push the legs, pull with the arms, propel yourself farther along the water. I loved the rhythm. Bend, reach, dip, push, and pull. It wasn’t often that I could escape thinking about what I said or did in public. In today’s world, the threat of appearing on Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, Snapchat, or any new type of social media was a constant threat. Living under a microscope was exhausting.