I frown, because Jamie’s the most tied-in person I know. She’s been addicted to social media and the internet for years, but now she’s even more obsessive about checking all the gossip sites. She calls it “professional research” and “staying on top of her game”.
So surely she would have seen the coverage. After all, the odds of Sylvia noticing and Jamie remaining clueless are slim to none.
So surely she knew. But why the hell didn’t she say anything about the baby?
“It’s not too widespread,” Syl says, interrupting my thoughts. “That’s actually why I wasn’t sure. I’ve seen a couple of mentions that you fainted on the lawn of your family home—true?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes and no. It used to be my family home, but apparently my mother has moved on.”
Syl opens her mouth, ostensibly to ask me about that, but I just wave the words off, because I’m really not in the mood to even think about that woman.
“They’re just covering the fainting?” I ask. “I should have gone online myself, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.”
“Mostly just that,” she says. “But I’ve seen one or two sites that say you’re pregnant. Nothing reliable, though. Jackson said it was probably all bullshit, but I guess I had a feeling. I’ve seen you go through some pretty rough stuff, you know, and you’re really not the fainting type.”
I laugh so hard that Ronnie looks up, startled. But Syl is right. Since she was Damien’s assistant before he and I got married, she had a bird’s-eye view of our tumultuous relationship—and the obsessive, horrible, invasive tabloid coverage we’d been subjected to.
“Oh, hell,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I need to get the princess to art class.”
Across the room, Ronnie stands up, her hands on her little hips. “Mommeeeee. I’m not a princess! I’m a mermaid!”
“I thought you were a mermaid princess,” Syl says, and Ronnie just rolls her eyes. I watch, soaking it all in, and imagining a day when I can tease my own daughter like that. And, yes, wondering if I’ll know how. Because God knows, there wasn’t ever a whit of humor between my mother and me.
“Toys back in the basket,” Syl orders. “Hurry up.”
“I can do it,” I say.
“Trust me,” she says. “Start them early.” She reaches down, gathers up a few crayons, and scoops Jeffery up in a single practiced motion. As soon as he’s settled on her hip, she reaches a hand down for Ronnie, who reaches up at the same time to grab hold of her mother’s hand. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. And though I totally blame it on hormones, I can’t deny that the simple, easy connection between mother and daughter has my heart twisting with both longing and regret.
“Did you say something about brunch on Sunday?” Syl says as she shuffles her tribe toward the door.
“Absolutely,” I say as my phone rings. “A small group. I’ll text you the time. You’re free?”
“We’re totally in,” Syl says, then points to my phone. “Get to work and let me know if I should bring anything.” She blows me a kiss and disappears out my door.
I grab the phone, expecting it to be the call I set up with a client in Seattle.
Instead, it’s Damien.
“Hi, stranger,” I say. “I was just going to text you. Syl was just—”
“Nikki,” he says, his voice firm enough to cut me off. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what?” I say, then, “Oh! Giselle.” Seeing Sylvia and the kids had completely wiped her from my mind.
“I had no idea she was back in town, much less that she’d made an appointment to see me.”
“I know. She told me she went through Rachel.”
“I was on the verge of throwing the bitch out of my office—”
“Did she tell you what she wanted?”
We’re talking over each other. Me, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter. Him, with latent fury tainting his voice. He’s known Giselle for years—they’d even dated for about five minutes before she got married. And he’d been sympathetic when she and Bruce had divorced. After all, she’d lost pretty much everything in their split. But then he’d learned that she was fucking with me—with us—and Damien had put all of his resources to work and essentially run the bitch out of town with her tail between her legs.
I hear him exhale, and it sounds like defeat. “She wants to donate to the silent auction,” he says, referring to the fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation that is part and parcel of the movie premiere on Friday.
“Oh.”
His words surprise me. I’d expected—well, anything else. A request for a loan. To buy back one of her galleries. Simple forgiveness.
Instead, she’s turned the tables. Instead of asking for help, she’s offering it.
“Oh,” I say again. “Well, I guess you should agree.”
Damien clears his throat. “I already did.”
I start to say oh one more time, but force my lips to stay closed. He did exactly what I just told him to do, so it’s silly to be annoyed that he did it before asking me.
But silly or not, I am irritated.
Actually, I think I’m downright pissed.
“I didn’t realize she’d managed to hang onto any of her pieces that were worth anything.” The words come out sounding false. Like I’m making conversation with a stranger in a bar.
“She remarried,” Damien explains. “Not only is her husband wealthy, but he knows the parents of one of the kids in the bus.”
Immediately, my irritation morphs into something more gentle. “That’s horrible. Those poor people.” The premiere is for The Price of Ransom, the film adaptation of Jane’s narrative nonfiction bestseller. It’s a story about five third-graders who’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, then almost killed when a rescue attempt went horribly wrong.
The premiere—and all the activities surrounding it—is a fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation, tickets for which start at five hundred dollars and go up to ten times that.
“She and her husband are donating a Glencarrie,” he says, referring to an up-and-coming artist whose work has been garnering six figures at various auctions lately. “I told her we’d appreciate the donation, and that they’re welcome at the premiere. I’m sorry,” he says again, before I can reply. “I should have asked you first.”
