I wobble a little as I try to balance the bike using my toes. I hiss another curse as I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I was the kind of guy who could just let things lie. But I refuse to let them off so easy. I refuse to let my father get away with what he did. I refuse to be complicit in this kind of sick shit.
I glance at the massive graystone, built to look like an English manor house. My gaze tugs in the direction of the regal double doors, and at that moment, one of them swings open.
I can barely breathe as I wait for the familiar combed-over black hair, laughing blue eyes, hook nose, thin lips. Renault is the man who raised me, a Frenchman who introduced me to classic rock, bought me my first box of condoms, taught me how to puff on a cigar. He drove me to junior high school dances and showed me how to loop a tie. I feel breathless as I wait to see his face—and then the shadows flicker, and instead there is a stern-looking woman with tightly upswept gray hair and sharp blue eyes. It takes me a long, baffling second to realize it's my mother.
Of course it is. Dark blue dress—Dior, her favorite—paired with silver heels and diamond-pearl earrings that sparkle in the porch light. But her face looks tired and her posture sucks, like she's forgotten how to play the part of Derinda Carlson, governor's wife.
I get off the bike as smoothly as I can, parking it in the flawlessly manicured lawn, and don't allow myself to look away from her as I step slowly up the porch stairs. I wonder briefly where Renault is, but once I’m close enough to take in the full context of my mother, the only thing I can think is why. I wasn't a model kid, never did great in school, but I don't think I was unusually difficult. For most of my childhood, I did whatever they asked, went wherever they went, usually decked out in a mini tux or a little suit, my hair clean cut, my mouth stretched into a big fake smile.
Even after I dropped out of school and opened my shop, I played the dutiful son, waving at campaign stops. Smiling at every camera. Giving perfect quotes to newspaper reporters.
My mother reaches out to…I don't know what—pat my shoulder or something?—and all I can think is: WHY? But I know the answer, don’t I? I found out about Missy King, the Vegas mistress my father had sold in Mexico, so my father gave the order to sever ties. But how could Mother follow it?
She tries to embrace me, but I step aside. There's something on her face, and I think it's contrition but I just can't care.
When I fail to meet her eyes and accept her hug, she drops her arms down by her sides and wears her campaign face. She smiles a little, tilts her head so those stupid earrings sparkle, and she sweeps her hand back toward the foyer.
“Cross. You're looking well.”
It's so ridiculous, so utterly crazy, I'm not sure what to say. But when has that stopped a Carlson? I nod. “Likewise.”
I walk through the door she holds, and find the foyer seems smaller than it did a year ago. The chandelier doesn't sparkle, just reflects the glow of gaslight; the floors don't gleam; the imported rugs seem to have faded. As I follow my mother down the hallway, past the parlors and the library, I'm surprised to find it doesn't look like she's redecorated anything. When I lived here—even when I lived in the guest house, before I fled to Lizzy’s mother’s house—my mother changed the décor weekly. A new pillow here, a new rug there. Even when she and Dad were spending most of their time at the Beverly Hills house, there was always an event to host or a party to throw. The lack of change now gives me the impression that no one’s been here this last year.
I hear the clearing of a throat, and I notice the stiff set of my mother's shoulders just before she turns to look at me. She regards me like a stranger. “Delphina Fieldman told me your shop is still closed. How are you getting buy?”
I press my lips together. Not straying far from the script, of course. She’s always tried to buy my loyalty. “Fine,” I half-growl.
I rotate my left shoulder, digging my hand more deeply into my coat pocket, and I wonder why they invited me here tonight. I assumed it was so Dad could get his ducks in a row. Mom’s involvement…it bothers me. Almost as much as her abandonment.
“I’m fine,” I lie more smoothly. “The shop will reopen soon.”