Cursed Page 2

  I’ve existed in a numb state for the past few days. It’s like I’m living outside my body, hovering and watching the aftermath of my mother’s death unfold like one big horrible nightmare. I wish it was only a nightmare. I’m no stranger to those. But I know I’ll never be able to shake this dark reality, not even if they do find the person responsible for ending my mother’s life. Justice isn’t enough to replace what I lost.

  If I hadn’t gotten into trouble at school, she would never have had to go back to work in the first place. And then maybe she wouldn’t have taken off the bracelet that, in her mind, protected her all these years. If it weren’t for me, she would still be here. I can’t turn back the clock, and that fact alone creates an all-consuming guilt that I’ll live with forever.

  “We’re almost there, Katrina. Just a few more minutes.”

  The blond woman driving introduced herself to me at the police station as my grandmother’s caretaker, Charlotte. She seems nice enough, but the fact that everyone expected for me to get up and leave with her as if we were old friends was the most unnerving experience. From there, she made sure the police had the information they needed from me, helped me gather my things, and arranged for a moving company to take the rest of our belongings and apartment furnishings to a storage facility. Now, we’re on our way to my grandmother’s home in Florida.

  I tug at the chain wrapped around my wrist. My skin is rubbed raw beneath it. The damn piece of jewelry feels like more of a handcuff than a present from my mother. The stubborn latch refuses to open, and no matter what I try to snap the chain, it won’t come off. With a frustrated sigh, I release the bracelet and pinch my lids closed.

  The drive from Silver Lake to Apollo Beach is over nine hours, but it feels as if we’ve been moving through quicksand, the earth is swallowing me whole as the world I once knew slowly disappears from view. A chill sweeps over me as I take in the unfamiliar setting. There is an immediate sense of distinction and exclusivity in the coastal city just south of Tampa.

  We turn onto a main drive and slow as we pass dozens of residential inlets. Squinting, I struggle to make out smokestacks in the near distance, their white plumes evaporating into the darkening sky. It’s such a strange sight compared to the spacious and immaculate appearance of the rest of the town. Every building we drive by looks brand-new, and every car we pass appears to sparkle like it just came from the wash. Even in the fading sunlight, I can see that the landscape is perfectly fitting for a home-and-garden magazine.

  “Once you settle in, I think you’ll love it here.” Charlotte tosses me a small, tentative smile. “We live in a small town, but I assure you, it’s a lively one. You’ll make friends in no time and…”

  My gaze catches on the T in the road ahead as I tune Charlotte out. She’s been nothing but nice to me since the moment I met her, but I’m in no mood for awkward small talk. Instead, I focus on a guy jogging on the sidewalk in front of us. Even from here, I can see that he’s muscular and fit, like a pro-wrestler ready for the fight of his life. He’s wearing a black cap that shades his eyes, a black tank top that grips his muscles in all the right places, and a pair of black shorts that hang down to his knees.

  I’m transfixed by his perfect technique—steady and effortless. It’s a strange thing to notice, but I love the sport of running. It has been the only form of a healthy release that has worked for me over the past two years. Even though I made a daily habit of putting in the miles, I was never good enough to make Silver Lake High’s team. But this guy…

  I’m caught up in his rhythm, finding his pacing almost soothing to my soul, when he grips the bottom of his top and yanks it over his head, revealing a sheen of sweat on deliciously taut muscles. My heart jumps into my throat. They don’t make boys like him in Silver Lake—I know that much.

  We’re approaching the T in the road just as he starts to jog across our path. He’s close enough that I can maybe see his eyes beneath the shade of his cap, so I try. I don’t know why my curiosity about this guy is at an all-time high, but I can’t stop wishing he would just look up. Just once, so I can see him.

  Charlotte turns left so the guy is directly to my right. Look up, my thoughts command as if he can hear me.

