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Swallowing, I study the dentil molding trim along the wainscoting. ‘It would be more accurate to say I look right out of an Edith Wharton novel as this house was built in the Gilded Age, the end of the nineteenth century, at the time she wrote Age of Innocence.’
‘Oh.’ Alice slides one bare foot over the other and I’m back looking at her legs. ‘I haven’t read that one.’
Remembering what she does read has me folding the paper in half, then half again before resting it on my lap. ‘Indeed.’
Goosebumps spread down her arms, two hard points poking out from behind the soft cotton of my Mack Weldon undershirt. Why did my mother have to steal a white T-shirt?
In the silence, Alice’s forced smile fades. ‘Your mother…’ The firm points beneath the white cotton rise and fall as she sighs. ‘I was hoping we could tell her what was really going on once Mary was in bed, but she left before I had a chance.’ In apparent exasperation she funnels her hands through her hair, the hem of my T-shirt riding dangerously high as she tugs at the dark strands.
I rise quickly, stepping over my newspaper shield to get to her. ‘It’s fine.’ My hands encircle her wrists, forcing them down and therefore the shirt as well. ‘I don’t plan on telling my mother anything she doesn’t need to know.’
Her bewildered gaze moves from my hands around her wrists to me. ‘You want to keep lying to your mother?’
There’s an emphasis on ‘mother’ that I don’t understand but makes me think she believes matriarchal subterfuge is on a par with murder and theft.
‘We haven’t lied. We are married.’
‘Yes, but not for the reason she thinks.’
I shrug. ‘It’s unfortunate that my mother knows at all, but after how well she took the news—’ as suspicious as it is ‘—it’s probably best to let it play out.’
She bites her lip. ‘Won’t she be upset when she finds out the truth?’
I release her wrists and step back from the temptation of holding her. ‘Won’t Mary?’ Gaze averted from her tears and her legs, I reach into my back pocket and procure the handkerchief I always carry with me and hand it to her.
Alice’s shaky fingers brush mine as she pulls the fine linen from my grasp. ‘Yes. But it’s just that I hadn’t wanted her to have to lie in front of or to the social worker.’ She bites her lip, as if second guessing that decision. ‘I didn’t want her to feel pressure or anxious about saying something that might jeopardize her staying with me.’
I feel somewhat small for being so concerned over how my actions made me look rather than how my lies would make my mother feel. But not small enough to think I’m wrong. Sometimes you need to make hard decisions.
I’m good at that.
‘It’s better this way.’ For me or my mother, I’m not sure, but Alice, tears wiped clean, nods. I appease myself by remembering my mother is off on a singles’ cruise that departs tomorrow. Even with her over-the-top enthusiasm and ready acceptance of my new bride and child, Mother won’t have time to become overly attached.
And if I get my way, neither will Alice and Mary.
Tomorrow my lawyer will have the paperwork drawn up. Alice will sign it. The errant mother will return and all of this will be taken care of by the time any members of my family get back from their respective trips.
‘Don’t worry, Kayla will be back soon.’ Alice, as if reading my mind, finishes dabbing under her eyes. ‘And when she is, Mary will be so happy to have her mother back that she’ll forget all about this.’ She rests a hand on my chest, her eyes locking me in place. ‘And if your mother does get upset, I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll tell her how it was all my doing and that you were just nice enough to help me out.’
The heat of her skin sears away my common sense and I wipe away a tear with my fingertip that the handkerchief missed.
I need to tell her that I’m not as nice as she thinks. That she won’t be the one telling my mother anything as she’ll be long gone from Moore’s when this is all over. But the traces of tears on her face convince me to wait until tomorrow. That it will be kinder to allow her a night of worry-free rest before revealing the price of making me her accomplice.
She must read my silence as something more than kindness because she raises her arms once more, but this time to hug me.
I’m more startled than when she bashed in my eye with a purple cock.
* * *
Alice
This is the most awkward hug in the history of hugs.
And considering I grew up bouncing between various, well-meaning foster parents, that’s saying something.
Thomas is holding so still, so stiff, I can’t even tell if he’s breathing.
It’s endearing. Sort of.
