Page 15 of Grift

Jessica

It’s a couple of days after the gala, in my tiny kitchen.

My mother won’t sit down, looking deeply uncomfortable as she stands in my apartment in a ruthlessly tailored dark pants suit and draped in enough pearls to buy the building I live in.

“I really can’t stay, Jessica,” she says crisply, one hand sliding into the dark leather bag at her side. She pulls out a manila folder, fat with information.

With a little sigh, I brace myself. What is this? Wedding color discussions? I suppress a shudder, the thought of discussing a wedding – the wedding, my wedding – too much.

The thought of it brings a flurry of emotion: remembering my father’s angry words, my fear, and the feeling of Patrick’s lips on mine.

I’ve been doing a good job of shoving the thoughts away, and focusing on other things instead. Cleaning my apartment, obsessing over my work, refreshing my email.

Anything, basically to keep from confronting the reality of what’s barreling at me, getting closer by the hour.

But when she holds it out, a command in those cold blue eyes, I take it. I’ve been well-trained.

Flipping it open, the first thing I see is a photograph of Patrick Carney. Something in my stomach gives a little flip, even just at his image. He looks handsome but distracted, looking off at something in the middle distance that instantly tells me he doesn’t know the photo’s been taken.

He really is a striking man, with the kind of wide shoulders and square jaw that suggest a military man or maybe a football player. Not the son of Boston’s sleaziest former mafia boss. Current mafia boss? My father shared a courtesy background file with me, delivered via messenger, to give me some context on the family itself the day after the gala. On paper it looks like they’ve had a tough past and have gone straight. But it also looked like my father and his associates have their doubts. And the son?

The one I’m going to marry?

As I take in the details, the realization hits. I know my way around paparazzi photos and ones shot by the private investigators my mother likes to employ. My stomach sinks like a pit of acid, but before I can speak, she holds up a hand. I hate her surveillance tactics.

“No, Jessie, hear me out,” her voice remains level, but I’m quickly becoming aware that she’s not looking at me. It’s not that she’s looking at anything else. It’s more that she’s looking anywhere but at me. She hasn’t called me Jessie in years.

“Say what you will. I don’t agree with how your father has handled things,” she says, her voice quiet. “This or many other things. But we’re swept up in forces beyond our control and I know one thing for certain. This wedding is happening and that’s going to have a profound impact on your life.”

My mouth is dry and there’s a burning sensation starting in my chest. Somehow, in the light of day in my little apartment and going through my routines, the gala, the conversation with my father, and the Carneys all seem like a bad dream.

Or at least a distant threat.

But with my mother here, looking as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, it’s a threat that’s taking on a very real, imminent and concrete shape.

While I’d argue that there are few forces beyond the control of Marlana Cabot Kensington, I’ll give her one thing. My mother loves her children in her own way. Even me, who she’s made no contention about pointing out has made her social life and charitable work unnecessarily difficult with my “scandals.” Actually, just one. That’s all it took in a world where optics are everything, she’s reminded me countless times.

“It’s important that you know what kind of man you’re marrying,” she says. “What it’s going to take to make him happy.”

Make him happy? There’s something so personal in that, so grounding – like a thousand-pound weight is being chained to my ankle – that I suddenly sink onto the small stool behind me, pushed up at the breakfast island. Despite every effort, I can’t quite smash down my distress.

My mother purses her lips, and for a second, I expect her to reach out, but she quickly quells whatever slight maternal impulse I’m sensing.

“You’re going to be his wife,” she continues. “And that comes with certain responsibilities.”

Horror is dawning. Is my mother really here reminding me that I’m going to have “wifely duties?”

“We really don’t need to have this conversation,” I manage.

Something in my tone makes her head snap up and then she does look at me, fear and anger war on her face. What the hell is in that file?

“Actually, Jessica, we do need to have this conversation,” her voice is ice. “Your father’s money and goodwill aren’t going to protect you and there’s nothing that I – or anyone – can do to get between that man…between Patrick and you.”

I think back to Patrick, and how he’d dominated the close space in the gallery and how he’d preoccupied my thoughts since the gala.

“Don’t forget he nearly beat your brother to death just days ago, Jessica.”

I look down at the file again.

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