Page 21 of The Feud

I toss my head in the general direction of Sylvie’s classroom. “When she hugged me just outside Mr. Bartlett’s door, that was all for show and completely fake. She told me she despised me.”

“Oh dear,” Marcie murmurs. “I’m sorry. May I suggest counseling?”

“It’s high on the priority list. My mother called around yesterday, but finding a therapist in this area is not easy. We’re looking in Louisville right now and finding nothing but waiting lists.”

Marcie nods, her expression grave. “We’re at an all-time shortage of counselors and therapists. Especially for children. I’ll reach out to some of my contacts, but if I can help in any way… if you need me to talk to her, I’m glad to. I don’t mind intervening, even outside of school. As the principal, that’s part of my duty.” She bends over her desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Call me anytime you need to.”

When I take the number from her, I’m not sure what it says about me that I actually hope I need to call her for some reason. I wouldn’t mind hearing more of her sweet southern voice.

Instead, I tuck her number into my back pocket and hope things don’t get so bad that I have to use it. “Thank you for all your help.”

“My pleasure. We’ll take good care of Sylvie here at school.”

I nod, offer a small, grateful smile and then leave her office, my mind blessedly already moving on to the things I have to do before Sylvie comes home at the end of the day.

CHAPTER 8

Ethan

The last ten days have been brutal. I’ve called upon every ounce of patience and understanding within my being to offer up to my daughter, despite her worsening behavior. At first, I gave her space. I no longer insisted she come down to meals or that she spend free time after school with me, Kat or my mom. She hid in her room for a full three days before I finally had to go back on that and push her to rejoin the family. It made her even more bitter to have been given freedom to disconnect, only to have it taken away again.

The second thing I tried to build a bridge with was bribery. Oh, I didn’t offer her something with a demand for reciprocity. I know she’s too stubborn to fall for that. Instead, I offered a portal of communication that I hoped would show I trust her and that I want her to have a complete life.

I gave her a smartphone. I did my research and there’s great debate whether an almost ten-year-old is ready for that level of responsibility. Handing her a gateway to the internet could be dangerous, but in my research, I found all the ways to lock down the phone to protect her from the worst kinds of stranger danger. What I did not prohibit though, is her ability to contact any family or friend she wants and, much to my disgust, that includes giving her access to the Mardraggons.

I couldn’t tell if that made her happy or not. I handed her the phone wrapped in pink paper, already preprogrammed with the numbers for Lionel, Rosemund and Gabriel Mardraggon. Gabe is Alaine’s younger brother and the heir apparent to the Mardraggon fortune. While I didn’t have many feelings about Alaine and simply disliked her because of her last name, I truly don’t like Gabe Mardraggon as a person. In fact, I despise the man and his overly confident ways. He’s Trey’s age, thirty-three, and we grew up together as rivals in every sport. Of course, once we got into high school, we played for different schools that had no rivalry, but Shelbyville is a small town and you can’t cross the street without running into some descendant of the Blackburns or Mardraggons. As it stands, I have many great aunts and uncles, regular aunts and uncles, cousins, second and third cousins. Some I’m close to, some I barely know. It’s the same with the Mardraggons.

But one thing is always consistent: If your name is Mardraggon, you hate the Blackburns, and vice versa.

At any rate, it galled me to put Gabe’s name and number in Sylvie’s phone. But I want her to have access to the people closest to her, especially those from the last few months when Alaine was home from France and dying. I have no clue what Sylvie’s relationship is like with her uncle. I don’t know because she doesn’t talk about the Mardraggons at all. I’ve only had brief glimpses into their relationships when I observed their interactions at the courthouse and then when Lionel and Rosemund dropped her off.

And while I would term it frigid the way they acted with one another, it was probably still a good twenty degrees warmer than what I have with my daughter.

Regardless, my gift of the iPhone did nothing to warm Sylvie to me or the family. She still spends most of her free time in her room, except now when I check on her she isn’t always reading a book. Sometimes she’s texting and other times she’s embroiled in conversation in her native tongue. I assume she’s talking to friends back home, which is why I made sure she has an international plan. If I dared to interrupt such a conversation, she’d level glaring green eyes at me and demand, “What do you want?” in French.

I acted dumb. I knew exactly what she was barking at me due to my handy little translation app, but I didn’t let her know I’m on to her.

I continue to record her, a chore that is taking up a lot of my time every day. I’ve gotten good at keeping the app open on my phone and hitting the record button while it sits in my pocket. At night after everyone goes to sleep, I spend time pulling out the bits and pieces of French she throws my way and translate them.

I’ve learned a lot about my daughter. Not just affirmation of the enmity she holds for me and my family, but I found out something that has caused my hackles to rise.

Something that I’m going to nip in the bud today.

I walk into the broodmare barn and immediately catch sight of Wade standing outside one of the stalls. I head that way and look in to see one of our veterinarians checking out a three-day-old foal. No matter how many times I lay eyes on those spindly, awkward little beings, I never get used to how cute they are. Some people prefer fuzzy kittens or puppies, but there is nothing in this world that warms my somewhat cold heart more than a newborn horse.

Wade hears me coming down the center aisle of the barn and lifts his chin in greeting.

I stop at the open stall door. The foal’s mom is in crossties to prevent her from attempting an exit, and the foal is currently being examined by the veterinarian. After a few minutes, he looks up. “Healthy little boy.”

“That’s what I like to hear. And mama?”

“She’s good. I gave her a thorough examination. She’s producing good milk.”

“If you’ve got time today, can you take a look at Misty over in the show rider barn? She’s eating but not with her normal gusto.”

“She the one that colicked a few months ago?” the vet asks.

“Yeah. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

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