Make Me Lose Control

Now her mother was dead and her father absent from the scene. Yet the fifteen-year-old was keeping it together, despite the dark wardrobe. Shay had to imagine London felt alone. But Shay understood loners because of her own outsider feelings, and so tried to give the girl space, as well as boundaries. Companionship when the teen would tolerate it.

The girl tousled Mason’s hair, the smallest of smiles tipping up the corners of her lips. Yes, London was a survivor, and Shay had to admire that, too.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked her now.

Her mask of boredom resettled firmly in place. “Sure.”

“Are you ready to go home?”

“Whatever.” But the world-weary facade again slipped a little as they said their goodbyes. Mason was impossible to ignore when he gifted her with a ferocious little-boy hug, and she again ruffled his hair while expressing polite thanks to Poppy.

The four drifted toward Shay’s car. As London stowed her belongings and then climbed into the passenger seat, Poppy stayed by the driver’s side. “We need to have lunch,” she said through Shay’s window.

“To discuss the cabins?”

Poppy shook her head. “To discuss you. Something’s different about you.”

Buckling her seat belt gave her an excuse to avoid her sister’s comment, and soon she had the car turned in the direction of Blue Arrow Lake. Her sigh of relief was lost in the hum of the car engine and for the first time she actually appreciated her teen charge’s usual dour silence.

So she was completely gobsmacked when the girl shifted in her seat and willingly addressed Shay for maybe the first time ever. “Yeah,” she said. “What happened to you? Something’s changed.”

* * *

SHAY AVOIDED THE teen’s question by employing a trick she’d learned from her mother: she pretended she didn’t hear it. Lorna Walker had used that ploy often and it was easy to understand why. What with four children, a spouse who’d wandered away and then wandered back, and a daughter conceived in scandal, Shay’s mom had likely been often plagued with uncomfortable—or just plain nosy—queries.

Luckily, London didn’t seem interested in bestirring herself to insist on an answer, so the ride home continued in silence. It gave Shay time to think over their upcoming schedule. After a couple of eventful days that had relaxed their usual routine, it was time to get back to normal.

Soon they were passing through the small town of Blue Arrow Lake, with its European village atmosphere that drew tourists up the hill from the big Southern California cities in the valleys and the beaches below. Small shops, boutiques and bistros catered to a crowd with money to burn on fine cheeses, fancy wines and casual, yet chic, designer apparel. The businesses appeared to be busy, even midweek, though on Saturday and Sunday they would be packed when the owners of the mansions surrounding the lake visited their vacation homes at the end of the workweek.

Blue Arrow Lake was a private body of water, and only those who owned the exorbitantly priced frontage properties were allowed docks. As they left the town behind and turned into the estate-lined narrow streets, she caught glimpses of deep blue water and the occasional powerboat or sailboat cutting across the surface. No one walked the streets. They didn’t encounter another car.

Still, Shay couldn’t help her recurring fancy from popping up, the one that revolved around London’s absent father. She’d never spoken with the man. After the death of his ex-wife, he’d apparently turned over his daughter’s care—temporarily, she was told, while he finished up some business in the faraway country of Qatar—to a factotum in his company. The aforesaid factotum, one dry and gray Leonard Case, had interviewed Shay via Skype. Then, he’d brought the stoic teen and her plethora of belongings to the cavernous mansion where Shay had met the two in person.

Leonard Case had lasted forty minutes before he returned to wherever he’d come from.

Ever since that day, she’d imagined herself running into her employer, Jace Jennings, accidentally. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, but she’d drummed up this idea that it would happen like governess Jane Eyre coming across her as-yet-unknown Mr. Rochester when he and his horse fell on an icy causeway almost at her feet. Of course, now wasn’t the time of year for frosty conditions, and the entire idea was beyond ridiculous, but still Shay couldn’t help herself from keeping a lookout for a frowning, rough-looking traveler.

There was no sign of anyone, of course.

And the house they now approached was no Gothic Thornfield Hall.

