Page 36 of Fallen Petal

Chapter 18

J

“This house is so beautiful,” she breathes, her gaze glued to the glistening waves that wash against the shore next to the cliff walk. The sun is about to set, already coloring the sky in warm tones while the wind feels colder against the skin.

We’re sitting out on the terrace, on lounge chairs that I’ve barely used all summer. It hasn’t been long since I bought this property and there was too little time to make use of it since my office is still in Barrington and I spend most of my time with work.

She’s one of the few people who even know about this place. I didn’t like the idea of advertising the fact that I’m now the owner of one of the famous mansions along the cliff walk in Newport. It would only attract the wrong kind of attention and jealousy.

“Do you intend to move here?” she asks, taking another sip from her drink. We’re already on our third Gin Tonic and the spirit has painted her cheeks in a lovely red while her green eyes begin to turn more and more misty. I’ll have to be careful, I know that.

But she’s here. She came to me. She created this, the very first opportunity for us to be alone ever since...

“Maybe,” I say, shaking off thoughts that shouldn’t creep out of the darkest corner of my mind now. “Eventually. But not for a while. Not as long as I still have my practice in Barrington.”

She nods solemnly, looking down at her drink and back to the sea before she lets out a deep sigh, speaking of her beginning intoxication.

“You’re so rich already,” she says. “Why do you keep working so hard? Is it a Samaritan thing? You like to help people?”

It’s hard to read the look she’s throwing at me now. She looks shy and cautious, scared to ask the wrong questions, despite the curiosity that pushes her to probe further. It’s endearing, to say the least.

“A Samaritan,” I repeat, chuckling. “Is that what you see in me?”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re too expensive for that.”

Her bluntness amuses me, causing me to laugh before I empty my drink, the last for a while.

“Then you must know that I’m not suffering from some kind of helper syndrome. If I were, I’d do these things for free.”

She clears her throat, lowering deeper into the lounge chair and taking a final swig from her glass before she gathers the courage to continue.

“So, you simply enjoy it then?” she asks without looking at me.

“Maybe,” I say. “It seems to be my calling, a skill like that, no matter how hard it is to work with it in a safe way. It’s hard to stop.”

That’s only part of the truth. Erasing specific memories from a person’s mind is hard, even when you know how to go about it. It consumes me, and every time I do it, a part of me is taken away just like the memory I was asked to eliminate. I need weeks, sometimes months to recover from each client who comes to me, depending on the memory, its age and intensity and the client’s mental state. The longer a person has carried and suffered from a certain memory, the harder it is to wipe it out.

It was easy with her, back then. Her memory was a fresh wound, not even processed by the time she came to me. She was still shaking from it, still crying the very same tears that were caused by the incident itself.

“It’s scary what you can do,” she says in a low voice, making sure to avoid eye contact.

“Of course it is,” I respond. “And it’s risky, too. There’s a reason why I charge the way I charge.”

She turns to me, catching my eyes with an expression on her face that resembles guilt.

“Christopher thinks it’s sick and twisted,” she tells me. “And so does my dad. They’d freak if they knew I’m here and alone with you.”

She doesn’t have to tell me that. Her father made it very clear that I was to stay away from her, even though I told him that I couldn’t. There was no way of knowing how she’d handle the procedure, I had to keep an eye on her, possibly for years, especially since she was so young when it happened.

At least that’s what I told him. That’s what I told myself, too. Because the truth was too distressing.

How could I fall in love with a child? A girl who I barely knew—who barely knew me? And my first patient, too. It’s wrong on too many levels.

Yet, here we are.

“I can see why you wouldn’t tell your father,” I say. “But how come you didn’t even tell your boyfriend that you’re here?”

I hate the undertone of jealousy that laces my voice, but I can’t stop myself from it. For the past four years, that boy has had the privilege of being around her as much as he wanted, sharing everyday life with her, seeing her every single day, allowed in her company no matter how many people saw. While I had to stay in the shadows, always causing a wave of worrisome gossip every time I was seen with her because too many people know about what I did to her—and how oblivious she is about it.

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