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Shocking admission. “Are you done now, or should I have let Rowan finish what she started?” I glance over at my father. He usually treats us like siblings, lets us hash out our issues without interfering. He’s biting his tongue this time.
Teague shudders at the thought. “I’m done.”
“Good.” I point to my busted eyebrow. “Thanks for this, by the way.” I can tell despite the ghastliness of his flesh that he’s shamefaced. He should be. It’s unprecedented that he raged out on someone he claims to care about.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, unable to make eye contact with me.
“Save it. ‘Sorry’ is for accidents. You meant to hurt me. And you would’ve done worse if Rowan hadn’t stopped you.”
“I—”
“Hello, Teague. Welcome home,” my mother says from the space between the foyer and the dining room. Perfect timing. I didn’t want to listen to the typical white-guy avoidance of accountability my cousin was about to feed me.
“Hi, Aunt M. Thanks.”
“The three of you look like you could use a hearty breakfast. Everyone in the kitchen.” And then she addresses my father pointedly. “Afterward, Juliet and I will be having some quality mother–daughter time at the Pru. Perhaps Newbury Street, too?”
“I do love Newbury Street.” I give her a wink.
My father removes his phone from his pocket and stammers, “Alright, I’ll send for Henry to accompany you.”
“You will not. I said mother–daughter time and that is what I meant.” The way my mom issues commandments is breathtaking to behold. She leaves no room for protest.
My dad doesn’t try to make one. “I’d feel better if you’d let a bodyguard go with you, but understood.”
“Very good. Come get some coffee, Jules, you look like death warmed up.”
“Gee, thanks, Ma.”
She throws her arm around my shoulder and escorts me into the kitchen.
Breakfast is awkward. Because of the silence, and also because Quasimodo sits across the table from me, mashing solid foods to paste so that he can masticate with minimal pain.
I’m all too glad to get the hell out of that house and away from the men. It’s been so long since I’ve sat inside my mother’s Maserati SUV that I forgot how simplistic it is in comparison to my BMW. There aren’t enough buttons to press on the console. Rowan hates Maseratis. Lamborghinis and Ferraris, too. She calls them Italian trash. “I want my clothes made by Italians and my cars engineered by Germans or get the fuck out.” My mom would not appreciate that. She swears by the superiority of Italian luxury across the board.
Any high-end vehicle in this part of Charlestown would stand out like a pink tutu at a Goth party. The closer to the wharf we get, the more dilapidated the buildings around us become. I know, intellectually, it’s due to corrosion from the concentrated water vapor in the air, but that doesn’t put me at ease. There’s something creepy about manmade structures left to decay at Mother Nature’s will. Maybe it’s coming face to face with a force that’s bigger and stronger than humanity, one that can’t be reasoned with.
We approach a yellow road sign that reads DEAD END. No shit. From here it’s a short drive off a long pier. My mother lurches the car onward until she reaches the faded outline of a parking space.
“It’s that one.” She gestures out my window to a building with peeling blue paint and a rusting metal roof. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It resembles a private jet hangar more than a storehouse. There are two enormous steel doors rather than a handful of smaller loading bays, with a line of squat windows on either side. To the right of the doors is a pop-up canopy, and a man in a folding chair seated beneath it. The second chair beside him is empty. Two men on duty at all times. Where’s the other one?
A knock on my mother’s window answers my question. “You can’t be here,” a man with a scruffy white beard says as Mom rolls down her window.
“Can’t I really?”
“Mrs. Calloway!” The man gasps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you. These eyes are getting old.” Then his tune changes, gets leery. “I wasn’t expecting you. Mr. C gives a holler if someone’s coming down.”
“We wanted to show our daughter what she’ll be inheriting someday.”
This is the exact right time to play the spoiled brat. I lean over my mother’s lap. “You can go ahead and call my dad if you want to. I don’t think he’ll be very happy with your insubordination. You’ll be lucky if all he does is fire you.” For good measure, I flip my hair.
My mom plays along. “He’s in a meeting at the moment. Surely, it won’t be necessary to disturb him?”
The man is wide-eyed. “No, no, certainly not. You come on in, take a look around. Stay as long as you’d like.”
Mom rolls up the window and grins at me. “Hell of a team we make.” If gaslighting were a profession, we’d be the best in the business. It’s not a wholesome skill to possess, but it’s useful.
“Alright,” she says, “let’s go.”
