Sometimes she slept through it.
Tonight, unfortunately, wasn’t one of those nights.
Sally was sitting up in bed, her head turned in the direction of the noise, her little face pale.
Then she threw back the covers and Fiona knew where she was going.
She always went to Prentice’s bed, got in, pulled the covers over her head and waited until it was over and Prentice was back. Then she’d cuddle close, his arms would wrap around her, and she’d sleep with her Daddy.
When this happened, Fiona would stay with them for awhile and then she’d spend the rest of the night hovering next to Jason.
Sally jumped out of bed and Fiona floated with her.
But Sally didn’t go to Prentice’s room.
She ran to the stairs. Then she ran down them. Then she ran through the great room, down the hall and she turned to the stairs to the guest suite.
Fiona’s ghostly bottom half kept floating forward even as her ghostly torso locked in place and she stared with ghostly eyes at what she saw.
Sitting on the stairs, leaned nearly double, her elbows at her knees, her forehead resting in the palms of her hands in a pose that screamed anguish, was Isabella Evangahlala.
As Fiona’s legs settled back, Isabella’s head came up and her eyes locked on Sally.
Then she opened her arms and legs and Sally, who had halted, raced into the woman’s arms.
Those arms closed around Fiona’s daughter.
And they closed tight.
They held onto each other while the muted sounds of Jason’s shouts drifted toward them.
Finally, Sally’s head tilted back.
“Can I sleep with you?” she asked in a timid, sad voice that tore at her mother’s ghostly heart.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Isabella answered softly.
And, even though Fiona knew Sally had to weigh a ton, Isabella picked her up and carried her to bed.
Fiona floated next to the bed as Isabella tucked Sally’s back to her front, cuddling her close, cradled in her arms and she started singing Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” softly into the back of Sally’s hair.
Sally fell asleep.
Isabella curled her neck so her face was in the top of Sally’s hair.
Then Isabella fell asleep.
And Fiona decided that yes, she was back to hating Isabella.
Because now, Fiona was jealous of Isabella Austin Evangahalala.
And Fiona had a lot more to be jealous of.
* * * * *
Prentice
Prentice was surprised to go back to his room and see his bed empty.
He thought after that episode with Jason (likely made worse by Isabella foolishly, and unkindly, talking about his dead mother), Sally would have woken and climbed in his bed.
In case she was awake and upset in her own bed, Prentice went to her room. She wasn’t there either.
He felt fear slice through him and he moved out of her room, checked the playroom and then went swiftly down the stairs.
She wasn’t on the couch in the great room or the one in the television room. He looked in his study and then stood in the hall wondering where the hell his daughter was.
Then, slowly, his head turned to look down the hall.
Sally would go there. No doubt about it.
The door to the guest suite was open but Sally wasn’t on the couch.
The door to the bedroom of the suite was open as well and Prentice stood in it seeing Sally’s dark hair and Isabella’s blonde against the pillows.
He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at them in a room bathed in moonlight.
His daughter was nestled snug in the curve of Isabella’s body, her arms tight around the girl. Isabella’s hair was blended with Sally’s, dark and light. The sheet was down at Isabella’s waist and he could see she had some lacy nightgown on.
Prentice’s first demented thought was to climb in bed with them.
He had no idea where that thought came from and he cast it aside instantly.
His second thought was to rip his daughter from that bitch’s arms and take her far away.
Instead, he strode from the room, went to his study, poured himself two fingers of whisky, walked to his bedroom, put on a sweatshirt and walked onto the balcony.
Dinner had been interesting.
The woman he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago had come back, though not completely.
There was no fidgeting energy and mile-a-minute conversation, not that Isabella could get a word in edgewise.
But she had her long, thick hair (and it pissed him off but he had to admit that he liked the blonde, it looked too f**king good on her) tied up in one of those haphazard knots that made her look effortlessly beautiful (which she, unfortunately, was) rather than coolly beautiful.
She wasn’t dressed in some ludicrously expensive designer outfit that made her look untouchable but track pants and a tunic that made her look real as well as sexy as all hell.
She laughed uproariously and uncontrollably when Sally had her incident with the flour and, he further hated to admit it, but Isabella’s face in abandoned laughter was, just as he remembered it, stunning.
And she hadn’t made his daughter feel a fool for her childish mistake.
She’d smiled often at both Sally and Jason during dinner, engaging with Sally in her jabbering and carefully drawing out Jason like she was a qualified grief counselor.
And she cooked like a f**king dream.
But she completely ignored Prentice like he didn’t exist.
Completely.
Prentice found this annoyed him.
Then he found the fact that this annoyed him annoyed him even more.
Now he found the fact that he was thinking about it at all annoyed him even more.
He sipped from his drink.
Isabella seemed determined to insinuate herself in his children’s hearts.
And she was, as ever, f**king good at it.
Sally was already half in love with her and Jason hadn’t talked about his mother with anyone but Prentice since she died.
Prentice took another sip from his drink.
He had two choices; kick her out or let her do her worst with his children and pick up the pieces when she left them behind.
Kicking her out meant breaking Annie’s heart and Annie had enough heartbreak in her life, she didn’t need any more.
And his children had been left behind by a far better woman than Isabella Evangelista and they were surviving.
And, even though Isabella was a part of it, Prentice liked hearing laughter in his kitchen and seeing his son grin. Jason hadn’t grinned for months.
He took another sip of the whisky.
He had no choice really and he found that annoyed him most of all.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered to the sea.
* * * * *