The Rebound (Girls of Summer Book 2) Page 14

  I strained my neck to see who she was running off toward, but I couldn’t make anybody out. With all the SUVs in the way, Andrea disappeared from view.

  “She’s got something going on,” Vicky said. She clutched her books to her chest. “And she’s not spilling.”

  I snorted. “Andrea loves gossip as long as it’s not about her.”

  We stopped at Vicky’s BMW. She unlocked the door with her fob and tossed her books and overloaded backpack in the backseat.

  “Daniel said Adam hasn’t been himself lately. He’s been quiet and Adam’s not talking to anybody,” she said as she closed the door. She turned and stared me in the eyes. “Did you guys break up?”

  I wanted to sidestep her question, but I also needed to talk to someone. After all the drama she had over the summer, she was probably the one person who might understand. I leaned against the front panel of her car and crossed my legs at my ankles.

  “He said he needed time to think.” I stared at my black flats, a school uniform requirement along with the white button-down shirts and black skirts. Blazers and vest with Xavier’s school crest rounded out our uniforms. “What does that even mean?”

  “Just what he said, I guess.” Vicky leaned beside me. “What happened before? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  The morning in the hotel flashed through my mind. Instead of blowing her off, I told her about it. About how I’d stopped everything. Then I told her about my freshman year and the band teacher. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I screwed up, Vicky. I never should’ve lead Adam on like that. Now he’s... I don’t know. He’s probably running back to her.”

  “You didn’t lead him on. This isn’t your fault. If he’s mad because you didn’t put out, then he’s an asshole.” Vicky ran a hand down her face. “That stuff about your teacher though. That’s pretty fucked up, Rach.”

  I laugh without humor. “That’s me though, isn’t it? Pretty fucked up. I really do like him, Vicky. So much.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s not over her. And I may be a rebound, but I’m not second place.”

  “You’re not—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Vicky.” My shoulders sagged. “If he wants to be with me, then things will work out. If not, I’ll nurse my broken heart and move on.”

  “You should fight for him,” she said with a confidence I had never felt in my life. I’d faked that too, but never truly felt it. “Tell him everything and fight.”

  “If I did, I feel like I’d lose.” I turned to face her. “I feel like I’ve already lost.”

  When I parked in the garage, both of Dad’s vehicles were already there. Thankfully, Angela’s was not. She’d been hovering around the last week. More so than usual. She normally stopped by once a day for the mail, but she’d shown up for breakfast and dinner too. I wanted to change the code at the gate.

  I went through the mudroom to the kitchen. Dad sat at the counter, a cup of coffee between his hands. His head was down. Movement near the breakfast nook caught my eye, and a man stood from the table. A man I hadn’t seen in ten years.

  “Nonno?” I asked, surprising myself by reverting to Italian the minute I laid eyes on him.

  “Bambina.” He opened his arms, expecting me to run into them as I did as a child.

  Memories flooded me of visiting Mom’s hometown in Italy. The small coastal resort her family ran flashed in my head. The warm breezes off the Mediterranean, the hot sun searing into my skin, the olive groves nearby. The gate I had kept closed for so long, opened instantly. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Where is she?” I asked. My voice was hoarse, raw, with the emotions I’d pent up for far too long. “Mom?” I shouted, keeping my gaze on my grandfather. “Mom?”

  “Rachel,” Dad said, but I wasn’t listening.

  I ran out of the kitchen, screaming for her as I searched the house. Her house. Her mural. Everything about this house was my mother’s doing. When she left, Dad refused to change anything.

  “Where are you?” I shouted in the foyer, staring up at the St. Louis mural on the ceiling. “Mom?”

  “Rachel,” Dad said again from the doorway. “She’s not here.”

  I hadn’t realized there had been hope inside me. I hadn’t realized that it was what I was feeling in that moment. It wasn’t until Dad said she wasn’t there did I deflate like a balloon with a slow leak.

