Reconnecting with my mother after years of radio silence was definitely not everything Hallmark movies promised me it would be.
I walked around the narrow paths bracketed with shelves, swinging my shopping basket. I might have added three or four more books into the mix. In my defense, I worked hard for my money. On top of that, I was also getting a little restless. I’d been to Christian’s apartment two days before. It was everything I’d expected it to be—modern, gorgeous, and clinically cold—and I’d tried to look for my copy of Atonement but couldn’t find it anywhere. And it wasn’t like there were many hiding places to choose from. The place was pretty much empty. I did spot a safe in his walk-in closet, but Christian, who was still in bed, haphazardly covered with his linen, had let out a low chuckle when he’d seen me caressing the safe’s lock, staring at the numbers.
“It’s not there, Ari. I would never be as predictable.”
“How’s Conrad doing?” I asked my mother, who trailed behind me, trying to convince myself I didn’t particularly care about the answer. I did, though. I cared a lot. It was a source of shame and annoyance to me that I couldn’t hate him all the way. That he was going to lose most of his fortune to legal fees and compensation.
“I don’t know. He keeps to himself, and I stay in my corner of the penthouse. Frankly, I’m starting to get a bit worried about what’s going to happen the day of.” Mom pulled a book out of the shelf, realized it was a little dusty, and then shoved it back in, her face filled with horror and disgust.
“Why? Does he seem mentally unstable to you?” I slanted my head, studying her.
She patted her hands clean, looking at me incredulously. “What? No. I’m talking about the financial state he is going to leave me in.” She shuddered at the thought. “I might have to sell the penthouse.”
“Good.” I slipped another book into my basket. A new one, by a debut author. I just liked the cover. It also looked like the kind of romance that would rip my heart into shreds and put the rest of me in a blender. “The penthouse was far too big for three people. Let alone just the one.”
“But what about Aaron?” my mother asked, scandalized. “I live so close to the cemetery.”
“He’ll stay at his place, naturally.” I headed for the register. I knew I was being sarcastic but couldn’t help myself. The sheer self-obsession this woman was suffering from maddened me. Last time we’d met, she’d told me life was too short. Now, she was whining about the possibility of downgrading from one of the priciest places on the continent.
“Look, can I do anything to help you?” I sighed, choosing not to turn this into an argument while handing the bookshop owner, a nice lady with a gray mane, my basket.
“Yes, actually. I was thinking maybe you could talk to your dad—”
“No,” I said flatly. “Sorry, but I won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s an abusive, horrible man who doesn’t deserve my help or my attention, and because he lied to me my entire life.” To name a few reasons. The court case was also making old, bitter feelings resurface. Of how I’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Nicky, even though I shouldn’t have.
I paid with a credit card, then rolled a five-dollar bill into the tip jar as the woman handed me back my books in a straw bag. Mom and I exited the shop.
“You know what your father’s like. Horribly unstable.”
“He also abused you emotionally for quite a while. Why would you want to ask him for any favors?” I started for the coffee shop by my house. Mom trailed next to me.
“Why, because I cannot exactly afford my own place, now can I? Even if I divorce him, which I hardly think there’s a point in doing at this point, we’ll have to split everything fifty-fifty. You know, his CPA tells me I am likely to be left with”—she sniffed the air dramatically—“less than two million dollars. Can you believe it?”
“I can, actually.” I pushed the door to the coffee shop open. “He spent the past few decades assaulting innocent women thinking he was bulletproof. Bleeding money seems like a fitting punishment for what he did.”
“I wasn’t the one who assaulted them!” My mother banged her fist on her chest. “Why should I live beneath my prior means?”
“True,” I agreed. “But you married a man who couldn’t be trusted with his money, or his phone camera. Now, you can rent someplace nice after this is all over, or better yet, buy somewhere within your price range, which is still not a number to be laughed at, and find yourself a job.”
“A job?” My mother’s eyes widened. She looked like I’d just suggested she become an escort. I placed an order for both of us. Peppermint tea for her, iced Americano for me. This time, I paid.
“Yes, Mother. I didn’t know the sheer act of working was quite so outrageous.”
“Of course it’s not,” my mother huffed, convincing exactly no one in the room with her fake sincerity. “But no one is going to hire me. I have no experience to speak of. I married your father at age twenty-two, fresh out of college. The only thing on my résumé would be the summer before college. I worked at a Hooters bar. Think they’ll accept me back thirty-six years later?” She arched an eyebrow.
I handed her the tea, took my coffee, and strolled back to the sunshine. Spring wrestled its way into the city, carrying cherry blossoms, sunrays, and seasonal allergies. The trial was nearing its end with every day that passed, and with it my goodbye to Christian.
“You were the head of the luncheon committee at your local country club, were you not?” I asked, skipping over a French bulldog’s leash.
“Yes, but—”
“And you were the director of my school’s charity board?”
“So what! That doesn’t mean—”