  He slows, his chin tips up, and his shaded gaze finds mine. A current of energy zaps me and runs through my veins like I’ve been lit from within. He stops in his tracks, his bare chest heaving and revealing his exertion, and he turns his head to hold my stare.

  For a split second, I imagine he feels it, too—a connection, a spark, something—but his gaze darkens into a full-blown glare, filling me with pure and utter mortification. He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. The aftershock is worse than the initial sting.

  My embarrassment is slowly seeping through my clothes and my pores until it shocks me to the bone, jolting me right back to the present.

  I gasp and look forward before blinking hard and sliding down farther into my seat. What the hell was that?

  “Katrina, are you okay?”

  I turn to face Charlotte, knowing that the rapid rise and fall of my chest is a dead giveaway to my nerves. At least she doesn’t know what caused my reaction. That would be humiliating. I just got caught ogling some grumpy-looking dude who was out for an innocent run. “Yeah. I-I’m fine.” I shake my head and bite down on my bottom lip, knowing my words are a lie. I’m not fine at all. “You said we’re almost there?”

  Her smile reaches her eyes, calming me some, then she looks forward and nods, gesturing to something. I look out the front windshield to find a large wrought-iron gate with a gold S ornament at its center and a security booth between two lanes of traffic. Charlotte stops to activate the gate. A sign just in front of the guard booth that reads Summer Estates.

  I furrow my brows at the irony. “Summer Estates? As in Rose Summer, my grandmother, or is that a coincidence?”

  Charlotte’s brightening smile answers my question before she speaks. “It’s no coincidence, Katrina. Your grandparents funded the development of this neighborhood nearly forty years ago.” She does a double take, her smile slipping some. “How much has your mom told you about Apollo Beach and your grandmother?”

  I wonder if my expression is as blank as my knowledge. “Nothing, really. Just that Rose lives here and that things were complicated between the two of them.”

  Charlotte nods and rests her shoulders back against the seat. “Well, then I suppose there is a lot of catching up to do.”

  I cringe at the thought of catching up with a family member who hasn’t tried at all to get to know me. I’m dreading every bit of my new situation, but I know better than to act on my thoughts. My mother’s death shocked us all. I should be grateful that my grandmother offered to take me in, but that feeling is lost beneath the grief that still rocks my soul.

  We enter the subdivision, if one can even call it that. Houses the size of museums sit on either side of the winding street, complete with marble drives, intricate stone carvings, and large columns. The three-decades-old community appears to be in immaculate condition. My stomach turns as discomfort snakes through me. I do not belong here.

  We pull into the rounded drive at the back corner of the street, where the biggest house of them all looms before us. My jaw drops, and I look at Charlotte, waiting for her to start laughing and tell me that this is all one big joke. This cannot be my grandmother’s home. Amusement is not what I find on her face.

  “Welcome to Summer Manor, Katrina.” Charlotte beams. “You’re home.”

  I register that word again with a shudder. It rattles me now more than when she said it earlier. Home. This is not my home.

  I vaguely remember my mom mentioning something of my grandmother’s wealth, but this is not what I pictured.

  “I didn’t realize…” The sight of the towering Greek-structured villa before me silences me.

  “Katrina?”

  The formality of Charlotte enunciating my name snaps me out of my trance, an
d I examine her for the first time since meeting her. She is beautiful—around my mother’s age, I think—with a nice figure, flawless skin, perfect hair, and shining light-blue eyes.

  I pinch out the best smile I can muster under the circumstances. She really has been kind to me. “You can call me Kat, you know. No one really calls me by my full name.”

  Charlotte nods, showing she is all too willing to oblige. “Of course. Kat, it is.” She smiles and turns off the car. “Leave your things. I’ll have them brought up shortly.”

  I step out of the car. The peaceful sound of a water fountain comes from the base of the steps, where a rock marble statue of Apollo and Daphne stands at its center. My breath catches in my throat at the beautifully depicted moment in time when Apollo catches up to the river god’s daughter and she transforms into a laurel tree.