  “Where is she?” I asked softly.

  He leaned against the door frame; his arms crossed over his chest. Tears rimmed his eyes.

  “Where. Is. She?” I demanded as I rushed up to him. It was almost like I was eight again. She wasn’t here. She had left us, left me, and gone home to her family in Italy.

  “She’s gone, Rachel.” The exact same words he’d said eight years ago. “This time she’s really gone.”

  “When’s she coming back?” I asked, hoping the answer was the same. He was going to say “I don’t know” this time. His eyes told me different.

  “Bambina,” my grandfather said as he stepped around Dad. His graying hair flopped over his forehead in a boyish way. It reminded me of better times, when we were happy. “Francesca was in a car accident. She did not survive.”

  I cracked in two. I didn’t realize how broken I was. One part of me, the part that held on to the hope she’d come back, shattered. The other part, the one that hated her for leaving, was solid. That was the side I grabbed onto, the side I focused on. The side I spoke from.

  “So?” I asked. My voice didn’t quiver. My gaze didn’t leave his. And what was left of my heart didn’t break even as tears spilled down my grandfather’s face. But why should I care? She left me. She left us. And she never reached out to me. Not once after my twelfth birthday. That was the last time I heard from her. “Why should I care? She didn’t give a shit about me.”

  “Rachel!” My father bellowed.

  I flinched. He hadn’t raised his voice to me in years. Not even after the disaster I created freshman year.

  “You will not speak of your mother like that,” he said in a low, deep voice. His lips snarled in disgust. “I will not have such disrespect in my house.”

  What about how she treated us? I wanted to scream.

  “She’s gone, Rachel,” he said, deflating as fast as he blew up. He repeated his words again, softer and with more despair. Then my father did something I never thought I would see. He slid down the doorframe, sobbing.

  My grandfather knelt beside Dad, putting his arms around him as if Dad was his child. I stood there in the foyer, under the mural Dad commission for Mom, not knowing what to do. One thing I did know for sure, the hole in my heart would never have the chance to heal.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I hid I my room for the rest of the night, falling asleep well before ten and waking up at the crack of dawn the next day. The hall was dark as I quietly made my way downstairs. I needed coffee. Sizzling sounded in the kitchen before the smell of fried onions and peppers hit me. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten dinner the night before. And since I was the primary cook these days, I was surprised Dad was up and making omelets.

  But it wasn’t Dad. It was Nonno.

  “Bambina,” he said with a sad smile. He rattled off something in Italian, but I shook my head. His face dropped for a moment, but he pursed his lips in determination. “It has been a while. The language will come back to you. It’s in your blood.” He pointed toward the counter. “Sit.”

  I settled onto the stool. It didn’t feel right, having him in my house. He as good as abandoned me, too. After the one summer I spent with them in Italy not long after Mom left us, I’d lost all contact with that side of the family. Nonno and Nonna didn’t try either. Why should I? Because my father always taught me to rise above any situation. It felt wrong to just walk out of the room. I sat like a dutiful child and watched him flip an omelet in the skillet.

  “Why are you here, Nonno?” I asked quietly. “Why not just call or send a letter or something? Why fly all this way?�
��

  “I did call.” He slid the omelet off the skillet with skill. With a flourish, he added ketchup as he spun the plate in a circle. He set the plate in front of me and smiled sadly. “Just like you used to love.”

  I still loved my omelets with ketchup. My heart ached. Then I heard what he said “Wait a second. When did you call?”

  “Two days ago, I call. A woman answered. She was not pleasant.” He shrugged and whipped another egg, tossing herbs and cheese into the mix. “She said she would have you call me. But the call never came so I did.”

  “Did you tell her what happened?” I asked, a pit of anger growing in my gut. “Did you tell her about ...Mom?”

  “Sí, I did, but she didn’t seem to care.” He flipped his omelet. “I bought my ticket the next day. My Maria told me it was not a good idea. That you and your father did not care for my Francesca anymore, but I had to tell you. You had a right to know your mother ...”