So surely she would have seen the coverage. After all, the odds of Sylvia noticing and Jamie remaining clueless are slim to none.
So surely she knew. But why the hell didn’t she say anything about the baby?
“It’s not too widespread,” Syl says, interrupting my thoughts. “That’s actually why I wasn’t sure. I’ve seen a couple of mentions that you fainted on the lawn of your family home—true?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes and no. It used to be my family home, but apparently my mother has moved on.”
Syl opens her mouth, ostensibly to ask me about that, but I just wave the words off, because I’m really not in the mood to even think about that woman.
“They’re just covering the fainting?” I ask. “I should have gone online myself, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.”
“Mostly just that,” she says. “But I’ve seen one or two sites that say you’re pregnant. Nothing reliable, though. Jackson said it was probably all bullshit, but I guess I had a feeling. I’ve seen you go through some pretty rough stuff, you know, and you’re really not the fainting type.”
I laugh so hard that Ronnie looks up, startled. But Syl is right. Since she was Damien’s assistant before he and I got married, she had a bird’s-eye view of our tumultuous relationship—and the obsessive, horrible, invasive tabloid coverage we’d been subjected to.
“Oh, hell,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I need to get the princess to art class.”
Across the room, Ronnie stands up, her hands on her little hips. “Mommeeeee. I’m not a princess! I’m a mermaid!”
“I thought you were a mermaid princess,” Syl says, and Ronnie just rolls her eyes. I watch, soaking it all in, and imagining a day when I can tease my own daughter like that. And, yes, wondering if I’ll know how. Because God knows, there wasn’t ever a whit of humor between my mother and me.
“Toys back in the basket,” Syl orders. “Hurry up.”
“I can do it,” I say.
“Trust me,” she says. “Start them early.” She reaches down, gathers up a few crayons, and scoops Jeffery up in a single practiced motion. As soon as he’s settled on her hip, she reaches a hand down for Ronnie, who reaches up at the same time to grab hold of her mother’s hand. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. And though I totally blame it on hormones, I can’t deny that the simple, easy connection between mother and daughter has my heart twisting with both longing and regret.
“Did you say something about brunch on Sunday?” Syl says as she shuffles her tribe toward the door.
“Absolutely,” I say as my phone rings. “A small group. I’ll text you the time. You’re free?”
“We’re totally in,” Syl says, then points to my phone. “Get to work and let me know if I should bring anything.” She blows me a kiss and disappears out my door.
I grab the phone, expecting it to be the call I set up with a client in Seattle.
Instead, it’s Damien.
“Hi, stranger,” I say. “I was just going to text you. Syl was just—”
“Nikki,” he says, his voice firm enough to cut me off. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what?” I say, then, “Oh! Giselle.” Seeing Sylvia and the kids had completely wiped her from my mind.
“I had no idea she was back in town, much less that she’d made an appointment to see me.”
“I know. She told me she went through Rachel.”
“I was on the verge of throwing the bitch out of my office—”
“Did she tell you what she wanted?”
We’re talking over each other. Me, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter. Him, with latent fury tainting his voice. He’s known Giselle for years—they’d even dated for about five minutes before she got married. And he’d been sympathetic when she and Bruce had divorced. After all, she’d lost pretty much everything in their split. But then he’d learned that she was fucking with me—with us—and Damien had put all of his resources to work and essentially run the bitch out of town with her tail between her legs.
I hear him exhale, and it sounds like defeat. “She wants to donate to the silent auction,” he says, referring to the fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation that is part and parcel of the movie premiere on Friday.
“Oh.”
His words surprise me. I’d expected—well, anything else. A request for a loan. To buy back one of her galleries. Simple forgiveness.
Instead, she’s turned the tables. Instead of asking for help, she’s offering it.
“Oh,” I say again. “Well, I guess you should agree.”
Damien clears his throat. “I already did.”
I start to say oh one more time, but force my lips to stay closed. He did exactly what I just told him to do, so it’s silly to be annoyed that he did it before asking me.
But silly or not, I am irritated.
Actually, I think I’m downright pissed.
“I didn’t realize she’d managed to hang onto any of her pieces that were worth anything.” The words come out sounding false. Like I’m making conversation with a stranger in a bar.
“She remarried,” Damien explains. “Not only is her husband wealthy, but he knows the parents of one of the kids in the bus.”
Immediately, my irritation morphs into something more gentle. “That’s horrible. Those poor people.” The premiere is for The Price of Ransom, the film adaptation of Jane’s narrative nonfiction bestseller. It’s a story about five third-graders who’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, then almost killed when a rescue attempt went horribly wrong.
The premiere—and all the activities surrounding it—is a fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation, tickets for which start at five hundred dollars and go up to ten times that.
“She and her husband are donating a Glencarrie,” he says, referring to an up-and-coming artist whose work has been garnering six figures at various auctions lately. “I told her we’d appreciate the donation, and that they’re welcome at the premiere. I’m sorry,” he says again, before I can reply. “I should have asked you first.”
