Page 30 of Expecting an Argument
Olivia turned the journal over in her hands and furrowed her brows. “Am I supposed to write like a diary? Or write as if I’m speaking to the babies? Do I write every day? How long shouldthe entries be?”
The constant questions stabbed me in the temple. “Damn it, Adams, it’s not an assignment.”
Olivia sucked in her lower lip and Mom tossed me a look—a look that told me she was about to send me to arealtime-out corner.
Mom turned back to Olivia. “It doesn’t matter what you write as long as it’s the truth.”
Olivia nodded and an awkward, heavy silence followed. Her brown eyes darted around beneath her glasses frames. “Um…I love how you decorated.”
The wainscoting in the hallway was painted a glossy maroon. The dusty pink wallpaper looked like random filigrees at first glance, but was actually repeating images of writhing nude women. A long collage of disembodied blue eyes and colored beetles was pasted along the ceiling.
I made it a point to rarely go into the guest wing.
Mom glanced at the horror show on the ceiling. “I was on a coke bender when I did this, but I’m glad someone around here appreciates a strong message.”
She clapped me on the back. “Come on, Beau. Make me a drink so we can let the poor girl nap.”
Before she walked toward the landing, Mom gave my hand a sharp squeeze. The wordless command was clear:“Tell her nothing.”
I glanced back at Olivia as she retrieved her e-reader and settled back into the alcove. Staying in the manor made her way too close to our secrets. Mom was right to be concerned that Olivia could pass along whatever she learned to her big-mouthed friend. Scandal gets attention, and who knew what Ashley and Tyson would do for even more social media fame?
I might have believed Olivia when she said she wasn’t after our money, but everyone else always was.
Bringing Olivia to the house was a risk, I knew that from the very beginning. Weighing the well-being of the Fontaine babies against the security of the Fontaine legacy was a tough decision, but the babies had won. The babies would win every time.
I would just have to keep Olivia at arms-length to mitigate damage. No, further than arms-length. She was both an obligation and a liability, like a dormant fire bomb that could destroy everything.
And I had already been destroyed too many times to risk it happening again.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans as I headed down the hallway after Mom, hoping Grandpa would still be proud of me even though I put the entire family legacy in jeopardy.
The second trimester began without fanfare.
I wasn’t expecting a “You survived!” banner to unfurl over my bed as confetti rained from the ceiling, but I was still surprised that very little had changed by the thirteenth week of pregnancy.
I still had to take my anti-nausea medicine twice a day. I still slept between ten and fourteen hours. I still had to suck down my water regardless of how I felt.
Each morning, I rolled out of bed and lumbered downstairs to report to the kitchen. Like the manor’s foyer, the kitchen was decorated like it was the product of a fever dream brought on by expired cough syrup. The counters were made of white stone sprinkled with small colorful inclusions that might have been sea glass. Shining magenta glass balls hung from the ceiling. The cabinets were all painted bubblegum pink. The glossy floor tiles were the exact color of blue cotton candy.
Though the decor was saccharine enough to give me a cavity,the actual cooking appliances were all business. The range was a cast iron behemoth with eight burners and shining gilded handles. Every pot and pan was made from gleaming copper. The sink was big enough to be a bathtub.
Beau, of course, was also all business.
As soon as I sat at the long kitchen island that looked like a large piece of birthday cake, Beau would wordlessly present me with my yellow cup and a stack of pancakes. I could no sooner pick up my fork for breakfast before he would mix his protein shake, make an excuse of needing to work, and leave.
The silence made mealtimes awkward, but I had to admit Beau was a good cook. He could make just about anything from the groceries he had delivered to the house. Pasta primavera. Filet mignon. Beef Wellington. I once asked him why he didn’t hire a personal chef if he was so rich and he curtly replied that he didn’t like people being in the house.
He was being so cagey that I stiffened every time he walked into the room. The only time he broke our strange parallel existence was when he gave me food or checked on my water intake—making me feel rather like a toothless lion in a zoo.
Hell, the manor felt like a zoo, or at the very least an odd museum. I had wandered around the manor for exercise and each room I explored brought more questions than answers. The formal living room had a bookcase that was really a door into a small bar. An upstairs half bath was decorated floor-to-ceiling with mirrors and had a clear acrylic toilet. I ignored the third floor, too afraid of what oddities could exist in the attic.
Attics had become bad luck for me, anyway.
The most puzzling room of all was an unfinished nursery in the family wing. Squares of cornflower blue and delicate pink paint samples were still taped on the walls. A teddy bear sat abandoned on the floor. The cushioned wooden rocking chair appeared to be a family heirloom, but the white crib looked likeit was fresh out of those inch-thick luxury furniture catalogues the partners at my old firm would get.
I might have asked Beau if he had been working on a nursery for the twins if he weren’t so icily aloof.
His room, I discovered, was always locked.