  It hung between us until I finished his sentence. “Gone. Mom’s really not coming back.”

  A sob escaped my lips and I covered my mouth. It came out of nowhere, but once it started, I couldn’t stop. Nonno pulled me into a hug and I cried until my omelet was cold. I hadn’t seen her in forever. I hadn’t talked to her either. Now I would never get the chance. I’d never get the chance to ask her why.

  “I knew you would care,” he said. He stroked my hair. I leaned against his chest, and all the times he’d comforted me as a child rushed back. I felt safe, protected, and loved. “Bambina, I knew you loved her still.”

  “But she didn’t love me,” I sobbed. Nonno squeezed me tighter. “She left me. She didn’t call. She never called. Why didn’t she love me?”

  Nonno pulled away and held me at arms length. “What do you mean? She called you. She wrote you. You sent them back. Or your father sent them back. You never returned her calls. Every day of her life, she missed her first born.”

  “What letters?” I wiped my tears from my cheeks and felt ten all over again. “What calls? The last time I talked to her was on my twelfth birthday.”

  Nonno’s eyebrows furrowed. He let go of my shoulders and walked to a worn leather bag sitting on the table. I waited as he dug around inside. When he turned toward me, he held a stack of letters wrapped in a tattered pink braided ribbon. A lumped formed in my throat. I had done that. I had braided the ribbon when I was six. It was my Mother’s Day gift to her. Mom always liked handmade items more than store-bought. She said the person who made them put more heart into it, more love. I was never crafty, but I tried.

  She kept it.

  All these years, she kept the ribbon.

  “These are not all she wrote,” Nonno said as he handed them to me. “Some did not come back. She never stopped writing though.”

  I took the envelopes. Some were larger than others. They were all white and the ones on top were worn with age. On the bottom, folded around the others, was a large manila envelope. I ran my finger along the ribbon, tears continued down my cheeks. It was softer than I remember.

  “She kept them, in case you ever wanted them,” he said softly. “She never gave up on you, Bambina. She loved you.”

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered to the letters. How did they get sent back? “I’ve never seen these.”

  “Scusami?”

  “I never saw these, Nonno.” I tore my gaze off the letters and met his stare. “I didn’t even get a chance to read them.”

  “But ...” He shook his head and ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair. A lock flopped back over his eyes.

  I glanced back down to the letters. In a loopy script not my own on the front of the first envelope, someone had written “Return to Sender”. I flipped through them all. I recognized the handwriting, but I couldn’t place it. The large manila envelope didn’t say anything on the outside. I opened it and spilled the contents on the counter. Ten letters addressed to me were inside. And a type written letter.

  Dear Mom,

  Stop. Please. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want anything to do with you. You left. Stay gone.

  Rachel

  I dropped it like it burned my fingers. “I didn’t write this.”

  “Write what?” Dad said as he walked into the kitchen. His hair was disheveled. Dad never left his room unless he was dressed for the day and clean. But now he wore white t-shirt and old basketball shorts. There was even a five o’clock shadow on his always clean-shaven face. My father looked older than yesterday. And more tired than he’d ever looked, even after a red eye from New York.

  I pointed to the offending letter. Dad picked it up, anger growing as he read it. Then he looked at the manila envelope on top. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curled into a snarl.

  “What?” I asked. I waved my hand over the letters as a thought crossed my mind. “Did you know about these? Did you send them back?”

  His face contorted into a mask of horror. “I would never have done that.”

  “Then who did?” I glanced down at the scrawl on the envelopes, the address on the manila one. That handwriting was familiar. I’d seen it before.

  “Angela,” Dad whispered. His shoulders slumped as he said her name. “That’s Angela’s handwriting.”

  “Who is this Angela?” Nonno asked. “Why would she do something like this?”

  I snorted. The answer was obvious.