Instead it was a massive modern two-story, all steel and glass, with two walls made entirely of windows and a sleek deck that wrapped the entire structure. The prow of it jutted toward the lake, giving the impression of a ship preparing to set sail on the water.

It was butt ugly.

There wasn’t a homey touch about the place.

As they came to a stop in the drive, London sighed, as if she were thinking the same thing. They both pulled their belongings from the backseat. As the teen hitched the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder, Shay felt another ping of guilt. Not over her brief fling this time, but because she’d left her own computer behind at the house while on her birthday adventure. Not once had she thought about finding a way to check her email. What if Jace Jennings had responded to one of her reports about his daughter at last?

Though that seemed highly unlikely.

Since taking over London’s care, she’d delivered weekly missives to the email address provided by his factotum. At first they’d been news-filled and professional—the topics they’d covered during school hours, his daughter’s excellent progress on catching up to grade-level standards—but at his continued silence she’d begun writing more and more outrageous things in order to provoke a response.

I’ve decided to replace our trigonometry lessons with tango instruction.

Yesterday, we studied literature by reading Celeb! magazine from cover to cover.

Our chemistry field trip was a trek to the local chocolate factory.

So far, no reply.

Inside the house, together they mounted the stairs to their separate bedrooms. “It’s your turn to dust,” Shay reminded the girl, noting the sparkling motes dancing in the sunshine streaming through the windows.

London paused and turned her head, her black-lined eyes narrowing. “I dusted last time.”

“Nope,” Shay said, her voice cheery. “That was me. Of course, if you’d prefer to vacuum—”

“God, no,” London said, and stomped off, each heavy footstep communicating her mood.

Shay let it roll off her back. “Before dinner, all right?”

There was a mumbled answer.

When they’d first moved in, the factotum had said he’d arranged for a weekly housekeeping service. She’d told him not to bother. Cleaning up after oneself was its own lesson, and she’d guessed correctly that it was a lesson the teen had yet to learn. So they split the chores and Shay was unmoved by the eye rolling, the grumbles and the can’t-I-do-it-tomorrow? pleading. Lately, she’d even caught a small smile of satisfaction on London’s face at a well-swept floor or a lemon-wax-polished table.

Inside her bedroom, she caught a whiff of that pleasant scent. It was a large room, with views that overlooked the lake. The four-poster bed was modern in design, but its stark lines were softened by a white lace-edged duvet she’d brought from home. On the cube table beside the bed sat a photo of the Walkers, from when both her mother and Dell Walker had been alive. Shay paused to scrutinize it now. She often did, looking for similarities between her and her siblings, and her and her mother. Shay’s hair color was different from everyone else’s in the family, and she’d always assumed she’d gotten it from the man who’d made her mother pregnant.

The one who’d never bothered to reach out to Shay.

She’d never reached out to him, either. Not even with an innocuous email, let alone an outrageous one.

I’ve decided to replace our trigonometry lessons with tango instruction.

Remembering that, Shay glanced toward her laptop. Out of obligation more than expectation, she turned it on and clicked to her email program. New posts popped up and she ran her gaze down the listing. Something from a high school friend. Another sent to her by an acquaintance she’d made on the homeschool message board she visited. And then her eyes caught on a brand-new sender: JJennings.

Her finger jerked on the mousepad; she blinked, then she clicked to open the email. Oh. My. God.

Shay dashed from the room. “London,” she yelled, forgetting the name of the day. “We have an emergency.”

The girl took her sweet time to saunter to her doorway. “What? Is this about my paper on Romeo and Juliet? I know it was a little trite to compare and contrast the play with that Taylor Swift song—”

“Your father is due to arrive here today.”

London’s insouciance shattered like a glass hitting the floor. Her jaw fell, too. “What?”

“Anytime now. Well, he didn’t give a time, so who knows when?” Shay forked her fingers through her hair. “Or maybe he came by already and we missed him. Do you think he came by when we weren’t here?”

She was aware she was babbling and that the teen was staring, but Shay couldn’t help her jangling nerves and the acute, uncomfortable awareness of those emails she’d been sending.