Firestorm - Ellie Masters Page 0,73
an expedited trial, but we have some work to do. I hope I don’t need to explain that you won’t be able to disappear.”
Disappear.
He means head back to the trails; my version of escaping reality.
The house comes fully furnished. Prescott really did think of everything. The inside is country cute; not exactly my style. I’m more into clean lines, muted colors and understated elegance, not the vibrant splashes of color decorating every surface. The sofa looks like a florist vomited on it. The bright yellow arm chairs make me want to wear shades. At least the carpet is somewhat neutral, although whoever thought white was a good idea for carpet needs their head examined.
A bright red and blue afghan covers the back of the couch. Depending on how long I need to stay, I’m going to need to hire a designer and do a complete overhaul on the house. We walk through it together and I bite my tongue at the bright yellow and blue color scheme in the kitchen. It’s going to take more than an interior designer to take care of that, and fire engine red appliances? My eyes need bleach.
“It’s…” I turn in a circle and take in the riot of colors.
“Unique.” Gracie gives a nod. “Very—unique.”
“That’s one word for it.” I wrinkle my nose at the garish colors. “It’s country cute mixed in with art deco disaster.”
“It’s the best I could do on such short notice.” Prescott shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down. “We can find alternate accommodations if you want.”
There’s no way I can do that, not when Prescott went above and beyond.
“It’s definitely different, but I can make it work.” I go to him and wrap my arms around him in a hug. “I’m thankful for everything.”
“Ah, hunny.” Gracie comes up behind me and gives me a hug. “You know we’d do anything for you.”
Prescott pulls his hands out of his pockets and wraps them around us both. We stand in silence for a moment, but then he starts laughing.
Lowering his hands, he takes a step back. “It’s hideous, isn’t it?”
I smile at him. “Hideously perfect.”
“I’ll call a designer and see what can be done,” he says.
“That’s not necessary.” I can’t bear for him to do any more than what he’s already done. “It’s kind of growing on me.”
“It’s up to you, but you’re going to be stuck here for a while,” he says. “There’s a fine line between wanting to rush the trial and needing to prepare your defense. I haven’t had a chance to look at the arson report, but we’ve got our work cut out for us. Come, let’s sit and chat.” He gestures back toward the living room.
Gracie and I follow him. Over the next hour, he lays out his conversation with the judge and his plans concerning my defense. I tell him all about the hike, coming up on the scraggly man, and getting knocked out. Gracie covers her mouth when I describe waking up in the middle of the forest fire, my mad dash through the flames, and how I flew over the edge of the ridge falling head over heels down the steep bank. I tell her about the injury to my ankle which healed remarkably fast and why I tunneled into that cleft between the boulders.
“Oh dear,” she exclaims. “How did you keep your wits about you? I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“I’ve learned a lot, actually.” It’s the truth and I’m proud of myself. I’ve gone from being a ditzy socialite whose biggest concern in life was whether my nail polish and lipstick matched my evening gown, to an independent self-sufficient woman who tackles the outdoors like a professional. When I think of who I was a year ago, and the woman I’ve become, I don’t recognize the vapid waste of breath I once was.
That girl no longer exists.
I shiver wondering where I would be now. I would be married, probably with a kid on the way. My days would be spent relaxing from all my non-existent stress in a day spa to picking out the most fashionable baby clothes and complaining about the stretch marks marring my perfect skin.
Do Gracie and Prescott see the changes? Or do they only see the woman their son would’ve married? The daughter they never had? Is it possible for them to like the new me rather than the old?
Prescott listens to my story with practically zero reaction. That’s not exactly true. He’s quiet, but