Chapter 7 - The Long Branch Winter
By November, the summer heat was nothing but a memory that lived in the rust on the lawnmowers behind the garage.
The house in Long Branch sat on a high, black stone cliff overlooking the Atlantic, its glass walls designed to face the grey, foaming waves that came roaring in from the east like a line of wild horses. The water here wasn't blue; it was the color of lead, heavy and loud, the sound of the surf hitting the rocks below the terrace six times a minute like a pulse inside the floor.
Luca sat on a low sheepskin rug in the center of the library, playing with a set of small silver trains Anthony had brought back from a meeting in Chicago. He was bigger now, his cheeks full, his gray eyes clear of the fish he had seen in the Lomas pool four months ago.
"Elena," he said, holding up a small locomotive with the initials P.R.R. stamped into the boiler.
"Yes, Luca?" I was sitting at the mahogany desk near the window, typing a list of dietary restrictions for the new kitchen staff into a laptop that didn't have an internet connection. The only wire that came out of the back went directly into the security office downstairs.
"Is the water cold today?"
"Very cold, Luca," I said, looking out at the gray foam against the rocks. "The kind of cold that turns your fingers blue."
"Dad says we're going to the big sand next week," the boy said, his train clicking against the brass track. "The house where the trees have the big green leaves. He said you're coming too."
The door of the library opened without a sound.
Anthony walked in. He was wearing a long, dark gray cashmere coat that smelled of the salt air from the cliff, his leather gloves tucked into his pocket. He had spent three days in Newark, settling the final distribution of the Moretti assets with the federal bankruptcy trustee, and his face looked leaner, the skin over his jaw tight and pale from the winter light.
He didn't look at his son. He walked over to the desk, his hand reaching down to slide a small, white envelope across the lacquer surface until it touched the edge of the laptop.
"The doctor from Johns Hopkins sent the clearance," Anthony said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that seemed to belong to the sound of the surf outside. "Clara’s white blood cell count is within the safety margin. They're releasing her from the pavilion on Tuesday."
My fingers froze over the keyboard. I didn't look at the envelope; I looked at his gloves. "Releasing her to where?"
"To the house in Florida," Anthony said, his gray eyes fixing on my face with that absolute, possessive stillness that hadn't changed since the pool. "The Palm Beach property has a guest house near the orchard. It has a private nurse’s station and a filtration system for the salt air. She’ll be there by five o'clock Tuesday afternoon."
I stood up from the chair, my hands clenching into fists behind the wool of my new skirt—a thick, dark navy weave that Anthony had chosen himself from a catalog in New York.
"You're moving her without my permission," I said, my voice shaking.
"I'm protecting my investment, Elena," Anthony said, stepping closer until his coat brushed the edge of the desk. "The clinic in New Jersey was too close to the transit line. The Moretti cousins still have two cousins who work the freight yards in Trenton. In Florida, the only people who cross the line are the ones who have a pass from my office."
"She's my sister, Anthony!" I shouted, using his first name for the first time in four months.
The small silver train stopped clicking against the track.
Luca looked up from the rug, his gray eyes wide, darting between his father’s face and mine with a sudden, sharp memory of the red corridor under the mansion.
Anthony didn't flinch. He reached out and caught my chin between his fingers, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath my jaw until my head was tilted back toward the glass roof.
"She is your sister, Elena," he murmured, his breath cool against my mouth, his winter eyes turning dark as the Atlantic outside. "And you are the woman who took my son out of the pool. That means she stays in the sun. And you stay with me. The contract was signed when you threw the glass."
May you like
He let go of my chin, his fingers moving down to smooth the collar of my navy blouse with a care that felt more terrifying than a blow.
"Tell the housekeeper to pack the linen dresses," he said to his son as he walked toward the door. "The Florida house has too many windows for the wool."
