When I Let You Go (Let Me Book 6) Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Lily Foster

  When I Let You Go

  by Lily Foster

  IBSN: 9780998916712 (eBook)

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living and dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover Typography: Scarlett Rugers Design

  www.scarlettrugers.com

  Interior Formatting: Elaine York/Allusion Graphics

  www.allusiongraphics.com

  Other Titles by Lily Foster

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Let Me Be the One

  Darcy and Tom

  Let Me Love You

  Rene and Caleb

  Let Me Go

  Kasia and Dylan

  Let Me Heal Your Heart

  Anna and Declan

  Let Me Fall

  Carolyn and Jeremy

  Calm, confident—victorious even. To my guests, who were my peers, and to the onlookers, the fawning, pathetic nobodies who hungered for the opportunity to be in close physical proximity to those they considered akin to celebrity, that’s how I appeared.

  After more than half a lifetime in this world, I’d perfected the art of masking my emotions. No one did it better than me. But today I was struggling. I was in danger of showing some cracks in my normally bulletproof veneer.

  The flashbulbs snapped as we exited the Rolls-Royce Phantom sedan. Me in a champagne colored Carolina Herrera original that I’m sure the Times reporter would portray as timeless and understated, and Vince in a classic, custom-made Brioni tuxedo. At fifty-four, Vince could easily pull off the slimmer cut that was now in style. His light brown hair still looked boyish, with only a smattering of gray hairs visible at the temples. And damn him, the gray hairs and the subtle laugh lines around his eyes only added to his looks. He was the personification of power and sex.

  Vince took my left hand in his and rested his right hand on my lower back. His hold was comforting and possessive as he guided me up the steps outside of St. Ignatius Loyola, my childhood parish. Latecomers congratulated us as they made their way up the side steps, hurrying in as the organ began cranking out the opening chords of Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

  Standing tall on the corner of Eighty-fourth and Park, the outside was austere, modest, nothing to look at really, but the inside was magical to me. As a child I remember sitting between my grandparents on Sunday mornings, transfixed as I stared up at the ornate ceiling, the gilded altar, and the beauty of the stained glass windows. The homily delivered by the Jesuit priest no more than background noise, while the angelic voices rising up from the choir paired with the booming, sometimes eerie melody of the organ captivated me. As we entered the vestibule today though, my heart sank. The feeling intensified when my oldest and dearest friends kissed me on the cheek and happily went on about how this day was long in coming, joking about the joining of two dynasties.

  I should be happy.

  They are perfect for one another.

  I tell myself this repeatedly.

  Mother of the groom is the hassle-free, luxurious role. We’d already done our part, hosting an elegant rehearsal dinner. Our family powerful enough to close a Michelin-star rated restaurant on a Friday night in New York City for a private party. Rehearsal dinner—it was a small wedding really, with just over one hundred guests. It was a fabulous evening because nothing else would do. My name and my image, carefully cultivated over the last three decades, had cemented my place among the effortlessly stylish ladies of society long ago. Everyone raved about the food, the flowers, the beauty of the bride-to-be and how perfect she looked on his arm. No one noticed that my son drank just a little too much that night—God forbid. When the volume of his voice rose slightly higher than that of his friends, I made sure to have Vince place a commanding hand on his shoulder as he offered him a club soda in a way that left no room for argument.

  Standing on our balcony looking out over Central Park this morning, I simultaneously laughed and shook my head, taking in how utterly perfect this day was. I admired the beauty of the leaves dotting the lush green trees, the ones that were just starting to turn that gorgeous shade of cranberry as autumn took hold. Looking up to the sky, I saw only azure blue. We Christians joked that they were the chosen people—it seemed there was rarely a Rosh Hashanah or a Yom Kippur when the sun wasn’t shining. With not so much as one white, fluffy cloud in sight, today was no exception.

  The hollow sense of victory took me back to my own wedding day. Unwilling to let myself dwell on everything I was losing, while smug in the knowledge that I, Margot Clarke, had played the game by my own set of rules and won.

  Vincent Cole was a fixture of my childhood. Our mothers, lifelong friends, had conspired to marry us off the day I was born, nearly three years after the day Vince had arrived on the scene. We attended each other’s birthdays, Communions and graduations, and we vacationed in the same spots every summer and during winter ski breaks. But he was three years older than me and ran with the boys, only stopping to tickle me into fits when I was a young child, and when I was a little older, to scare me during nighttime games of Ghost in the Graveyard that played out on the estate grounds of family friends.

  We were the next generation. A group of around fifteen to twenty that ran into each other throughout the year, whose parents conducted business with one another or chaired committees together. We spent long, lazy weekends together at summer homes on the Vineyard or in Southampton, and spent winter breaks lounging poolside in Palm Beach or skiing in Aspen. Since most of us came from small families—to be an only child was commonplace—our group was like an extended family.

