Mrs. Hayes—Aunt Betsy—is waiting for us at our apartment in the Swanson Court Hotel. She takes a sleeping Aidan from her husband and clasps him in her arms.
“Your father will be here soon,” she tells me in a gentle voice.
“If he hadn’t left in the first place, Mom wouldn’t be dead!”
My voice wakes Aidan, and he starts to wail again, asking for my mom. I run to my room and shut the door behind me. I’m lying in bed crying when Aunt Betsy comes in and takes me in her arms. I cry until I fall asleep.
After dinner, Aidan joins me in my bed. When I close my eyes, I see my mother’s hair burning behind black smoke. I put my arms around Aidan, and after he stops crying and falls asleep, I do the same.
When I wake up, my dad is slumped in a chair beside my bed, his head in his hands.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t reply. He’s crying. I want to get up and go to him, but I don’t because he’s crying so hard. After a while, he leaves the room.
My dad doesn’t come back. Mr. Hayes takes us to Windbreakers, our house near the beach. Dad is there, but he stays in his room. My grandpa and grandma come from France. They’re old, and they stay until after the funeral.
“You have to pull yourself together. Think of the boys,” my grandpa tells my dad.
Dad doesn’t reply.
“He blames himself,” Aunt Betsy tells my grandma, “but he will pull through it, for the boys.”
He never does.
My grandma and grandpa go back to France. We go back to the hotel. Aunt Betsy checks on us every day. Mr. Hayes hires more people to look after us. On weekends we go to Windbreakers, where my father remains in his room, shutting himself away from everyone, including Aidan and me.
Chapter 1
Across the table from me, Aidan is finishing the last bits of what used to be my salmon. He’s silent and focused on his food. I’m frowning in concern, thinking how ravenous he must have been. He wolfed down his food in record time before starting on mine.
The new play he’s directing is likely taking a toll on him. As a teenager, when he was intensely focused on anything—exams, a school play, a girl—he’d forget to eat. Chuckling, I shake my head and take a sip of my Pinot Noir. Everybody calls me heartless, and yet here I am, worrying like a mother hen about my twenty-four-year-old brother.
Aidan drops his fork and picks up his glass, taking a long sip as he leans back in his chair. His gaze goes to the wall-to-wall glass of the restaurant, through which the city lights shine like decorations on an endless Christmas tree. He says nothing and neither do I. When we have these dinners, verbal communication is not usual
ly the priority.
My thoughts are interrupted by a waitress—young, with long black hair and honey-toned skin. She’s slender as a bone but adequately attractive. She walks toward our table, holding a bottle of wine with a napkin at the base. I watch as she passes by, detached in my assessment of her, but as she crosses Aidan’s line of vision, I see his interest is piqued, and he sits up, only a little, but enough to make me smile in amusement.
I don’t bother to hide my smirk. “You can’t have grown tired of all the talented girls on Broadway.”
“That would be impossible,” Aidan replies matter-of-factly. “New ones keep arriving every day.”
His eyes are still on the waitress. She’s behind me now, but right in his line of sight. With obvious reluctance, he turns his gaze back to mine. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, at a younger, more carefree reflection.
He shrugs. “I’m allowed to appreciate beautiful women, even the ones who can’t act, sing, and dance.”
“Appreciate away.” I chuckle, then add seriously, “I’ve heard good things about your play.”
It’s his first time directing a play on Broadway. Off-Broadway he’s done, a couple of successful ones, but this is his first big outing, and while I don’t doubt that he’ll do great, I want to be sure he feels the same way.
“There’s only been one viewing. Nobody knows anything yet.” He frowns. “I don’t want to talk about the play. How’s the hotel?”
“Running.” I shrug. The Swanson Court is our family legacy. The multi-story hotel was built in the forties, soon after the war ended, under the supervision of my great-grandfather, Gabriel Swanson. A few years later, he almost lost it, but my grandfather, Alexander Court, saved the hotel and used his money to turn it into a world-class name in luxury. He also married Lily Swanson, Gabriel’s daughter, and changed the name of the hotel to the Swanson Court.
I own it—most of it, anyway. Aidan has his shares, but it’s mostly mine, and I run it, too. In the ten years since my father died, I’ve expanded the brand across the country and made the Swanson Court name synonymous with luxury living.
“I’m sorry I forgot.” Aidan’s voice cuts into my thoughts.