Page 14 of Return to Whitmore (The Whitmore #2)

Chapter Eleven

I t wasn’t initially obvious that Jack didn’t have any money.

After Charlotte followed Jack from the documentary screening to that little dive bar, they drank beer after beer and cracked jokes and seemed, miraculously, to avoid conversations about the fire and Jack’s faked death.

Every time Charlotte accidentally called him Jack, he shushed her and reminded her of his new name, Seth.

And every time, Charlotte stage-whispered, “Seth Green? That’s a terrible name.

You don’t look anything like a Seth Green. ”

Jack laughed and said, “That’s the funny part about it.”

“You’re the most Italian-looking guy in this bar,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Actually, like all Greens, I hail from Ireland,” he joked, putting on a horrible Irish accent.

Charlotte gave him a light punch on the arm. But she was euphoric. How was this possible?

Finally, after they ordered their third beer, Charlotte got up the nerve to ask Jack how he’d found her. “Why did you go to my documentary screening?”

Jack laughed and smacked his thigh. “It was the craziest thing. I read about the screening in a dinky-looking ’zine with a write-up about a few documentaries to watch out for at the festival.

A girl I was crashing with had the ’zine on her bedside table, and I just happened to pick it up.

When I read your name, I nearly lost my head.

The girl asked me what was wrong, and I jumped out of bed and ran out. ”

Charlotte could picture Jack crashing with some Manhattan beauty, building up his life in any way he could. “I would have freaked out, too.” She swallowed. “But seeing you is like engaging with a thousand Nantucket ghosts.”

If Charlotte wasn’t mistaken, Jack’s face flashed with pain that he immediately hid away. “We had a heck of a time, didn’t we?”

Charlotte took a breath and put her beer on the table with a clack. Outside, night had fallen, and a sturdy rain made Manhattan feel soggy with black ink. “Does anyone else know you’re alive?”

“Maybe,” Jack said, his eyes flashing.

“Does Mom?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You broke her heart, you know?”

Jack raised his shoulders. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Charlotte’s ears rang with alarm. “Whose idea was it?”

Jack sipped his beer and didn’t answer. Charlotte reached across the table to force his beer back to the table.

“Come on, Jack. Seth. Whatever. Tell me what happened that night. It was the single-biggest disaster of my entire lifetime, and I’m starting to think…

” She paused. “It wasn’t an accident, was it? Someone started that fire.”

Jack let out an ironic laugh, one that made her blood run cold. “Of course it wasn’t an accident.”

Charlotte bit her tongue, then forced herself to ask, “Did you start the fire?”

“No.” Jack flared his nostrils. “Like I said, it wasn’t my idea.”

Charlotte’s chest frothed with anger and fear. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, Charlotte.”

“Then why are you going by this ridiculous name?”

Jack shook his head ever so slightly. “Why don’t we talk about something else? Like, maybe, you? How was Italy? Did you have a wild and beautiful Italian life, like Mom always promised we would if we ever went back?”

Charlotte snorted. “You could say that. I found out Mom had an affair. Dad isn’t my real dad.”

Jack didn’t look entirely surprised.

“Did you already know?” Charlotte gasped.

“Nothing in our family surprises me,” Jack said, sounding jaded.

“Anyway, I’m not talking to Mom right now,” Charlotte said. “I mean, barely. I called her the other week, but just because I wanted to tell her my documentary got into the film festival.”

“Ah, yes. Still seeking Francesca’s favor. I know that game well,” Jack teased.

Charlotte’s cheeks steamed. It was an impossible game. They both knew that.

“What about Allegra? Lorelei?”

“They’re in Italy,” Charlotte said. “They’re going to school. I’m sure they’re still chummy with each other, but I haven’t talked to them.”

“I’ve missed Allegra’s snide comments,” Jack said wistfully. “She always kept me in line.”

“What about Alexander?” Charlotte asked. “Have you seen him?”

“I heard he was at flight school, trying to forget about all of us,” Jack said. “I’m sure he’s succeeded by now. You know, Alexander never wanted to be trapped with the Whitmore name and the White Oak Lodge and all of that stuff. I’m sure the fire was his first sign of freedom.”

Charlotte’s heart lurched. “You don’t think he started the fire, do you?”

“Alexander? No way.” Jack shook his head. “He was a Goody Two-shoes. You know that.”

Charlotte felt a strange and helpless fear for her eldest brother, especially after September 11th. The last thing she wanted was for her family to be in the skies so much. Then again, hadn’t she just flown to New York from Los Angeles without fear?

Suddenly, she ached to have all the Whitmores back together again, to meet them on the sands of Nantucket on a sunny day and share a picnic. It was impossible. It would never happen again.

“Are Dad and Tio Angelo still alive?” she asked before she chickened out.

Jack shrugged his shoulders again. “I haven’t seen anyone since the night of the fire. They could be dead; they could be alive. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Somebody told you to run that night,” Charlotte said. “Who was it?”

“Somebody told me to run,” Jack said, annoying her all the more. “But nobody told you to run. You’re barely in contact with anyone anymore. You’re here in Manhattan by yourself.” He took a breath. “Why?”

“I don’t want to run anymore,” Charlotte said, her heart racing.

She felt as though she and Jack were in a stand-off, waiting for the other to say their truth first.

“I’m chilling here for the foreseeable future,” Jack said finally. “You in?”

Charlotte reasoned that if they remained in Manhattan and continued to rebuild their relationship, Jack would eventually explain to her everything that had happened leading up to the fire and afterward. He’d eventually tell her who told him to run and why he did.

Jack switched the subject again, and Charlotte let him. It was so nourishing to be with family again. She didn’t want to chase him away.

But when they finished their final beer that night and stood, it was almost immediately clear to Charlotte that Jack didn’t have anywhere to go. They stood in the dark and filthy rain, cowering under the hoods of their coats and waiting for the other to make a move.

“I’m staying with a friend,” Charlotte admitted, pointing vaguely toward Kathy’s apartment.

Jack cut her a smile. “Cool.”

“Where are you staying?”

Jack raised his shoulders. “I’ll figure something out.”

Charlotte’s protective older-sister vibe took over. “Come on, Jack. Where are you going to sleep? Is it warm enough?” Is it on the street? she didn’t ask.

It took a few more minutes of prying for Jack to admit that he and the girl he’d been crashing with were no longer on speaking terms, which meant he didn’t have a bed at the moment.

Charlotte closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to bring Kathy into the drama of the Whitmore family.

She had a limited amount of cash, but she knew she had to use it, if only to protect them both.

She decided to get them two teeny-tiny rooms in a cheap hotel, side by side and smelling vaguely of mold.

But the beds were warm and soft, and there was hot coffee and toast in the morning, and there was a coziness to knowing that her brother was on the other side of the wall, safe and protected.

Sometimes at night, she pressed her palm to the wall and said a prayer to protect them both.