  Greek mythology was the only part of English class that intrigued me, and I remember their story vividly. A revengeful Eros fired one gold-tipped arrow at Apollo, making him fall helplessly in love with Daphne. Eros then fired a lead-tipped arrow at Daphne, making her impervious to Apollo’s love and indifferent to his advances. When Apollo pursued her, Daphne ran to her father, Peneus, and begged for his help. He obliged, using metamorphosis to transform her.

  Everything about the statue brings the entire story to life in one glimpse. The way Apollo’s arm circles Daphne’s torso, yet touches nothing save for the bark of the laurel tree that’s sprouting between them. The way bark grows above the earth and forms around her, with her fingers morphing into branches that have leaves sprouting from them, all while her toes transform into roots. Even their arched bodies, flowing drapery, and facial expressions reveal Apollo’s surprise and Daphne’s horror in a moment frozen in time. It’s the most beautiful piece of artwork I think I’ve ever seen.

  Breaking out of my trance, I follow Charlotte up the rounded marble steps, taking each one carefully as if not to disturb the stone at my feet. The home in front of me—or I should say mansion?—is bigger than the entire three-story apartment complex I lived in with my mom. Am I seriously going to live here?

  All the while, Charlotte sounds like a tour director reading from cue cards, personalized for my arrival. She talks about a rock pier and a private beach where neighbors gather for festivities. I listen passively as I follow her up to the front doors. I expected something nice and luxurious, but not this. A shudder shakes through my body. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it. Not the ritzy neighborhood or meeting my grandmother who never could be bothered before now. I just want my small box of an apartment, my bitchy classmates, and my overprotective mom.

  Charlotte unlocks the large double doors. The solid mahogany boasts what looks like handcrafted leaded glass and shiny brass door handles. Mesmerized by the elaborate knobs Charlotte uses to open both doors, I inhale sharply.

  In the center of the circular foyer sits an elegant sculpted-glass table. A vase filled with white, blue, and yellow feathery flowers sits on the round top. We walk straight through and to a bright white room decorated with light-blue accents.

  “This is the great room,” Charlotte gushes. “Your grandmother likes to have her tea here in the afternoon.”

  Charlotte continues to speak, but my eyes are transfixed by a large set of windows that overlook a section of Tampa Bay. I’m drawn to them as I remember bits and pieces of memories my mom shared with me about her time here. I walk closer and stare out into the vast empty space before me. I take in the bay front, where the moon hangs high over the water’s reflection. For a split second, I forget why I’m here, then a wave of emotion hits me as I view the beachfront below.

  It reminds me of the only story my mother told me about my father. About how they met. About how they fell in love. Before I have a chance to dive deeper into those memories, I hear Charlotte clear her throat.

  “Do you like it?” Charlotte asks, hope filling her voice.

  I search for the words, trying to decide how exactly one should reply to a question that sounds so simple. But my life feels anything but simple right now.

  When I don’t respond, the excitement on her face slips into something more sympathetic. “I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow. I imagine you must want to get some rest.”

  I give a pinched smile, feeling somewhat guilty for not matching her emotion. “Actually, I’d like to take a walk on the beach.”

  Charlotte’s brows fold in, revealing her disapproval. “But it’s late.”

  I shrug. “I’ve been in a car all day, and I’m wide awake.”

  Charlotte nods. “Well, all right then. Let me show you the best path.”

  The second I reach the sand, there's a release inside me I know I’ve needed. I take a deep breath, sucking in the salty sea-blown air. My toes sink into the sand with each step, the tiny grains exfoliating my skin as I glide effortlessly toward the shore. It’s easy to lose myself to the gentle breeze, but that’s not really why I wanted to come out here.

  I move blindly toward the water, peeling my black leggings and tank top from my body and tossing them aside. I free myself into the bay, like submerging myself in its depths will somehow wash away the pain and bring me closer to my mother. After all, this is where it all began.

