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“What are you talking about? There is no trouble. Stop being ridiculous. I just want to see my daughter. Is that so bad?”
Yes, it is bad. I don’t want to see her. My life is much, much easier without her in it. “I’ll have to get one of the guestrooms ready.”
“I’m at the airport waiting for my flight now,” she continues, ignoring my last statement. “I should be there in a few hours.”
She hangs up without a goodbye and I grit my teeth, slouching back in my chair. I try and rack my brain for what it could be this time that she’s gotten herself into.
One time, she’d come to me because thousands of dollars had been withdrawn from her bank account, but only because she was stupid enough to give some guy she was sleeping with her account numbers. She’d claimed it was fraud, that she’d been hacked, but was it a hack, really? Or was she just dick-whipped and stupid?
Another time she’d come by because she had a dream that I was pregnant. When she told me, I couldn’t help laughing in her face. The last thing Dominic and I were doing was having kids. There was way too much going on with him in office and with my career.
“It’s not much of a career is it, though, Jolene?” my mother asked, and I wanted to push her out of her chair. The truth is, Dominic never wanted children. I’d pushed him once about having kids and he grew upset before finally confessing that he didn’t want children because he didn’t want them to grow up with an absent parent. He cared too much about his career and wasn’t sure he’d be able to make the time. He didn’t want the kid to suffer because he was so busy, and I could empathize with that. My father was also busy, and I feel like I’d be a much better human if he were around more.
I close the lid of my laptop and leave the office, finding the guestroom she often uses that faces our backyard and pulling out clean sheets from the closet.
TWENTY
JOLENE
Three hours later, the doorbell rings and I open the door to face Naomi Hart, my mother. It’s just like her to be wearing an oversized yellow hat that reminds me of an accessory belonging to Curious George’s caretaker.
Her dark hair falls in thick curls, giving her a wet-and-wavy look. She tips her head, and I can tell she’s had more cosmetic work done to her face. Her light-brown skin looks too tight around the cheeks and mouth. And of course, she’s dressed in all white. Her signature color, as if she’s prepared to be someone’s bride at any moment.
“Hi, mother.” I step back to let her inside. She brings her Saint Laurent purse closer to her chest, her nose turned up as she peers around the entryway. I hate when she does that, like I’m going to steal it away from her. I have more money than she does and can buy a closet full of those bags if I wanted to. I swear she only does it to spite me.
She continues a careful sweep of her surroundings. She’s never been happy with my house. She thinks I’ve settled and that it’s not what I wanted, but the truth is all she cares about is designer clothes and jewelry, foreign cars, and giant mansions. Our house is more than enough for us. Five bedrooms, four and a half baths, a kitchen I adore with copious amounts of natural light, and two home offices so Dominic and I can work in peace when we need to. We have a terrace we love to use on spring and autumn mornings, especially for brunches. Not to mention our living room is to die for, and one of my favorite places of the house with its suede brown furniture and cream walls.
When I close the door, I notice her lock on something, a painting I bought firsthand from a local artist named Judo De-Santis. It’s an abstract piece of the Raleigh skyline, with splashes of orange, lavender, and blue, as if the sun has set over the city and drowned everything in color. I had the portrait framed in gold.
“How much money did you waste on this?” she asks, turning her head a fraction to eye me.
“Do you want some coffee?” I walk past her to get to the kitchen. I am not about to play her games.
She follows along, her stilettos clicking on the marble floors. I start the coffee maker and steal a glance at her as I go for the crème and sugar. She removes her large hat, placing it on one of the barstools and then fluffing her hair. So superficial. When the coffee is ready in the pot, I pour two mugs and carry them on a tray to the dining table. I would offer to share it with her at the nicer dining area that overlooks the deck in our backyard, but she doesn’t deserve it.
Mom sits in my usual chair, so I take the one Dominic claims. I start to reach for the crème, but she swats my hand. “Dairy will make you bloat,” she snaps.
I stare into her light-brown eyes and how stern they are. Those eyes used to intimidate me. Not anymore. I gently push her hand away and grab the crème, pouring a hefty amount into my mug and then collecting the tiny jar of zero calorie sweetener. She cocks a brow at me, then shakes her head, clearly repulsed. Who cares? It’s sugar free.
“Why are you here?” I ask, stirring the milk and sweetener.
“If this was a matter that could have been discussed on the phone, do you think I would be in this God-awful place?” she counters.
I avoid a frown, stirring faster.
She sets her purse down on the table and fishes through it until she pulls out a set of folded papers. She slides them across the table to me and I study her a moment. Could this be another court order on her behalf? Someone else threatening to sue True Oil Co.?
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just open it.” She purses her lips, picking up her coffee mug and inspecting the rim.
I roll my eyes, collecting the papers and opening them. None of it makes sense at first. They’re just numbers—money, clearly. Connected to bank accounts, possibly?
“What am I looking at here, Mom? Come on, stop beating around the bush.”
“Those, Joey dear, are offshore accounts in your name.”
“What?” My eyes flicker to hers. “I don’t have any offshore accounts.”