  “What?” Dad asked as he pressed his eyes closed for a second.

  “She’s wanted to replace Mom forever,” I said, rolling my eyes. Dad didn’t deserve the eyeroll, but I couldn’t understand how he didn’t see what she wanted from him. “Why do you think she was so quick to move into the empty suite? She wants to be Mrs. Westbrook.”

  Dad opened his mouth, but he closed it just as fast. Angela had worked for him since I was five or six. I thought back over the years at all the times Angela had shown up unannounced, even when my mother still lived in St. Louis. Mom never liked Angela, a feeling she passed to me. And rightfully so. I never knew why, but I understood it more now. Mom saw Angela for what she really was: a gold digger and master manipulator.

  Nonno cleared his throat, breaking through the tension in the room. “Who is this Angela?”

  “I’ll deal with her later.” Dad turned on his heels and headed toward the hallway. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “We need to pack, Rachel. I booked us all on a flight to Italy this afternoon. Enrico, I switched your ticket to our flight and upgraded you to first class.” He stepped into the hall, adding, “It’s the least I could do.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Once we were packed, there was less than an hour before we needed to leave. I stood in the kitchen, my three bags plus carryon sitting by the door to the mudroom. Nonno’s lone bag was on the chair. He had gone back to the guest room to rest before the flight.

  The letters were still scattered in a pile on the table. I picked them up. She had written to me. A lot. I flipped through the stack, glancing at the dates. How many did Angela just throw away? The earliest postmark was not long after she left. I glanced over my shoulder. Dad was in his office doing who knew what. Nonno was in his room. I slid a steak knife under the flap, opening it for the first time since it was sealed.

  My dearest Rachel,

  I have landed in Rome. My father is on his way to pick me up and take me back to the place where I was raised. It’s always been home to me, but you are also my home. I know you do not understand why I returned to Italy. St. Louis is a home, but not the home I need right now. I’m sorry, my sweet child. I do not know how to explain this to you. I wish you were here with me, but your father would never let you out of his sight. He loves you so much.

  Please forgive me. I hope in time, you will come to understand my decision.

  Love,

  Mama

  Just when I thought I couldn’t cry anymore. My throat burned. She was right though. I didn’t understand then, but I never wanted to. All I’d wanted was for my mother to walk
back into the house and for us to be a family again. It was a pointless wish. I’d held onto it like precious gold. Even as it tarnished. I chewed on my upper lip and opened the next one.

  Dearest Rachel,

  Thank you so much for the drawing. I’ve framed it and hung it on my wall. Your art is much improved. I see how you’ve been working on shading. Please send me more. I will paper my walls with your work.

  I can’t wait until you visit this summer. My family misses you almost as much as I do. We had a group of tourists arrive at the hotel today from Los Angeles. They sat as one as I painted their portrait. A photograph would’ve been easier for them as they all fidgeted. They each paid a high sum for my work. I had to duplicate it four times so each would have their own. My fingers are raw from my brushes, but I wouldn’t change it. Painting brings me such joy.

  How is your father? Working hard I imagine. He loves his company. Please tell him I loved the video he sent of your last basketball game. You played so well. I have watched it ten times and I only received it yesterday. Ask him to send me another.

  It sounds like school is going well, my sweet child. Your last letter revealed as much. Even your handwriting has changed in a short period of time. I can see glimpses of the woman you are to become.

  I must go for now. I will write again soon.

  Love,

  Mama

  I had written to her a lot in the months since she left. When I didn’t get a response, I stopped. She never mentioned the last summer I saw her. Not once did she ask me why I didn’t write her back. I never knew she’d kept writing. How could I have?

  “Rachel?” Dad’s voice cut through my grief. “You okay?”

  “No,” I said as I put the second letter back in the envelope. “I’m not okay, Daddy.”

  He rushed into the room and pulled me against him. I sobbed into his chest like I had with my grandfather yesterday afternoon. “I’m so sorry, honey.”