Page 13 of Rebel Summer

I currently have a court date to see a judge because I had plowed into a building while under the influence. How did she think I was feeling? But there was only one answer in this house.

“Fine,” I said, giving her a smile while tracking my dad’s movements toward the kitchen sink.

“Good. I’m going to shower, but stick around and I’ll make you some carrot juice and an egg white omelet, if you’re interested.”

All of that sounded terrible, but I smiled anyway. “I’m going for a walk, but thank you.”

“Hold on a minute, Ivy. I need to talk to you,” my dad called out before filling his glass with water.

As Angela disappeared upstairs, the life of the entire room went with her. I couldn’t avoid this conversation, but I wasn’t sure how calm I could be anymore. My dad tipped his head back to drink, the water leaving the cup in slow, steady gulps, packing more tension in the room with each swallow. Though itching to run, my feet were glued to the floor until he neatly placed his cup on the counter and turned toward me.

“Your court date is Tuesday morning at 9 am. My lawyer, Will Frost, is going to represent you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I took a few steps toward the doorway before he spoke again.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to handle your little indiscretion?” His low Southern drawl showed slightly in his speech.

Even though the way his voice coated the words “little indiscretion” was enough to clench my teeth, I turned and faced him with a neutral expression on my face.

“What?”

“Right now, people just think it was some sort of accident. But if the judge slaps a DUI on your record, it follows you for a long time. It could mess with your job. It will be all over the papers. Online. It could ruin your reputation. And not that you care, but when people find out, it could sure as hell ruin mine.”

The twist in my gut made a familiar presence. It was ironic for him to imply that I didn’t care. My entire childhood had been seeped in the knowledge that one wrong move on my or my mother’s part could ruin my dad’s political career. His aspirations had gotten him as far as a local senator. But he was always hopeful for more. Always campaigning, so to speak. I could only imagine how difficult my actions would be to a man who honored his fake image with much more gusto than his real one.

“You’ll meet with my lawyer tomorrow to go over some things. Specifically, how to act and what to say. In the meantime, stay away from the mechanic.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want it looking like you’re guilty. We need to keep things quiet—keep you quiet. And hopefully, we can make this all go away. Brookses don’t make mistakes.”

Aw, the loving family motto of my youth.

“But if we do, we’re going to be quiet about it,” my dad added. My eyebrows quirked upward. That part was new.

“I’m pretty sure everybody knows what happened by now.” Cat and Jane had both called to check on me yesterday, which meant the island gossip mills were already humming. Dax’s shop was somewhat of a landmark in town, just off Main Street and up the road from the island ferry, not to mention next door to the worst gossip of all—the Seaside Oasis Retirement Home.

“It doesn’t matter what people say today. What the judge says on Tuesday will be what everyone remembers. That will be what gets spread around. You plead not guilty, and that will give us more time to make it all go away.”

Not guilty. The words poked at my conscience.

“I did it, though.”

His sharp eyes met mine. “What?”

“The DUI. I didn’t mean to do it, but it still happened. Shouldn’t I have to deal with it?” The contemptuous look on my dad’s face sent the tiniest chill down my veins. Then I remembered Dr. Barb and took a deep breath.

He ran his hand through his hair impatiently. “You will be dealing with it. You’ll pay for what happened. For the damages. But it wasn’t the kind of DUI that should be on your record. It was an accident. A pill. Not alcohol. You don’t want something like that hanging over your head.” He folded his arms across his chest, looking at me in a patronizing way. “Do you know how long a DUI stays on your record in the state of Florida?”

I didn’t react, but he didn’t need me to.

“Seventy-five years. You want that following you around for the rest of your life?”

Or his life.

“I know I can make this disappear. But you have to plead not guilty.” At my look, he said again, slower, “Because you’re not guilty.”

I didn’t know much about the legal process beyond what I’d seen on TV. Maybe pleading a certain way to lessen a sentence or bargain for a deal was normal and not just good TV drama. But there was a thought that persisted uncomfortably in my heart that wouldn’t lessen. I was guilty. I had done the bad thing. I hadn’t meant to. But I did. Should it all go away because my dad wanted to save his reputation?

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