  Vince was just one of the group, a boy I paid only a passing interest in—until he wasn’t. That summer he turned sixteen, when I first noticed the faint stubble on his chin and the bronze skin stretched over muscles that made him suddenly seem a man, that’s when I took notice. But at thirteen I was a child, not yet developed, still wearing a modest one piece at the pool, and not entirely sure that I wanted to trade in playing Marco Polo and catching fireflies for sneaking off into the woods to do lord knows what.

  It was that summer, though, that I started to watch and I started to change. I experimented with make-up, started wearing a training
bra even though it was wholly unnecessary, and shaved my legs for the first time, leaving bloody nicks around my ankles and knees after Juliet Hastings made fun of me in front of everyone at her pool one day.

  “Margot, wax much? I can almost braid this.” She squealed for dramatic effect, pulling on one hair until she yanked it out by the root.

  My face was crimson as I looked around and took in all the boys laughing. The girls looked up to Juliet because she was older and because she acted like she knew everything. And while I was embarrassed, I had a sharp tongue at that age and managed to land what I thought was a decent comeback. “Thanks for the advice. Hopefully you’ll make a great beautician someday since things aren’t working out so well at Choate.”

  I’d hit the target but also made an enemy. And I’ll admit that was a low blow. After all, there were few among us who weren’t excellent students. Most of us were not only bright, but excelled at sports and spoke a foreign language at least well enough to enjoy our European vacations. Juliet was beautiful and worldly, but the only reason she was able to hang on at her exclusive boarding school was because her parents had money and a whole lot of influence.

  I noticed Vince crack a smile at my comment, though, and for his approval I’d take whatever retribution Juliet was sure to dish out.

  Soon I’d be heading off to one of those faraway places. I was afraid of leaving home and also hated the idea of leaving Todd to fend for himself. My little brother needed me. But staying local for high school was unheard of. No, I’d be shipped off to Miss Porter’s come next August, just as my mother had been when she was fourteen.

  That night, as groups of us wandered around the property, the youngest playing games, the older ones far out on the dock smoking their smelly cigarettes, Millie Dalton and I wound up in the loft of the boathouse, asking the Magic 8 Ball questions about our future. I loved Millie; she was unlike any of my other friends. She was proper when out in public, but raunchy and crass when it was just us and she was looking to make me laugh. She wasn’t asking the ball if she’d marry a handsome millionaire one day. No, Mille was asking if her first lesbian experience would be in high school. When the ball answered Signs Point to Yes, she followed up with, “Will I enjoy carpet munching?”

  Half the time I didn’t even know what she was talking about, I just knew she was being outrageous and I liked it.

  I was just about to ask a question when Millie clasped her hand over my mouth forcefully and looked at me wide-eyed, urging me to keep quiet. We’d been perched up there in darkness, enjoying the séance like atmosphere for our game, so when the soft glow from a lantern illuminated a corner of the downstairs space, we knew we had company even before we heard their hushed words and laughter.

  Juliet was giggling as she shimmied out of her shorts and tank top. Vince commanded, “Keep quiet!” as he tugged his polo shirt over his back and off.

  Millie and I sat spellbound, peering over the side to look down at them. Vince’s body was muscular and tan, with a light smattering of hair growing on his chest and below his navel. He hardly looked like the same boy from last summer. Now I figured he was over six feet tall, and his voice, once light and playful, was a low growl as he undid his shorts and ordered Juliet to lay back.

  She did as she was told, reclining back on the lounger. Juliet let her legs fall open as she beckoned him, crooking her finger when she whispered, “I’ve thought about you every night since New Year’s Eve. Have you been thinking about me?”

  New Year’s Eve? Ohmigod! Vince was fifteen then. And the party was at my family’s home in Palm Beach. Did they do this in my house? The thought horrified me and lit me up with jealousy at the same time.

  Juliet giggled loudly again, as if Vince was tickling her as he slid her underwear down over her hips. Right before Vince lowered his head between her legs, he said, “Seriously, Juliet, you act like an idiot when you smoke. Maybe you should stick to vodka.”

  My head jerked back up when Millie tugged hard on my wrist. Stunned, I’d forgotten she was there with me or what we were doing before this moment. She mouthed the words, “Oh my God,” wide-eyed as she stifled a laugh. I mouthed back, “What should we do?” Millie gestured to her criss-crossed legs to indicate that she wasn’t going anywhere. She was enjoying this show and seeing it through to the end. I had to stifle my own laugh when Millie mouthed, “Carpet munching,” pointing down at Vince.

  I wanted to leave but I really didn’t want to at the same time. I didn’t have access to this type of education in my life. While Millie freely shared that her dad had a stash of Penthouse magazines tucked away in his study, my home was devoid of anything like that. And my days were full between school, tennis, riding lessons and volunteering to keep my Nana company two afternoons a week. It’s not like I had time to read the Danielle Steele novels my mother kept hidden away in her nightstand drawer.

