When Mickey didn’t say anything, panic started leaking into me.
I lifted my eyes to his and assured urgently, “I know this is crazy. But that isn’t me anymore. If there’s a lesson to be learned, any mother will learn it when her children are taken from her. I learned it, Mickey. I fell into a pit of agony that I dug myself and allowed myself to drown in it, wanting to pull everyone down there with me. And I went to extremes to do that, taking my kids with me. I didn’t deserve to keep them because no good mother behaved like me. But the minute Conrad and Martine moved out here and took my kids with them, I knew something had to change. Months, I gave them, seeing my kids one weekend every four weeks, and I gave them that to give them a break from me. I did this planning to move out here, fix my relationship with the kids, heal my family so I could give my babies something that would be safe and healthy. So I went crazy, but I learned. I learned that was not me. That was someone else. But she was not me.”
When I stopped talking and he simply continued to stare down at me impassively, I turned my head and looked to the sea, knowing he thought I was a psycho bitch, a terrible mother, and if things went bad between us, he’d be treated to the same thing.
And I lived right across the street.
This was our beginning and our end just as I knew, when he’d learned the worst in me, it would be.
I clenched my teeth as the tears threatened, but I didn’t blame him.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t bleeding.
“You done?” he asked matter-of-factly.
My eyes shot to his.
“Yes,” I answered tentatively.
“Raised by nannies,” he stated strangely.
“I’m sorry?”
“Growing up, your parents give you anything?”
I knew what he was asking, shook my head, but said, “Well, they taught me I should act appropriately, which in this case was championing all my shenanigans because they also taught me a Bourne-Hathaway should demand to be treated a whole lot better than Conrad treated me.”
“A Bourne-Hathaway?”
“Mom’s a Bourne,” I told him then reluctantly kept the information flowing. “As in Bourne-Tran Freight and Shipping.”
His eyes got slightly wide as his arms convulsed around me before his gaze went over my head and he sighed.
He’d heard of Bourne-Tran.
Not surprising.
“Oil and shipping,” he muttered.
Strike two.
I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting to strike three.
“You’ve never heard of me and we’re not objects of fascination because great-granddad Hathaway was into privacy,” I stated stupidly and Mickey looked down at me, expression still impassive. “He was a very smart man, so even back then he saw the way of things and decreed that any of his offspring would behave with decorum. Flash and attention and exploits were not tolerated, and he guaranteed this by putting a codicil on all Calway money that would guarantee if this ever happened, a trust fund wouldn’t be awarded, and if it happened after, it would be rescinded. We lived quiet, at his command, even if he’s long since dead. And Mom and Dad were perfect for each other since her family had much the same philosophy.” I looked to his throat and finished, “Though, Uncle Hugh is a bit of a wild one.”
“Amy,” Mickey called.
I looked to him.
“So you’re an oil and shipping heiress,” he noted.
I nodded.
“Raised by nannies,” he went on.
I nodded again.
“And you’re not tight with your parents,” he kept going.
I shook my head.
“Your brother?” he asked.
“Lawr barely speaks to them,” I whispered then added inanely, “At least he barely speaks to Dad.”
“Right,” he grunted, then he said, “So you’re an oil and shipping heiress with a shit ton of money who got married, had kids, then your husband fucked you over. Until then, your life had been golden and you probably had everything you ever wanted, except what was important. So when something you wanted was taken away from you, you had no clue how to deal and no foundation to keep you solid. What you did have was parents who felt you should stick it to your ex because he had the audacity to fuck over a Bourne-Hathaway.”
My life hadn’t been golden.
But I knew what he was saying.
“That’s pretty much it,” I kept whispering.
Mickey nodded once. “How long were you with him?”
“Married sixteen years. But we were together for three before we were married.”
Something moved through his eyes at my answer but he didn’t address that.
He stated, “So he fucked you over, you lost it, and went psycho on his ass.”
Yes, there it was, he thought I was psycho.
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
“And your parents didn’t advise you to go psycho by hiring a really fuckin’ good attorney?” he asked.
“I had that too,” I shared. “I just lost sight of priorities and didn’t let him fight like he wanted to because I didn’t want it to get ugly for the kids.”
“But they saw a different kind of ugly.”
I couldn’t say it aloud again so I just nodded.
“Shit happens, Amy.”
I felt my lips part.
It took a while but I finally asked, “I’m sorry?”
“Honest to Christ, I’m actually shocked you had it in you to pull yourself together at all.”
I was so surprised, I couldn’t say anything.
Mickey didn’t feel the same way and kept speaking.
“Grew up, you know I had money, not like you but in this town we were part of the elite,” he told me. “Dad got offered membership to the Club. Granddad didn’t because he was Irish and he was Catholic and they were assholes. They were still assholes when they offered membership to Dad, who’s also obviously Irish and Catholic, but by that time, he made so much money, they felt they could lift their racist, bigoted, unwritten rule and offered it to him anyway. He took it just so he could find ways to shove it up their asses.”
When he stopped speaking and didn’t go on, without anything else to say, I said, “Okay.”
With this prompt, Mickey continued, “So Dad went and got drunk and loud and obnoxious and loved every minute knowin’ those arrogant fuckers hated it. Dad let his boys go knowin’ we’d get drunk and loud and obnoxious too. We upped it by doin’ that as well as gettin’ into fights with any stick-up-his-ass asshole who looked at us funny, and you probably get there were a lot of them. He also probably knew we’d go all out to get whatever rich bitch * we could nail, which is undoubtedly why he snuck us condoms, puttin’ ’em under our pillows.”
I emitted a soft gasp at this but didn’t respond verbally.
So Mickey kept going.