Downfall by S.D. Wasley

  ****

  One of the annoying things about Albion was how little he suffered from hangovers. He was chirpy in the morning, waking me from my attempt to lie in.

  “Come on, Frankie!” he said, raising the aquamarine blind. “Breakfast at the Main House today. Sunday is Antonia’s cooked breakfast and it’s just what I need this morning. Then afterwards, a swim, and you can tell me exactly what kind of a kisser Jude McBride is.”

  I donned some slippers and we crossed the lawn in our pajamas. At just eight in the morning the sun already had a bite.

  “I didn’t kiss Jude, you know. And I already told you why. We used to dig up worms together!”

  “The couple that plays together, stays together,” Albion said promptly. “Seriously, Frankie ... have you even looked at him since you got back? He’s yummy now! Hair the color of an Augur’s Well wheat field, eyes like the summer sky. Abs like a frickin’ cliff-face. For real. You could climb the guy, given a harness and helmet.”

  “Kinky,” I couldn’t help remarking.

  We both laughed but Albion gave me a shove. “You’re crazy to miss this opportunity. He’s into you. And if you knock him back, Olivia is quite prepared to pick up the pieces and offer him some sweet, sweet sympathy.”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t change the way I felt. All through our early school years it had been me, Marnie and Jude, best buddies. The thought of Marnie made me sad. I pictured her sitting there at her first university lecture and an unexpected pang of envy hit. Maybe I should have tried harder to study and pass my senior year. Marnie and I had often discussed our university plans together.

  “I see Nessa,” Albion said suddenly.

  “Where?” I followed his gaze. My sister was sitting at the sunroom breakfast table with Uncle Max. Great.

  “Dad must have invited her for breakfast.” Albion looked at me, his face softening in sympathy. “Don’t let it get to you, Frankie. I think she’s sorry for what happened.”

  “And I’m just supposed to forgive her?” I didn’t feel especially hungry anymore.

  “She got burned, too. And she’s your big sister.”

  “In age, yeah. But in maturity and morals ...”

  “Yes, yes. We all know you’re the clever, responsible one,” he huffed.

  That stung but there was no time to fight back because we’d arrived at the sunroom door. Albion ushered me inside and we took our places while Antonia poured the coffee.

  “Hi, Dad,” Albion said. “Morning, Antonia. Morning, Vanessa. Food! Give me food!”

  Vanessa laughed at us. “You two are so cute in your jammies and slippers.”

  Uncle Max greeted us beneficently, touching a finger to his impressive moustache. “Buongiorno. How’s our little Francesca, eh?”

  Unlike my dad, who’d been going by Carver since he published his first book, Uncle Max was proud of our Italian heritage. Dad and Uncle Max were the only remaining members of the Caravaggio emigration but it was my uncle who maintained the traditional family pasta night, not to mention solid friendships with all the Italian grape growers in the region.

  “Good, thanks, Uncle Max. You?”

  “Fighting fit! Big night, Alby?” He smiled indulgently as Antonia placed more food on the table. “I hope you’re looking after Frankie.”

  Neither of us mentioned the less-than-stellar job Albion had done of looking after me the night before, but Uncle Max didn’t seem to need an answer. He refocused on his newspaper. “Can’t believe this bullsh―bull dust about the tannery,” he muttered.

  “How’s the Old House?” Vanessa asked me. She wanted me to speak to her, to affirm things were okay between us. Maybe you should have worried about that before you got us thrown off the tour, I thought.

  “Good.” I pretended to concentrate on serving myself some omelet.

  “It was hot last night,” Albion said, pouring coffee. “We need better climate control in there.”

  Uncle Max didn’t even look up from his paper. “If you want better climate control, move back into the Main House.”

  Albion sipped and made a face. “And we seriously need an espresso machine.” Uncle Max remained unmoved.

  “I’ve got one at Dad’s,” Vanessa said. “Come by for coffee whenever you like, Alby.”

  He nodded. “I will. Are you okay over there, all by yourself?” he added curiously.

  Vanessa shrugged. “It’s pretty dull. Antonia and I get along but―” she lowered her voice and glanced toward the kitchen “―all she does is work. It’s so boring. I almost miss having a job,” she joked, but I stiffened immediately and Vanessa dropped her gaze.

  Breakfast descended into an uneasy silence. It was a relief when Albion and I were finally able to retreat to our own living quarters. We left Vanessa fidgeting glumly with her phone while Uncle Max frowned over an article, oblivious to the undercurrent.

  Albion shot me a sidelong glance. “I’m gonna have to host a reconciliation, aren’t I?”

  “Time. That’s what we need.” I doubted my own words.

  “Is whatsisname still in touch with Vanessa?”

  “Brendan.” I emphasized his name but it simply didn’t have the same effect on Albion that it had on everyone else in my family. “No way. At least, I don’t think so. He’d better not be or Dad’ll get his bodyguard onto him.”

  “It’s all so soap opera.” Albion grinned irreverently. “Rakish young tutor gets involved with wealthy evangelist’s eldest daughter―”

  “Dad’s not an evangelist,” I interrupted.

  “While he should have been helping the pretty senior prepare for her final exams he was giving the older daughter a different kind of education,” Albion went on, his voice heavy with innuendo.

  “Stop it.”

  “Scandal! Unwanted pregnancy for the eldest, the youngest flunks high school, and Don Carver’s new, much younger wife is suddenly at risk of becoming a relatively minor news story in the evangelist’s life―”

  “Alby!” I snapped. “It’s not funny. It sucks. All of it.”

  “What are you madder about? Nessa’s affair with Brendan or Starr taking your job?”

  His words burned. And I hated myself because, despite flunking high school due to my tutor being caught up in romancing my sister ... and despite Vanessa’s secret affair and subsequent abortion, Albion had hit on my secret: what bugged me more was that Dad had given my treasured job as his PA to his new wife, the twenty-eight-year-old Starr. I clamped my mouth shut.

  “Yeah. I know what that means,” Albion said. “Starr-with-the-double-ahh gets first preference again.”

  To my utter disgust, tears welled in my eyes. I refused to blink in case they fell, staring resolutely at Uncle Max’s swimming pool.

  Albion nudged me. “You still got Don Carver credit cardholder rights?”

  “Yeah ...”

  “How about a shopping trip at the mall?” he suggested, eyes twinkling. “Don’t get mad, get even.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Sold.”