Page 35 of Not My Daughter (Eva Rae Thomas FBI Mystery #17)
THEN:
Isla Montgomery leaned on the balcony railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The ocean breeze teased strands of her hair, pulling them loose from the careless bun atop her head. She inhaled deeply, the air filling her lungs and attempting to cleanse the emotions that churned within her.
Her fingers gripped the wooden rail, knuckles turning white as she braced herself against the weight of another day spent under her mother's scrutinizing stare. She wondered about Javier. She hadn’t heard from him since he was escorted off the island, and part of her wanted to take the boat to the mainland and find him, leaving all this behind. She missed him terribly, and every day dragged along while she wondered where he was and if he was okay.
"Another day," she whispered to herself, the words barely audible above the lull of the waves below. "Just another day."
With a resolve that seemed to solidify with each step, Isla turned her back to the ocean and walked through the sliding doors into the house. The transition was jarring—the open expanse of nature replaced by the claustrophobic luxury of the island home.
The kitchen was awash with the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Clementine stood at the stove while Victoria sat at the counter, reading the newspaper, her posture rigid with an elegance that felt out of place in the domesticity of the morning. Her ice-blue eyes did not waver from the paper in her hand, even as Isla entered.
"Good morning, Mother," Isla said, her voice carrying a brightness she didn't feel. She had hoped Aunt Bea would be there, but she was nowhere to be seen. She hated being alone with her mother these days. She felt like she was constantly being judged and found to be inadequate.
"Morning," Victoria responded without lifting her gaze, her tone clipped.
Isla hesitated, feeling the familiar sting of dismissal. She reached for a cup hanging above the coffee maker.
"It looks like it'll be a beautiful day. Maybe we could go for a walk along the shore later?"
"Perhaps," Victoria replied, though the indifference in her voice suggested otherwise. Clementine plated the breakfast with mechanical efficiency, ensuring each strip of bacon lay parallel to the next.
"Actually, I was thinking?—"
"Thinking is a dangerous pastime, Isla," Victoria cut in, her back still to her daughter. "Focus on what needs to be done, not on idle whims."
"Right," Isla murmured, chastened.
Aunt Bea had told her that her mother might be able to understand her if she tried talking to her. It didn’t feel like it. Isla poured herself some coffee in one of the pristine white cups. She knew better than to press further when it came to her mother; the barriers between them were as unyielding as the walls of the house.
"Breakfast is ready," Clementine announced, setting the table. Isla took her seat, the chair scraping slightly against the tile floor—an abrasive sound in the silent tension of the kitchen.
Isla's mind wandered as they ate, but she remained vigilant, aware that any sign of distraction would be met with a sharp reprimand. Instead, she focused on the warmth of the coffee as it slid down her throat, willing it to ignite some spark of courage within her to face the rest of the day.
Where are you, Javier? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
Isla's bare feet sank into the cool sand, each step away from the house loosening the tight coils of tension that wound around her chest as she walked to the beach after breakfast.
The beach was deserted, a vast expanse of solitude that welcomed her tumultuous emotions. She breathed deeply, tasting the salty tang of air as the ocean whispered its ceaseless lullaby. Here, amid the rhythmic crash of waves, she found a reprieve from Victoria's coldness.
With every crest and fall of the water, Isla felt her resolve knitting back together, stitch by fragile stitch. This place, this great and untamed stretch of shoreline, had always been her sanctuary against the weight of her mother's expectations. She would find a way to bridge the gulf that had opened between them, she vowed silently to the waves. There had to be a path back to the warmth they once shared, even if it lay obscured by years of misunderstandings and unspoken words.
A seagull's cry pulled Isla's thoughts backward, unraveling the thread of time to a memory drenched in sunlight and laughter. Victoria was there, as she had been years before, her blonde hair billowing like golden sails caught in the breeze. Mother and daughter had built castles in the sand, their creations rising high before the inevitable tide claimed them. Victoria's laughter, a sound as rare and delicate as the shells they collected, rang in young Isla's ears. Her mother's eyes—those piercing ice-blue mirrors—had softened, reflecting the sky above rather than the hardness of the world they faced beyond the dunes.
"Remember, Isla," Victoria had said, her voice carrying over the sound of the crashing waves, "life is much like these castles we build. It takes patience and care, but in the end, the waves claim all. We must enjoy the beauty while it lasts."
Back then, Isla hadn't understood the melancholy note in her mother's words or the wistful look that had crossed her face. That day, with the sun warming their skin and the future a distant horizon, nothing seemed impossible.
The memory receded as swiftly as it had come, leaving Isla standing at the water's edge, the ghost of her mother's past smile fading. The stark contrast between then and now pressed against her heart, a reminder of what had been lost. But with loss came the desire for restoration, and Isla was not one to let go easily. She would deal with her mother's moods, navigate her complex psyche, and find reconciliation. She had to believe that the bond they once shared had not been completely washed away—that it still waited to be rediscovered somewhere beneath the surface.
Later that same evening, Isla's footsteps carried a resolve as she trod the familiar path back to the island house, the ocean breeze tangling her hair into wilder waves. The sunlight, golden and brazen, seemed to arm her with a sliver of hope as she pushed open the door, stepping from the vast openness of the beach into the cloistered air of the living room.
