He sounds annoyed but supremely unconcerned, so I relax, too. I have learned to take my cues from Jack. This is a whole new world I’m stepping into, and camouflage is my only weapon.
“Let’s get up to the Villa. I’m sure my parents will want to see you. And I’d love to show you around, if you’re not too jet-lagged. Plus, we have the meeting with the lawyers this afternoon.”
Ah, the lawyers. I’ve almost forgotten about the prenup signing. Almost...
What, you thought it was going to be different? You missed the part of the story where Prince Charming sat Cinderella down with an annuity payout schedule because the glass slipper earned interest at 4.8 percent a year? This is the Comptons we’re talking about.
Jack might love me beyond all reason, but his family will protect him at all cost.
“I’m not too bad actually. Awake enough for greetings and explorations, at least.”
“Then let’s go.”
6
The Benighted Path
I try not to gawk as we walk past the remains. Whoever the poor soul is—was—they’re now wrapped up in a blue tarp. It’s creepy, knowing that fifteen feet away lie the dusty, mud-streaked bones of a person who walked this island, who stared at the same beautiful views, who experienced joy and sadness and pain and love. A hundred years or a thousand, it’s still a person. A dead person.
I shake myself from this reverie before Jack notices. I never know when it will hit, this protective retreat. Death of any kind can do it to me. I never go to funerals, or viewings, mainly because of the horrible tradition of leaving the casket open that happens so often in the South. For years, I even had to be careful with movies and television and books, reading the online synopses and reviews first to make sure I wouldn’t be caught unawares, because a shock death of characters I cared about threw me off my stride for days. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time making sure nothing bad will happen to the people around me so I won’t be forced to witness them in their final resting state, and if their recklessness can’t be managed, I’ve cut them loose.
And now I get to mark my wedding weekend with dead intruders and skeletal remains? Lovely.
I try to put the lump under the tarp out of my mind. Jack takes my hand, and we follow the crushed shell path that meanders up the hill to the Villa.
“If we’re going to see your parents, can I change first?”
“Why? You look great. We’re fine as is.”
This is decidedly not true.
Looking at Jack’s preferred daily garb, you’d never know he was from one of the wealthiest families in America. Granted, the security muscle is a giveaway, at least marking him as someone important, but he likes to keep things casual. I look him over from head to toe: his favorite pair of striped canvas shoes desperately need a run through the washing machine, the worn Nirvana T-shirt that belonged to his favorite, now deceased uncle, has a rip under the left arm, and his button-fly Levi’s are so frayed around the edges it looks like he’s rolled down several hills in them. It is a state that can only be achieved from extensive, loving wear and benign neglect, nothing manufactured about it. How he can go from tuxedo to vagabond is stunning.
But I’ve shed my shimmering chrysalis, too.
I’m currently wearing dark skinny jeans in slightly better repair than Jack’s with an artistic rip in the knee—purchased, not worn in—a white linen button-down, a thin black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and Converse high-tops. My hair is screwed up in a bun on top of my head, but I can feel tendrils floating around my face, escaping the clip. My nails are short and painted black.
This is my summer uniform. In winter, the Converse are swapped out for a pair of luscious buttery brown leather Frye boots I inherited after a roommate decided she didn’t like them anymore, or my disreputable Doc Martens, and I cover my white tops with a heavier leather jacket or sweater, depending on the function. Simplicity. I like simplicity beyond all measure. I no longer use my body as a canvas—I leave that to my art.
“We look like we’ve been traveling. Your mom—”
“Loves you just the way you are, as I do.”
If she had met me when Jack did, I wonder what she would have thought. It was bad enough he brought home an artist whose biggest sale was the result of Jack’s own checkbook. One pierced and tattooed—I didn’t exactly fit the wholesome family image the Comptons were shooting for. I’ve worked hard on that image. I didn’t want to give them any reason to dissuade Jack from my side.
But they seem to like me. I’ve never gotten any weird vibes off his mother. She’s not clinging to her baby boy and pushing me away. Actually, she has been quite the opposite—loving, engaged but not overbearing, respectful of our time and desires for privacy, and interested in my art for its own sake. If this continues, she will be the perfect mother-in-law. And his father is relatively absent from our relationship. Though he and Jack work together and I’ve seen some fraught moments, he’s never been anything but kind to me.
The walk from the dock up the hill to the Villa gives me a chance to calm myself. The island has seen a wet spring and the path is fragrant with the heady aroma of the blooms. The florals are nearly overwhelmed by the warm scent of fresh lemon. No wonder, the lemon groves along the path sport monstrous fruits; I’ve never seen such a thing. They are everywhere, like mutant, aromatic tennis balls hanging on the hills, perfuming the air.
I hear barks, deep throated and sharp. Jack smiles. “Here they come. Okay, remember what I told you. The wolf dogs are highly trained but the first time you meet them—”
Two massive silver-and-black dogs burst around the corner, braying at our intrusion. I have never seen such gorgeous creatures. Jack told me all about his family’s dogs, all descended from an original brother and sister, bred specifically for protection and companionship. Lupo Italiano—Italian wolf dogs—a supposed cross between a wolf and a German shepherd.
These two look more like wolves to me. Sleek and huge, they look like they eat elk for dinner. One elk to one dog. Good grief.
I stand still. They reach Jack first, but only give him a cursory glance—it is me they’re interested in. I wait, allowing them to come to me. They do, snuffling delightedly at my sneakers, rubbing against my jeans. The slightly bigger of the two puts his nose into my hand.
The second dog is yipping in excitement. Jack gets down on one knee, grabs the beast by the ears, and starts talking to him like he’s a baby. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Who’s a good boy?”
The bigger dog is still nosing my hand. I move slowly—he could take it off with one bite should he want to—but when I scratch his ear, he closes his eyes in bliss and leans against my leg.
“He likes you.” Jack is grinning, looking at me in admiration. “That’s Romulus. This is Remus. They’re my grandfather’s, but we get along fine, don’t we, boys?”