Page 55 of Taking The Virgin

Chapter20

Everything isa grim whirlwind after Owen books a helicopter and we fly out of New YorkCity.

We disembark at a tiny airport with a helipad. It’s late afternoon, and we’re seemingly in the middle of nowhere as he drives us in a relatively low-profile rental car the short distance to our final destination.

In the black, cataclysmic mood he’s in, he doesn’t tell me much—only that we’re going to meet his parents and that he grew up in the home that we’re about to visit.

Everything else remains a mystery as he turns the music up loudly and keeps his gaze on the road until we pull up to a faded brick house in a leafy suburb. The lawn is dry, and the trees and bushes haven’t been trimmed in ages. There’s a broken porch swing that hangs by one chain. The windows are curtained, and the garage door is flaked with white paint.

The place is downright creepy.

Every other house in the neighborhood is middle-class and neat, but this one stands out because of its sadness and shabbiness.

Are his parents poor? Is that his big secret?

A million questions attack me as we get out of the car and I glance at Owen. He must be seeing something in the house that I don’t, because it’s as if he’s looking at the materialization of one of his nightmares.

What’s inside that has him so anguished?

He shuts his car door then merely stands there. He looks so out of place here in his fancy suit, a prodigal son who clearly didn’t want to comehome.

He finally looks over at me. “You’re no doubt wondering why my parents don’t live in a mansion since I’ve got enough money to managethat.”

“I’m ready to listen to anything you want to tellme.”

“You need to see for yourself.”

He stalks toward the porch.

I follow him with a sense of isolation, as if I’m only an observer in the bad dream he’s walking through.

When we arrive at the door, he looks down at me. His gaze is steely, but not because he’s angry. He’s protecting himself from something by hiding behind a sterile, immovable wall, and it’s more fortified than I’ve ever seenit.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” hesays.

Then he knocks.

It seems to take hours for someone to answer, but when whoever it is starts to open the door, I prepare myself for Owen’s mother, whom I’ve pictured as a pretty, middle-aged woman. Or maybe it’ll be his father, who must be a big, burly handsome man with a strong resemblance to hisson.

But the halfway-opened door only reveals a bent, elderly lady wearing glasses held together by a piece of tape. Her skin is pale and sickly, as thin as parchment that exposes the veins underneath. What I can see of her housedress is stained.

For a moment, I think that maybe this is Owen’s grandmother.

Then her dark eyes light up as she smiles up at him. She’s missing a tooth.

“My darling son!” Then she turns behind her as she holds onto the door, blocking the view inside. “Look who’s here, Daniel!” She turns back to Owen, looking as if all she wants to do is rush forward and hughim.

But Owen isn’t even remotely approachable.

“Mom,” he says civilly.

It’s as if he’s restraining himself; he wants to embrace her, but there’s something holding himback.

He’s beyond tense, almost to the point of being horribly pained.

His mom steps outside, wringing her hands as she anxiously keeps her distance from Owen. Then someone else emerges from the house. He’s limping terribly with a cane and has a scruffy, long, white beard. He looks as if he was once a tall man like Owen, but he shrank down several sizes. He’s just as sickly as Owen’smom.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” says the old man. “We weren’t expectingyou.”

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