  So my attention was drawn back downstairs, where Juliet was moaning and rubbing her own breasts as Vince braced his hands against her thighs and pressed his face into her. That would feel good? I had my legs pinned together watching them, unable to imagine that letting someone put their mouth there could be enjoyable. But she sure seemed to be enjoying it. She unclasped the front of her bra as he wiped his mouth on his forearm and moved back up over her.

  “Hmm, these are nice,” he hummed as he sucked and licked her nipples.

  I felt like I didn’t even know Vince at all. Who was this person? And I was envious of Juliet, envious of the differences between us that were now so very obvious. Once as rail thin and boyish as I was, Juliet had now sprouted boobs, her hips were curvy, and her legs were long as they wrapped around Vince’s waist—long and hairless. And she was shameless; she seemed to actually like it when Vince looked at her naked body.

  “Are you gonna give it to me?”

  “At your service, baby,” Vince said as he stood and grabbed his shorts from the ground, fishing something out of the pocket. Then, as Juliet watched, he slowly slid his underwear over his hips and down. I’m sure my mouth was hanging wide open in shock when I caught sight of him. I’d seen Todd’s, but the kid was practically a baby, still only eight. Vince—the size of him stunned me.

  He slid what I quickly determined to be a condom over himself and then started to lower his body back down. He stopped abruptly and gestured to Juliet when he said, “Turn over.”

  When she whined, “Why?” he snapped, “Turn over…Head down, ass up.”

  Millie poked my shoulder, snapping my attention back to her as she mouthed, “Ho-lee shit.”

  My heart was pounding and my eyes immediately broke away from Millie’s to look back down.

  “Tell me something dirty,” he commanded, and when Juliet responded with some generic line like, Do me baby, her voice muffled because her face was now mashed into the chair cushions, Vince smirked, looked up to the loft, locked eyes with me and winked.

  I shrank back, eyes wide, looking to Millie with urgency to let her know we’d been caught, only to see her leaning back now, lost in her own world, her hand pressed between her legs. Really? Was I the only sane person left on the island? I kicked her leg, startling her as I mouthed, “He saw me!”

  If you didn’t know Vince well, or even if you did, he could be intimidating. So Millie and I sat completely still for the next five or ten minutes, dead silent as we heard grunts, moans and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. We sat immobile until the two of them were dressed again and gone.

  I couldn’t get that exchange out of my head, Vince practically barking at Juliet, demanding that she say dirty things to him. Her obedience rewarded with a condescending smirk. I wasn’t a fan of Juliet’s. She used me for target practice today and it wasn’t the first time she’d publically ridiculed someone. But the whole scene left me confused. Why would he want her to look foolish? Was it payback for what she’d done to me?

  Who was this new Vince?

  He was either a monster or he was my hero.

  I co
uldn’t sleep until I rested my hand between my own legs that night, rubbing as I thought about Vince and Juliet. The next morning I was bone-tired as I stood on the grass, peeling an orange as I watched Todd splash in the lake.

  There was a gentle tug on my braid. “Enjoy the show last night?”

  I felt my cheeks redden but I fought to square my shoulders and face off with Vince. “Nothing special…She might be Juliet but you’re no Romeo.”

  He liked that one, a smile stretching clear across his face as he looked me over from head to toe, so slowly that I fidgeted under his inspection.

  “I can’t wait, Margot.”

  “For what?”

  He shook his head, biting his lower lip and eyeing me with what…wonder, laughter, longing?

  “I just can’t wait,” he repeated as he shoved his hands in his pockets, turned and walked away.

  Off to boarding school I went after the following summer. At fourteen, I was tall and gangly, flat-chested, angry about the state of my body and resentful of my mother’s attempts to make me into a bona fide debutante. She was proud of my grades, I guess, but I got the sense that the number of invitations I received to social events was far more important than my intellectual development. And while my mother tolerated my love of horses, she didn’t understand how I could enjoy spending afternoons at the stables, turning down offers to go shopping or to get pampered at her favorite hangout, the spa. While I was anxious about living away from home, I was relieved to escape Mother’s scrutiny.

  Being away gave me some reprieve, but as I got older, her interest in my social status and my “prospects” intensified. Millie’s mother certainly didn’t seem concerned whether or not she was dating at sixteen, whereas my mother seemed to be plotting my exercise regime, my outfits and my outings.

  There was more to it than the quintessential overbearing mother wanting a good match for her only daughter. There was a lot more to it than that. Because my parents did nothing to censor the screaming matches that had now become a daily ritual in our home, I heard my mother threaten divorce whenever big sums of money disappeared from their accounts, which seemed to be a fairly regular occurrence. And I overheard my grandparents admonishing my mother, talking about my father’s reckless spending, about his gambling problem being an embarrassment to the family. I eavesdropped on that especially bad day, the day when they handed down the verdict: No more, they wouldn’t hand over another penny. I saw the disappointment in their eyes when they looked at Mother, making it very clear she had made a bad choice in marrying my father.