Victoria sat ensconced in her favorite chair, a book splayed across her lap, her ice-blue eyes skimming the pages with mechanical precision. There was something unnervingly statuesque about her mother's posture, her blonde hair a flawless frame around an expression that divulged nothing.
"Mother," Isla began, her voice a hesitant intruder in the room's silent order. "Can we talk?"
The request hung like a fragile ornament amidst the ticking of the grandfather clock. Victoria closed the book with a soft thud, her gaze rising slowly to meet Isla's—as if considering the worth of the words offered to her.
"Talk?" A frost edged Victoria's tone, belying the calmness of her exterior. "What is there to discuss that hasn't already been dissected under this roof?"
Despite the chill that swept through the room, Isla moved closer, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I want to understand why you're so angry with me," Isla said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I want to fix what's broken between us."
"Fix?" Victoria echoed, a curl of disdain at the corner of her lips. "You speak as if it's merely a loose thread on a dress, something to be mended with a needle. You brought shame to our family. That is not easily fixed."
Isla's fingers clenched at her sides. The analogy was a barbed reminder of their world of appearances, where everything was stitched together for show, even when the fabric was tearing apart.
"Isn't our relationship worth repairing?" Isla's plea wove itself into the space between them.
"Relationships," Victoria replied, standing up to face her daughter, "are built on respect and obedience. Two qualities you seem to have forgotten."
Isla met her mother's gaze, searching for some sign of the woman who had once held her hand and promised that life was to be cherished. But the warmth was gone, replaced by an icy fortress.
"Your future hangs by a thread, Isla," Victoria said, her voice low, the threat wrapping itself around Isla's throat. "And I will do what I must to ensure that our family's name remains untarnished."
The weight of those words pressed down on Isla. Yet, beneath the pressure, her resolve did not crumble. It was tempered like steel in fire, growing stronger in the face of her mother's cold resolve.
The silence that stretched between Isla and Victoria was abruptly pierced by the soft click of the door and a draft of fresh air. Marcus stepped into the room, his presence like a breath of relief in the stifling tension. He offered a tentative smile, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hopeful curve as he glanced between the two women.
"Seems I've walked into a winter's tale," Marcus joked lightly, attempting to thaw the cold front with his warmth. His eyes flickered with a spark of concern as he searched Isla's face for signs of distress.
But Victoria's expression remained frozen, her lips a flat line that refused to acknowledge the levity.
"Some tales are better left untold," she responded crisply, turning away as if to dismiss the attempt at ease.
Marcus's smile faltered, but he masked the momentary disappointment with a practiced ease, pivoting toward the practicalities of the evening. "Well, dinner awaits, shall we?" he offered, extending the olive branch of normalcy.
The dining table was set with precision, each utensil aligned with obsessive care—an echo of Victoria's control. The clink of silverware against fine china punctuated the strained silence that enveloped them all as they took their seats. Under the chandelier's soft glow, shadows danced across the walls, mirroring the concealed turmoil beneath the surface. Aunt Bea tried to make subtle conversation, but only Marcus engaged with her. Isla stared into her plate, pushing her potatoes around with her fork, while her mother sent her disapproving looks and told her not to play with her food.
Isla willed herself to swallow not only the overcooked lamb but also the emotions and frustration. Each thinly veiled threat that slipped from Victoria's lips sparked anger within her.
"Pass the salt, would you?" Victoria's request sliced through the quiet, her tone casual yet sharp as a scalpel. It wasn't just seasoning she sought, but compliance, a subtle reminder of their hierarchy at the table.
"Of course, Mother," Isla replied, the words tasting of vinegar on her tongue as she handed over the crystal shaker.
"Remember, Isla," Victoria added, her gaze piercing as she sprinkled salt sparingly. "A dish can be spoiled by excess, just as a young woman's prospects can be marred by… indiscretions."
The threat hung heavy in the air, a noxious perfume that threatened to choke Isla. Yet she met her mother's eyes, her own alight with a silent defiance that needed no words. She felt the fabric of her being frayed and worn but not yet torn asunder.
Marcus watched the exchange, his fork paused mid-air. He wanted to speak, to try and make them all feel better, but the unspoken words between mother and daughter held him back. Instead, he focused on his plate.
Aunt Bea set down her utensils, the gentle scrape resonating as though it were a declaration. She cleared her throat.
"Victoria," she began, her voice steady but laced with a firmness that hadn't been there before. "I think what we need is less criticism and more understanding around this table."
Victoria's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. The room seemed to constrict around them, the walls closing in.
"Understanding?" she echoed, the word dripping with disdain. "And what would you know about that?"
"I know enough to see that Isla is trying," she countered. "She deserves compassion, not constant judgment."
The escalation caught Isla off guard. Her heart hammered against her ribs; she couldn't recall the last time anyone had dared to challenge Victoria, let alone in her defense. The air was electric, crackling with the energy of shifting dynamics.
"Compassion?" Victoria scoffed, her voice rising. "It is because I care for her future that I am stern. You wouldn’t understand."
"Perhaps," Aunt Bea admitted, her gaze unwavering, "but I understand that support can foster growth better than any amount of fear. You, of all people, should know this. At the very least, talk to her and listen to what she has to say.”
Isla felt an unexpected warmth bloom within her chest, a spark of hope. Her mother rose to her feet with a snort of contempt.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I’m going to lie down. Clementine, I’ll take my evening tea in my room.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Walton,” Clementine said. “As you wish.”