“Aw,” said Fancy. “Well, that’s just charmin’.”
Laire hunched over, retching until her stomach was empty, then turned to face Fancy with tears streaming down her face.
Fancy raised her chin, putting her hands on her hips. She scanned Laire’s body with disgust, spending an extra moment on her belly. “I don’t know who you are, but my son spent his summer with Vanessa. He’s been with her for months. Which makes you a liar.”
Laire shoulders shook with grief, with the sheer scope and magnitude of his betrayal, and she bent her head, staring down at the pool deck in misery. She’d been so gullible. Such a fool.
“Between you and me?” said Fancy gently. “It was a good try.”
“A good try?” asked Laire, looking up at Mrs. Rexford in confusion.
“A good plan. Simple, local girl. Maybe or maybe not pregnant. Pretty enough. Definitely sympathetic. Shows up at the governor’s house on Thanksgivin’ Day, when there are plenty of guests, plenty of witnesses. Claims he did the deed. Clever. Devious, but clever.”
Laire shook her head as tears coursed down her cheeks, but the lump in her throat made a response impossible.
Fancy’s face suddenly hardened, her tone quiet and lethal as she leaned closer to Laire. “But do you know what I hate? Girls who claim they’ve been touched or raped or toyed with. They drag a boy’s name through the mud, splash their dirty lies all over the papers. Then they admit it: ‘I just wanted money. I just wanted attention.’ Except, that filthy story follows the boy around for life.” She dug a finger into Laire’s chest. “Well, not my boy.”
Laire took a step away. “Mrs. Rexford—”
“The jig is up, gal,” said Fancy, toeing her cigarette on the deck until the orange light was crushed. “You chose the wrong boy to mess with.”
You chose the wrong boy.
Laire turned her head, looking over her shoulder to see Erik shake his head indulgently at Vanessa before squeezing her shoulder. Van looked up at him adoringly, saying something that made him laugh, and every hope—every little bit of hope for a happy ending with Erik Rexford—died inside Laire, leaving her cold and empty but for the little, tiny life that deserved far better than him.
You chose the wrong boy.
She reached up and dried her tears, lifting her chin as she looked into Fancy Rexford’s eyes. “You’re right.”
Fancy took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course I am. But as a Thanksgivin’ favor to you, I will not call the police and have you arrested for this little ploy. I’m not interested in causin’ a scene.”
“I chose the wrong boy,” said Laire in a daze. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“Get along now,” said Fancy, finishing her drink. “And don’t ever step foot on my property again. If you do, I will be delighted to press charges.”
She narrowed her eyes at Laire, then headed back to her party.
Laire watched her slim figure slip through the sliding doors and walk toward Erik, whom she kissed on the cheek, before kissing Van. She took Van’s hand in hers, admiring the ring with a wink before turning her glance, briefly, back to the patio. With a victorious grin, she nodded once, then turned back to her son and his fiancée.
And Laire, who was invisible in the darkness, turned away from Fancy, from Erik and his Van, from Utopia Manor, and everything else that could ever connect her with the Rexfords. Around the side of the house, past the kitchen and garage, she ran to the road and just kept running.
***
“I have to give it back to you,” said Van to Fancy. “It’s just lovely, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I lost it!”
“Aw! It’s just a li’l ole cocktail ring. And it looks just perfect on you, darlin’. Go ahead and enjoy it for the party,” said Fancy in a singsong voice, her breath reeking of cigarettes and gin. “Maybe someday it’ll really be yours.”
Van’s cheeks colored as she chuckled softly. “Now, Fancy . . .”
“Now, nothin’!” said his mother. “I know you children like your privacy, but whenever you’re ready to make it official, Erik, I’m ready to throw the weddin’ of the decade!”
Erik rolled his eyes. “Really, Mother . . .”
Fancy leaned forward and kissed his cheek again, clasping his face with uncharacteristic intensity. “You know I’d protect you from anythin’, my darlin’. You know that, right?”
Erik was thrown, for a moment, by the sudden fierceness in her voice. “Mother? You okay, now?”
“I’m in my cups,” she said, releasing his cheeks with a soft chuckle. She winked at him, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Will y’all excuse me?”
He watched her walk across the room, her gait certain and elegant, though she’d likely had enough alcohol to pickle a horse. “In my cups” was a quaint expression for “drunk,” which more than explained her strange behavior.