  My heart catches in my throat as I put all my energy into each stroke, all the while recalling the story my mom once told me about how she met my father. The first memory my mom, Grace, had was of when she woke up on the shore in Apollo Beach at sixteen years old. Right here, right in front of George and Rose Summer's home. Rose’s son, Paul, carried her inside.

  Grace didn’t know where she had come from or who her parents were. All she could remember was her name, her age, and that there had been an accident, but she couldn't recall any specifics.

  Rose insisted on caring for the young girl, at least until they could help her find out where she came from. Months later, the search for Grace’s past was finally exhausted, and she became a permanent member of the Summer family. It was all such a strange and fateful turn of events, especially for the boy who had pulled her out of the water.

  Grace had a crush on Paul from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, but Paul looked at Grace as no more than the strange orphan girl who lived in his home. Unbeknownst to him, he’d already fallen for her. And the more time he spent with her, the more he began to see it for himself. They became friends first, and then one day, when they were taking a dip in the bay, Grace got caught in an undertow. Paul was right there to save her; he pulled her out of the water and held her in his arms—then he kissed her.

  From that moment on, Grace and Paul fell madly in love, and as they continued to live under the same roof, they tried to keep it from Rose and George. It was no secret.

  Once they graduated from high school, Paul proposed to Grace, and they married a year later. Just six months after the wedding, on an autumn day, Grace found out she was pregnant. After Grace gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, the fighting began. Paul disappeared, and a heartbroken Grace took her baby and moved to Spring Lake to start a new life.

  Beyond that, I don’t have any of the details. While I’ve always been curious about my father and grandparents, I could tell how upsetting the few conversations we’d had were for my mom. Quelling all that curiosity is partly what fueled my emotions during incidents like the one that happened with Steve.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been swimming when I push up from the water and open my eyes. I blink and spin in a full circle, trying to get a glimpse of the beach. Nothing. Only water surrounds me for as far as I can see. Panic sets in, sending my heart crashing into my ribs so loudly that it’s all I can hear. I swipe the water away from my eyes and try to make out something, anything, that will give me a clue as to how to get back. Surely, the lights from the homes along the beach would be enough for me to find my way home. But I’m still coming up empty.

  How could I have swum so far out that all shoreline sights would be lost? I don’t even swim that well, according
to my old gym teacher. But there’s no mistaking the eerie darkness as I desperately search my surroundings.

  I take a deep breath, trying to get my heart to slow enough for me to utilize my senses. When that doesn’t work, I do what my mother taught me when my anger first started to get me into trouble. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. Deep and slow, in and out.

  “You can do it. You are in control, Katrina. Never forget that.” I can almost sense her calming presence, hear her gentle but firm words, and feel her warm hand as it run up and down my spine.

  When I open my eyes again, a stillness takes over my senses. Even the water around me seems to go completely calm as I suck in a deep, comforting breath. Then I see lights from the bay shore. Next I hear music coming from one of the neighboring homes. Finally, I feel the current pushing me in the direction I need to go. Relief rushes through me.

  I swim back to shore and step out of the water on wobbly legs, then I throw on my clothes and look over at my grandmother’s manor. Once again, I’m hit by its size. Even from here, it stands out from the others, especially from the homes that have been robbed of a sandy beachfront and are instead protected by a retaining walls of rocks.

  Still reeling from my swim, I decide to walk it off before returning to Summer Manor. I trudge along the shore, escaping the quiet darkness of my thoughts and focusing instead on my surroundings. The music I could hear earlier seems to be coming from up ahead. I continue in that direction, and eventually, I catch sight of a group of guys are playing what seems to be a competitive game of volleyball, while a group of girls cheer them on from the pool deck above. My focus is drawn to a bronze statue of the earth goddess, Gaia, resting at one end of the pool. Her hair rises to the sky in the shape of tree roots with birds perched atop them. She’s pressing a handful of feathers to her chest, her chin cast down.